Pull up a bollard - Memoirs of a Matelot.



Because I don't want my mum to know I bum South American whores.

I don't think it's really that good, it's just for a laugh. Cheers for the feedback though, glad people are enjoying my ramblings.

More to follow later.

It is that good. And well written. Don't let an editor near it; self-publish and let it go as is. Any mistakes, spelling or punctuation, adds to the reality.

Use what you've provided so far as the bait to get sales.

And use a pseudonym for ****'s sake. Everybody bums South American whores.


Cheers, brought back some memories.


Read the first page and really enjoyed it. I'll come back and read the rest later.

Have you put in a bit about the first time you were bummed?


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Chennai AKA Madras was a real eye opener, the place was mental, I'd never seen anything like it. However I almost missed it as I was nearly decapitated before we arrived.

As we docked, the tug boat unexpectedly decided to go freestyle, snapping the stern line. It went with such epic force that the recoil of the rope put a dent in the bulkhead a couple of feet next to me and some other lads. The remainder of the rope fused to the bollard through friction, completely melting, we had to chip it off with an axe.

From the minute we docked to the minute we left, we had beggars and street children waiting next to the ship, ambushing any unsuspecting ****** going ashore. Out all gash was epic, you'd get to the bottom of the gangway and about 20 kids would rip the gash bags from your hands, tearing it to pieces. Everything would be gone, they had a use for any old shit. I watched in amazement as a malnourished teenage girl single handedly dragged away the fucked rope from earlier. It had taken 3 lads to ditch it.

Madras was brilliant, we raced tuk tuks, saw a dead dude in the dockyard, got naked in a 5 star hotel and ate the hottest and worst tasting curry ever.

Each day while going ashore we'd pass this corpse rotting under a pile of gash, we reported it a few times but the Indians did nothing about it. After a week or so we grew used to it and pissed up lads were lying down next to it for phots, sticking tabs in it's mouth and what not. To this day I now judge a place on how much of a shithole it is on two strict criteria:

1. Is there a dead body lying in a public place?

2. Did you see a three legged dog?

Madras scored highly on both counts.

A couple of lads were involved in a pretty horrific tuk tuk crash which saw the driver lose some fingers, I'm surprised more people didn't have crashes to be honest, the roads were lethal and for a few ickies, the driver would let you drive while totally hammered. We had some proper James Bond car chases with people jumping between moving vehicles at full speed and trying to surf on the roofs.

I recall being in a hotel that had a Harley dangling from the ceiling by a cable. We lifted one of the lads up to it and we all got thrown out while he sat suspended in the air making broom broom noises. We all piled into the elevator and someone called 'Naked Lift!'

As is traditional, we all stripped off totally bollocko. As the lift got to the hotel lobby, the doors opened and a family of tourists were waiting to get in. They decided the stairs would be a better option after being greeted by a dozen or so naked blokes with shit tattoos.

On the way back to the ship someone called 'Naked Tuk Tuk' and at one point there were about 6 Tuk tuks tearing through the streets of Madras with naked blokes sat in the back. The driver of our's was ******* terrified, I think he thought we were gonna rape him.

Eventually we all got horrid Delhi belly and grew tired of the place. Most of the ship's company spent the next two weeks shitting blood, I lost over a stone. I can wholeheartedly recommend that any fat **** who wants to slim down, should spend a week in India.

In all we spent nearly two weeks there and I learnt a huge amount. The poverty was unbelievable, it was also a massive eye opener as to the psyche of the matelot, we really could be completely reckless cnuts. At best our behaviour could be described as obnoxious, at worst bloody dangerous, I've never risked life and limb as much as I did racing tuk tuks around the streets of Madras.

Next stop Singapore and the first of many trips to the four floors of whores.

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So to Singers.

As we sailed in past a never ending stream of huge container ships, everyone was excited to ****. Singers was to be our home from home over the next few months. We were to spend 4 or 5 days in Sembawang this time before heading further East to Japan, we'd return in August for a 4 week extended maintenance period, before hitting Changi in September for a big International exercise.

Since we'd been at sea for a few weeks everyone was desperate to get ashore, the Jimmy gave everyone 3 days leave stand fast the duty watch.


The next 3 days are a complete blur, the first day we hit a few bars, got minging, got in a fight with some Aussie matelots off HMAS Anzac over one of their wrens. It was pretty nasty and one of their lads was hospitalised.

Knowing that about 150 pissed off Aussies were coming after us, we proceeded to Orchard Towers AKA 'the four floors of whores' in a convoy of rickshaws. Once inside everyone headed straight to the top floor, the Crazy Horse seemed to be the bar with the highest quality merchandise on offer.

By day Orchard Towers is a shopping centre no different to any other, selling cheap electronic goods, with various bars and restaurants etc. as indicative of it's nickname, it's spread across four floors.

Once the sun sets, quite inexplicably, the place fills up with hookers, they ply their trade in the bars and depending on one's budget and specific taste, you go to a particular floor. The ones with dicks hang out in the basement, grannies on the first floor and the best looking high class ones upstairs.

For some reason, I decided it would be a top idea to get a tat. Next to the Crazy Horse was a tat parlour so I cracked on. Without a clue what to get and being hammered, I decided that flames coming out of my arse would be as good an art concept as any to get permanently inked onto my buttocks.

So I did.

I now proudly sport a tat of 10 inch flames coming out of my mud socket. The missus loves it.

The next day I awoke, in the mess, feeling like shit, my status as a ******* legend was thoroughly confirmed though. Bets were placed as to who would be next to get a gasher tat and an inter mess contest was declared.

The next two days were spent at the Terror Club in Sembawang sitting by the pool, drinking 3 litre jugs of Tiger beer for $3 US dollars a pop and eating massive burgers. In the evenings we inevitably returned to the four floors. I bagged off with an absolute stunner from Laos, I was pretty chuffed, she was by far the divsest whore in the place. I even had a fat Aussie businessman trying to 'buy' her off me. We went to some shitty motel where I introduced my champ to her hoop.

She cried afterwards.

Felt good.

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The next morning we sailed out of Sembawang passing more container ships in the process and began the 'goodwill' phase of the deployment, touring Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, Brunei, Korea, China, Hong Kong and Japan - I forget the exact order so I'll reel off the runs ashore in whichever order comes to my mind first.

Our task was to spread goodwill and fly the flag for the UK and the RN. This was good, it meant maximum time alongside in foreign ports with minimal time at sea. I think the most we did in a oner was about 4 days at sea before we'd hit another port for a week.

There was the odd bit of ball ache and occasionally we'd have to bang in a one day ex with a foreign tin pot navy or conduct loads of ships tours, but on the whole the routine would be pretty laid back: rock up, get alongside, put up the marquee on the focsle so the officers could have their cocktail party with the local dignitaries and then we'd **** off ashore getting at least a whole day or two to explore.

First stop was probably Penang in Malaysia so here goes.

The first thing I noticed were the motorbikes, they were ******* everywhere. As soon as you stepped outside the dockyard you'd find entire streets just full up with motorbike rental shops. Obviously the first thing we did was get some. It was complete luck of the draw what you got, anything from the latest rev and go mopeds to Chinese copies of Harleys.

I ended up with a Honda C90 that cost $30 US dollars including a $10 returnable deposit for 2 days rental. I had every intention of being a good lad and returning it intact. I needed the $10 dollars for beer if I'm honest.

As the bloke was writing out my form, he said "name?' I replied "Chris..." before I could give my surname, he cut me off and said "OK Mr Chris, what hotel you stay?" I gave him the name of the first place I'd seen outside the dockyard and he handed me the keys. That was it, no ID exchanged nothing.


We raced each other in a massive convoy to the nearest beach, (one that was subsequently destroyed in the Tsunami a few months later.)

The beach was mega, golden sands, crystal clear blue water, about 2 miles long, filled with 5* hotels, bars and blokes renting jet skis. We found a spot with an extensive cocktail menu and a 2 for 1 happy hour deal that appeared to last all day. We feasted on lobster and other seafood and got smashed on daiquiris.

Then me and my oppo Smokey rented a jet ski. The bloke said "half an hour, stay within view of the beach."

We took the ****** literally as far out to sea as you could go until the beach was indistinguishable from the rest of the land mass. The only way we found our way back was because we eventually saw some people on parachutes attached to speed boats, otherwise we'd be fucked.

We followed a gucci as **** looking super yacht and did some jumps in it's wake. At one point I fell off and vommed everywhere in the sea - too many daiquiris. Some fish came and ate the contents of my stomach while Smokey zoomed around in circles, stirring up a swell and making me vom some more.

The ****.

When we eventually returned to the beach some hours later, the jet ski man was absolutely threaders, we'd truly taken the piss.

We then continued working our way through the cocktail menu before heading back onboard in another massive drunken motorbike convoy. Amazingly no one crashed but I managed to break off one of the foot pegs trying to do a jump over a speed hump.

The following morning, after a few hours of cleaning onboard, we went straight back to the beach for round two. A few of the lads came a cropper on jet skis, including a baby stoker writing off a Sea Doo and a local fisherman's boat in one spectacular manoeuvre. A baying crowd of locals headed up by the fisherman and the jet ski owner, demanded blood and we had to bundle the lad into a taxi to go back onboard for his own safety. Another lad managed to smash his teeth up and bite through his bottom lip while ******* around on some waves and had to be casevacced to a hospital in Singers for some serious dental reconstruction.

Jet skis for the win.

That afternoon we met some reasonably good looking English birds who were staying at one of the hotels. I took the fitter of the two out on the back of my moped and we held hands whe strolling along the beach. I was definitely onto a promise that night.

She went off for a shower and we arranged to meet later that evening for a nice meal. While her and her mate were gone, me and the lads proceeded to work our way through the cocktail menu again - Twice.

By the time her and her mate came back all dolled up in nice dresses, I was so trolleyed I could barely speak and she fucked off in a strop.

No sex for me that evening.

Being too minging to ride the bike, I abandoned it on the beach, my mate decided he would give his a more spectacular send off and ghostied it off the end of a pier straight into the sea.

We jumped in a cab and went back to the ship. As we sailed away the next day you could see about 40 abandoned motorbikes lying on their sides outside the dockyard gates.

Next stop Nam.

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^ that is funny. Strangely enough, I too was put off by Crab Air's marked lack of enthusiasm, although I stuck with green, especially as they told me to come in for a aptitude test the Wednesday after first sticking my head around the recruiters door - my route was as an army apprenticeship though, so again, still getting paid.
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I had the exact oppersite, Navy guy was a stuck up git, all I wanted to do was be a navigator...I like maps n shit when i asked about being a nav he got all pompus . Pongos were nice, talked commissions and stuff, but crab air won with the cool video of a guy in KD shorts only, waving ping pong bats at a Hurc and promises of dusky maidens and warm climes.

BZN was never warm and the maidens not dusky (dusty maybe)...funny that? Any chance of a mis selling case?

...but did my 13 in west Wales and Oxfordshire. Went to Gib once for a day ....it rained.
Thank you Ravers for making me giggle like a schoolgirl all morning.


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Nam was a bit of a weird one, it had all the potential for an epic run ashore, but it was stifled by the fact that we had to go everywhere in rig and only had Cinderella leave.

Apart from a day out to the Cu Chi tunnels and pissing up in hotel bars, it didn't really live up to the hype. At the tunnels we certainly had some fun, banging in a few hours at the range firing AKs at oil drums while wearing Sony headphones with the cords cut off as ear defence.

In the gift shop someone bought a bottle of whiskey with a dead cobra in it. We later drank it and it wasn't actually that bad to be honest. One of the lads took a bite out of the actual cobra proclaiming it to be 'alright'.

Other than that the place doesn't really stand out. We got dicked around a fair bit by the locals and a few lads got robbed. There are very few cars in Vietnam so everyone gets around on the back of bikes. We'd buzz around in big convoys but inevitably some lads split from the main pack and were robbed down side streets.

We also had a pretty hectic routine of ships tours for Vietnamese military types so didn't get out much.

The best bit was manning a GPMG while sailing out through the Mekong Delta, pretending to be Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. I do have memories of stealing some massive plant pots with 6 foot palm trees in from outside a hotel and manhandling them down the mess one night. How I got them in I have no ******* idea, we had to smash them up to get them out the hatch the next day because they wouldn't fit.

I also met a very pretty Irish backpacker called Celine in one bar and we exchanged email addresses. She looked a lot like one of the birds from the Corrs, being Irish reinforced this.

More about Celine later.

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I genuinely haven't got a clue were we went next but I fancy spinning the dit about our time in Bangkok.

We sailed up a massive river, closed up at specials for what seemed like days, as we moved further inland the water became dirtier with more gash and dead dogs floating in it. We passed the pride of the Thai Navy at one point. I was instructed to pipe the still as we went past. Well **** me, I looked everywhere for this shiny ******* ship and it was nowhere to be seen, suddenly I noticed a Thai Admiral stood on the open bridge of some rusty as **** grey shit heap that I'd earlier thought was scrap. Hurriedly I piped the still in salute.

Eventually we docked in Bangkok, using a tug to shift the rotting gash away from the jetty so we could get alongside. I was on the gangway first day in and I fondly recall a local dive team turning up in a tuk tuk to cut a fishing net off our hull that had got snagged around the LOG reader (basically the ship's speedo).

Considering how minging the ogin was, I was surprised to say the least when the 'diver' stripped off to his skids, stuck a garden hose in his mouth and jumped in, pushing a few dead dogs and syringes aside in the process. It really was a sight to behold, some half naked little Thai dude with speedo goggles, a big **** off knife and a garden hose attached to a bike pump that his mate was busy giving it stacks with.


Next day I went ashore and did all the usual stuff one does in Thailand. Immediately I noticed that Thai Tuk Tuks are very different to the Indian ones in Madras, they're fast as **** and the drivers think nothing of pulling the front wheel up for a cheeky wheelie. No Tuk Tuk surfing on these bad boys. No way.

The next few days involved buying shit from Patpong market including a taser that we tested on each other, going to a Go Kart track, watching some Thai Kick Boxing, legging it from a taxi that was definitely taking me and my mate into the forest to be raped (probably), seeing the obligatory ping pong show, watching a stoker punch a bloke in the face for 10 dollars and getting a freebie off a whore by telling her that I loved her and would take her home to meet my mum.

Unfortunately she turned up on the jetty the following day with a bag of shite gifts and a card for me. I told my oppo to tell her to thin out and that I'd been sent home to the UK on a very important mission.

We also managed to squeeze in a trip to the bridge over the river Kwai and bag a ride on the death railway stopping at some war cemeteries along the way. It was very moving, when I look back I wish I'd taken more of it in instead of acting the **** with the lads and getting smashed. I probably didn't behave as respectfully as I should've given the setting.

The gash tat contest also really ramped up in Thailand when a lad from 3Q mess got a tat of 3x3=6 but with the 6 crossed out and replaced by a 9.

Another lad got 'flip' and 'flop' tatted on his feet.

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By this point I'd started a lengthy email correspondence with Celine, the fit Irish bird I met in Vietnam, phots were being exchanged on an almost daily basis and it was fair to say I was definitely gonna get some sex off this bird. She had some weird plane ticket that entitled her to 10 random flights around SE Asia within a set period, which meant she could basically follow the ship. We aimed to meet up the next time the ship got into Singers.


I'd only met her briefly in Nam and had a cheeky snog, but I knew I was starting to get a bit loved up and she became the focus of most of my **** fantasies, taking over from Debs the wren chef. Her emails staved off the boredom when we were at sea anyway.

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Come on Ravers, get some more dits flowing!

Apart from the homosexualist ones which you've no doubt been involved in.


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At this point it's probably worth pointing out that we did do some graft, it wasn't all piss ups and parties.

Far from it.

The routine at sea was shite, 99% of a matelots daily routine is cleaning, your branch dictates which bit of the ship you clean.

Chefs will clean the galley obviously, stokers clean the engine and machinery spaces. As a highly trained weapons engineer, I cleaned the 4.5" gun and it's associated magazines, hoists and machinery compartments.

It wasn't a bad gig, we had a sound chief and my mate Wiggy was the killick of the section. We spent as much time as we could loafing, usually locking ourselves in the magazine and trying to catch up on some Zzzzs.

When the weather was good, we'd find something to clean or paint on the upper deck and try to work on our tans.

Coupled with my day job on the gun I kept watch on the bridge as mentioned before. As a bridge watch keeper I was a bit aloof, most of the other lads kept watch in the ops room watching radar screens, the benefit for them being that it was a bit more flexible, they could **** off for a wet and the banter was good because there were more of them down there.

It was pretty lonely on the bridge by comparison, some lads hated it, just you, the QM, the officer of the watch and occasionally a comms rating. Despite this I loved it. I got to drive a 3,500 ton ship with guns on it, it was ******* mega. Firing up the Olympus gas turbines and feeling the kick in your back as they revved up was a truly awesome experience that will stay with me for life.

Being on the bridge also meant exposure to the senior officers, it was good to get one's face around and being selected to go up to the bridge was considered to be a good step up the career ladder.

Inevitably we fucked around up there sometimes. One particular incident sticks fondly in my mind.

We'd just received a new Gucci laptop which had electronic charts programmed into it, it was plugged into the GPS system and plotted our course.

Occasionally we'd have to hang around in a particular area before being allowed to proceed, a bit like planes do when they wait their turn to come into land, they get put in a stack. Same shit with ships except sometimes you can wait for days patrolling up and down an imaginary box waiting to get alongside.

This was usually a good time for a bit of freestyle on the wheel and we'd take the opportunity to carry out a bit of on watch training. Out of intense boredom one day we drew a 3 mile long cock in the ocean with the ship, using the laptop to record it for prosperity.

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And so to Incheon, South Korea.

Apart from the factory where they make Epiphone guitars, there is absolutely **** all in Incheon. On the way in we had to go through a series of locks and canals, the skipper managed to crash the ship into the jetty in front of a massive crowd of Korean Navy brass complete with a big military band and everything. It didn't cause much damage though and all was well.

As we came alongside my mate Ruby managed to throw his heaving line directly at a Korean Admiral. It landed in a shitty puddle just in front of him and splattered his whites with mud.

After the initial niceties and a few ships tours, we got the train to Seoul. Personally I found the place to be a bit gash, dirtier than Singers or Hong Kong but with less going on than Bangkok or Saigon. Save for a tour of the DMZ and seeing the North Korean border, the place was a bit of a let down. I seem to recall it raining quite a bit too.

I bought a load of shite gifts for my family back home, silk dressing gowns and whatnot and got a Les Paul guitar from the Epiphone factory. Considering they're about 400 quid over here, mine was quite the bargain at 80 odd.

The only other thing I can really remember about the place was a footy match in the national stadium that had been built for the World Cup. Apparently the RN introduced footy to Korea in 1890 odd when a load of matelots were kicking a ball around on the jetty. To commemorate this, the Koreans organised this massive match with shitloads of publicity, our footy team was well chuffed to get to play in such a big match.

Unfortunately on the day, it became apparent that a massive **** up in comms had happened somewhere down the line. The Koreans were going to play in traditional dress, lampshade hats and sandals etc. they expected our team to play in their 1s.

Clearly this wasn't going to happen, there was no way the lads could trash their best ceremonial uniforms for a footy game.

Phots of our lads wearing England kits playing against the Koreans in full traditional dress were all over the papers. It looked shite.

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At some point in the proceedings we ended up in Vladivostok.

Vladivostok is like the Russian version of Guz, it's were they keep a sizable chunk of their navy. I was on the bridge as we came in, there was heavy fog and we couldn't see **** all. Eventually a couple of Russian Navy officers arrived by PAS boat and guided us in. I remember they both absolutely stank of BO, the skanks.

A few miles offshore we put the drill seadarts up on the launcher for show, at which point the Ruskies absolutely shit it, enquiring as to what the **** was going on. They genuinely thought we were about to launch a missile attack on their base. After some gentle reassurance that they were just for show, all was well and we sailed in.

First impressions were good, the Russians had a massive amount of ships, most of which looked to be in a reasonable state of readiness, a sharp contrast from all the other places we'd recently been. When we eventually got ashore, we noticed that it was actually a vastly different state of affairs. The ships had been painted on the outboard side only, the side we'd see, the inboard sides of all their ships were totally fucked.

The sorry state of their navy was further confirmed when we watched them storing ship. The lads would have to sign for the sacks of potatoes etc. because they couldn't be trusted not to steal them. Later on we had a tour of one of their least fucked destroyers. The thing was in a right state, interior lighting was provided by strings of Christmas tree lights running off a portable generator and every grease nipple on every weapons mount was painted over, a sure indication that everything was just for show.

No wonder they shat it when they saw our seadarts, they'd probably never seen a moving missile launcher before. It later transpired that the reason the two officers on the bridge reaked of spicy BO was because they only get issued one shirt each.

Poverty aside and forgetting that we only had Cinderella leave, it was actually a banging run ashore, the local civpop were incredibly friendly, although only after they'd discovered we weren't yanks. A US ship had recently been in and a local girl had allegedly been raped. Once they worked out we were Brits, they were bending over backwards to buy us drinks. They had some utterly rank dried fish jerky big eats which I took back for the QM.

We went to a very grey and dilapidated fair ground, it reminded me of the set from a horror movie. There was a bloke with a trained monkey that we tried to buy but he wouldn't sell up.

Inevitably I trapped some bird. Not the fittest by any means but not bad, she spoke absolutely zero English and I spoke no Russian so it was a match made in heaven. We went for a walk, **** knows where to, I suppose I was hoping to go back to hers. We walked under an underpass where some kids were playing a guitar, I taught them to play Wonderwall by Oasis which they liked. They gave me a sip of some absolutely rank paint stripper vodka by way of thanks.

After walking a bit further with the bird I decided it was now or never so I made my move, we shuffled over to a WW2 submarine that was perched on a plinth as a war memorial and I fingered her underneath it. I was a gent though and I didn't **** her. As midnight drew closer I realised I'd have to **** off or risk a trooping, I tried explaining to her that I had to go, but she didn't understand and burst into tears. **** knows why. I wrote my email address on the back of a receipt and gave it to her, this seemed to calm her down a bit, she wrote her's down, unfortunately it was all in Russian Cyrilic with backwards Es and Cs all over the shop. Clearly this relationship was going nowhere.

Realising that I had about 20 quids worth of Russian Ickies in my pocket and that I didn't really have space for them in my locker, I handed her a big handful of change, thinking she'd have more use for it than me. She refused to accept it, again bursting into tears. I assume she thought that I thought she was a whore or something. **** knows? The crazy Russian bitch.

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