Tales of H

By Terry Howe

A humorous travelogue of the Americas as seen through the eyes of "H", a British Contract Engineer who spent forty five years meandering around the world, catching the idiosyncrasies and weird differences of the varied peoples he encounters along the way. H is an optimist and was a survivor, out on the edge of life where few went.
Now a lost race, the British Contractor Engineers were once spread across the world to earn the brass and feed their families. They walked the walk, talked the talk, wore the tee shirt and ate the meals, from the start of the Oil and Gas Boom in the seventies. This Book rambles through Holland, Norway, England, America, Canada, and Mexico. It also covers H`s trip across the American southern states from Florida to California. A book that will appeal to anyone of an adventurous mind as well as the contractors who have been out there or who are still there?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Howe
• Release date: Nov 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310576256

Terry Howe

I am retired International Contract Engineer who has worked and lived in twelve countries around the world. The diaries and blogs during this period have been collected and collated with in a humorous view and are now changing into eBooks. I am a grandfather of three and a father of two, living with my wife not far from the Lincolnshire Wolds. I have an interesting garden , a great collection of blues and country music and a BMW R850R bike in the garage. I am a shore fisherman again when on holiday where there are fish.

Book preview

Engineers, Vagabonds and Adventurers

by

Terry M. Howe

Tales of H

By Terry Howe

Copyright 2015 Terry Howe

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

BOOK 1 - Going West

INDEX

Foreword

Introduction Welcome to my world and H

A Prologue for perspective

1 Double Dutch Travels

2 The Rat`s Nest

3 London and a short Dutch trip

4 The land of the midnight sun, Norway

5 The Stavanger-Fisherman

6 Batesville Mississippi, USA

7 Casa Grande, Arizona, USA

8 Red Deer Alberta and the Canadian Rockies

9 Decatur, Alabama, USA

10 The Coast to Coast road trip USA

11 No man`s land, Agua Prietta, the Mexican border

A Poem or two

Foreword

These are the Tales of H, as written by this old b*stard, now a septuagenarian, who has done it all, seen it all, and worn the tee shirt.

He is now writing of the young man H, who actually did it, saw it, ate the meal, saw the film, bought the tee shirt and once walked the walk, a long time ago!

Some would say he was bright eyed and bushy tailed, others might not!

Some say we are what we have done. This can be confirmed in any aching JOINT that you go to

This book of Going West is following the misadventures of the unstoppable and intrepid International Engineer and Contractor H, in his pursuit of wealth and adventure, throughout Holland and Norway and then across the United States and Canada, Road tripping across the USA and his finishing in a bad place in Mexico.

The following book, Going East, continues across Saudi Arabia, Japan, back to Saudi Arabia, Iran, Bahrain, Syria, back to Norway and Malaysia. It finishes here at home in North Lincolnshire, GB.

An Introduction

Welcome to my world.

The English camel coated agent, arrived at the Glue Pot bar in central Den Haag, with his pig skin brief case stuffed full of banknotes and his armed bodyguard shadowing him. The semi legal E types, Stags and Trans-Ams lined the street. It was payday for the Ex pats Freelancers:- Pipers, Strukkies, Sparkies and Civvies all. It was 1974. The bar of the Café De Lijfor awaited them………………

Welcome to a world of adventure that is now virtually gone and to tales of my long and winding trail, across four deserts and eleven countries during a history of forty years of freelance design contracting.

Welcome also to the tales of the unstoppable H, stumbling through adversity and hilarity across a world of chaos.

My World

To be precise, this was the world of Ex Pat Pipers i.e. (Freelance Agency Pipework Designers and Engineers within the Oil and Gas Industry) whilst working abroad. Among many other things, this book contains tales of a dying breed of which I was part and very few of you may recognize. There was a thinning down procedure.

For every ten designers and engineers on the English scene, there would be one fit or foolish enough to go contract.

For every ten contractors on the English scene, maybe three or four would return to the haven of permanent employment security. For every ten contractors left, maybe one would venture abroad into the unknown. For every ten contractors who went abroad, maybe three would return, scurrying for security and yet another three take up permanent work abroad with major oil companies, as second rate security.

Those left out in the open would either rise or fall. H was one of the survivors. This world of Characters, would-be millionaires, skally-wags and Jack the Lads, were mixed with a few con men and posers. The world was filled with its most flexible self survivors and self-starters, filling their roles as Engineers, Designers and site men across the deserts and cities of five continents. They were wearing expensive leathers and suits, drove E-type Jaguars and Jensons, occasionally concealing guns and knives, drugs and alcohol. Few were married for long. Even fewer took their families with them. Almost all of those scattered around the world, sustained damage. Many turned to drugs, sex, alcohol and a wild life, yet very few retained their family and brought home the foreign loot. Most dropped off or burnt out along the way. Those who walked the walk and talked the talk across the world's borders with pocketful’s of cash, filled the bars and drinking holes from Southern Mexico to Northern China, which still echo with tales of them.

It is 2015 as I write this. The lads still out there are generally over 60. No boys have come up through the ranks. The numbers have decimated vastly and there are few to follow our footsteps and fewer still interested in hearing our old tales. I am not burnt out. We are what we have been and at seventy years old, I may be half burnt out, but am still waiting for the far off call. The tools of Survival have always been self-deprecation, humour and a perspective tempered by patience. I have both still, although some may disagree!

There is, or should I say, there was, a world of free spirited go getters and characters that would push the limits. The remaining few are ensconced in Scandinavia or the far outposts of the world and are old, experienced men now playing a low profile. They were the original oil and gas freelance designers and engineers who rose up with the oil boom in the late sixties and early seventies, to the challenge of foreign money. They receded in the first decade of 2000, due to their age and the encroaching Asian army of cheap replacements. Each was self-sufficient but used the contacts available and had the nerves and guts, and sometimes the bullshit, to survive alone in a foreign wilderness, providing the money was right. Many burnt out along the way, ruined their health and their marriages, gave their souls to the demon drink or even later, to drugs. The capitals of the world are littered with the burnt out failures from the game, still propping up bars and telling the old tales. The bars of the world still echo the memories of their follies and successes. The airlines still have the poe faced, sunburnt, greying contractors travelling in pairs, solitary and bored amongst the happy holiday crowds. Nowadays they are the grandfathers siphoning their foreign cash into supporting the lives of their children and grandchildren. Each learnt the tricks of survival, dealing with Arabs, Indians, and Japanese and surviving every nation they worked in. All felt threatened by the big bogeyman, the English Tax Man.

There was always a loose kinship of ex pat Brits and sometimes even a clique who would move together, their goals and contacts being shared. One such loose group moved from Lurgi in Germany on to The Hague in Holland where I was with them. Some then went to San Paulo Brazil for a contractual burn out and the remainder to Oslo for the mega money of £2.2k in hand per week illegally in 1977! Others disappeared to offshore rigs in the Gulf of Mexico or to the permanent job security of ACO in Saudi Arabia. Some had their health ruined or had accidents in less careful countries. Others had their lives threatened and many gained a deep hatred of deserts and certain nationalities.

The British contractor was a remarkably adaptable survivor, second to none, renowned through the world as a professional oil man. There were a few good Dutch and German contractors but very few others.

Most started with good intent. The motives of the married men were security of family, whereas the motive of the single guys was money, beer, women and fast cars. The married men mostly intended to make one trip for a set purpose then return to life in Britain. The single guys maybe wanted to buy a car then jack it in. Few did. Usually the first good foreign trip ruined their English sense of values and satisfaction and then it was all downhill from there. When either money or work ran out, it then was time to catch a plane and get some more foreign cash.

The Americans exported their home in one container and their car in a second container and mobilised their families to their new colonies outside the Oil Cities.. Their oil companies would pay for it all. Their wives would be accepted into the local Petrol Wife’s Associations existing in these major towns scattered across the world, from Oslo to Kuala Lumpur. Their oil companies would promise them that after three years they would return back home as dollar millionaires and before returning home they would usually have garage sales of their imported furniture and then sell their American cars, all for no less than what they had paid for them in the USA.

Many Brits fell along the wayside or gave up. Many enjoyed an adventurous or comfortable foreign life with their families abroad. Many swapped their families for a new foreign romance that left them with only the bars or loneliness. Few actually retired wealthy. Most of them raised their standard of living to match the new income. Everybody saw life as few normal people back home saw it. Most guys had gained strength of character and confidence in a self-sufficiency that would be incomprehensible in Britain. When you follow beyond the next bend in the river you always find new horizons. All who survived were strengthened by it.

Purely from a Londoner’s viewpoint, and I am one, there were four main clans in this world. They are the Londoners, (the Cockney C***s), the Manchurians (Northern Chancers), the Nouveax-Castillians, (Geordie B******s) and the Scots (B*****.Jocks). In the first three cases the origin of the employing agents dictated the contractor populace whereas the Jocks would be everywhere, often with the right handshake.

To assume they were friendly, intertwined and self-helping was a gross mistake. Having said that, any Brit in need of help in the face of foreigners could always rely on other Brits.

Where I fitted into this world

This was my world from my first contract job in 1972, through until my last retirement in 2012. From a bright eyed youth holding a pencil to a scraggy, weathered granddad holding a laptop, I pulled a long train (of responsibly) as they used to say.

I watched them come and go, succeed and fail, survive and blow out, drop below their depth and rise above all occasions. I met the cheats and gamblers, the Chancers, the posers and would be hard men. I mixed with the medallion men and would be Don Quixotes, the bigamists and the bullies and the b*stards. There were those who carried grudges and those who carried guns and knives. There were the lovely drunkards and the vicious ones clutching broken glasses and the wide boys and the wheeler dealers. None were boring. As someone once said All human life is here. M quite rightly hated almost all of them, although H never understood it at the time.

The long trail

This trail led across Holland, Norway, USA, Canada, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Japan, Iran, Bahrain, Libya and Malaysia. It included working in three deserts and several classified hostile environments. It also meant living in five star luxury and even amongst the cockroaches and scorpions of third world accommodation.

There are few real lifelong friends, but many transitory good friends and colleagues tentatively connected across the world by emails or Facebook. The emailed attachment jokes, still flow in and out of USA, Abu Dhabi, Saudi Arabia, Canada, Bahrain, Iran and Malaysia to this present time. Even this week I received anniversary congratulations from a Chinese Lady in the humid heat of Kuala Lumpur and a Persian Gentleman under the flare stack blackened skies of PARS oilfield in Assaluyeh southern Iran.

Where H fits in – The birth of H

Along this convoluted and shambolic path, daily emails were sent to friends even before the word blog was popular. It is difficult to write in the first person of personal threats, danger, anger and self-doubt and whilst using east London terms bottle and face. I chose the third person and yarns told were of H (Howe) in a self-deprecating and p*ss taking manner that amused myself and many others. The art of Jongleur is accepted in many European countries and less so in certain English communities and cults. The telling of yarns and laughing at troubles that were faced and then overcome, started in our mini gang in Chingford North London and then continued in youth within a gang in Basildon Essex. Bravado, machismo and mild bragging were the accepted way of life and intertwined with having a face, machismo and what is nowadays, fifty years later, called street cool and street cred. Extending of all life’s boundaries and challenging life’s rules seemed natural to an Essex Boy. The pride and ability to stand up and face the unknown and laugh in the face of danger, however justified or stupid, came within the basic training of my youth and disputable good upbringing. To have cheated the Grim Reaper or got one over on an institution is automatically funny to one of my kind and maybe just an Essex sixties thing. Who knows? Essentially H is an overgrown Essex Boy blustering his way through the unknown in the Americas, Africa, Middle and Far East, enjoying and laughing at all that life can throw at him, whilst utilising his armoury of self-survival tools. The main driving force, being savvy, monetary greed and accrued cunning is obviously the backbone of these tales

The tools of Survival

Life`s most important tool is to have a great sense of humour with the ability to see something funny anywhere. Laughter does make the world go around. It banishes stress and makes friends and has at times saved myself from fists, knives and would you believe semi-automatic rifles. The ability to laugh at oneself is instrumental in putting the world into perspective.

Patience and understanding comes next. Patience with foreigners whose second language always exceeded yours is essential and showing respect for this will break down barriers. You should understand that communication is just a tool that has to be chosen with care and correctly applied at the correct speed and clarity before checking the feedback with empathy.

A well concealed sharp fishing implement preferably of the safe but self-opening variety and a solid pair of boots can give you extra confidence when fishing in strange quarters.

The ability to bluff and occasionally bullshit sometimes helps if you have the bottle and especially the chat and the chutzpah necessary.

A deep distrust of agents and the ability to smell a bad one is helpful. It falls within having a large perception or overview of what should be or could be gained, using their dubious services. On the other hand having an appreciation of square bears-(straight sincere trustworthy guys) is rewarding. There are still a few around fortunately. You always find that a hands on lead the way, follow me, trust me approach to life works. On some occasions I have lifted and flown the flag and been followed through to the completion of a small revamp or project.

I am always confused by the tightness and spiritual meanness of some people. It has always been natural to me to be generous when giving away non-essential goods, data and advice to all.

Along the way you should collect and cultivate a friendly guru for IT and another for local knowledge plus any local friends that arise. Throw away your beads for the natives Captain Cook! Today’s currencies are music MP3’s and tapes of British Television series.

In the words of Willie Nelson, as long as I can see the light I shall return. My wife M, when not with me, is my lighthouse when out on the far seas of the world, constant and never dimming. She is the anchor in the storm keeping unbroken the anchor chain to love and home across the miles and mostly she is my raison d’etre. In the depths of Iran’s southern desert of Assaluyeh, her voice down the phone daily would keep the bond to reality and home and even in the heat of the Sahara we were connected. I never missed a day without contact by a phone call, unless it was unavoidable due to communication failure.

And so, to the Tales of H.

A Prologue

for putting things into perspective

and a history where H came from

The last Permanent Career Job 1972

After returning from working at A.W.Ltd at Slough, Bucks, as an HVAC Project Engineer and living in posh Pangbourne and as a failure under my father’s baleful eye, H applied for more permanent jobs in London. It was 1972. H had applied for three HVAC jobs, one with Prison Design, one with commercial kitchen design and also one for a Large Building Services Consultant. This was the first time that H had used an agent and H was very impressed, as he lined up all three interviews in London, on one day. H then went down to London, took all three interviews and surprisingly was offered all of them. H took the job as a Project Engineer with SB in Tottenham Court Road behind the main Trade Unions building and started commuting to London yet again.

The job aspirations including his dream of management, turned flat in 1973. H had applied for two posts there, that had already been given to his Boss`s family, unbeknown to anyone. After spending fifteen minutes telling the Manager to shove his suggestions where the sun doesn't shine, H jacked the whole lot in a unique fit of pique and returned home jobless. H became a freelance contract engineer in HVAC and then came a major life turning point.

The start of contracting

The contractor freelance life began. A life of good money (at least then) and living on the edge again on every job switch and at every job end. Having to get on with new sets of people every three or six months, transient friends and bullshit were everywhere. H was determined not to become a morbid cynic, so became a humorous cynic instead. H gave up his self-respect as an engineer and became a bum draftsman following the money, first HVAC and then across to Process pipework and then to join the hard boys of Petrochemical piping. These guys were real cynics and hard as nails as well. Many were two faced, but they all were mercenaries together, anyway, H had nothing to gripe about. Living on this particular edge could be worrying, but certainly was not boring and bringing home the money was easy and was what it was all about, so H believed. H was now a mercenary and certainly the cars, houses, furniture and family grew and with his young baby Nicky and child Joanne. he was a winner in life. H bet the hare also thought that at the start of the race with the tortoise.

Pensions?Who needs pensions?

It was time for H to go and solve the problems which end up with most contractors. The common philosophy, for want of a better word, was to use the mixed gross money and personal accounts, as if there was no tomorrow. By modernising and renovating the house and getting bigger and better property. It was used with an end aim of downsizing and cashing in for a pension in old age. In those days the lads were self-employed and due to be taxed two years after they earned it, using the best and most flexible accountant around. The perspective back then in 1972 did not match up with the future and a drop in overtime could cause panic for those living on the financial edge.

The first crash in the Oil Market around 1972 and Mr.M opened the gate to fly. There was a dip in the Oil World Market as soon as H had started in the Process Industry, as his first step to the Oil and Gas Industry (O&G). H had to dip back into HVAC. Mr.M, a good contractor friend, was about to end up on the unemployment heap but was a survivor. He came around to H`s house once for four hours indoctrination on the essentials of HVAC design and then noted it all and learned it. He then, with an optimistic CV, applied for a permanent HVAC Engineers job, got it and carried it for almost a year until the Oil market picked up. He was later to return the favour.

The Second crash in the Oil Market

H returned into the O&G game and this went well and by 1974 H was fully ensconced in the hard world of Petrochemical Design, when the bottom dropped out of the Oil World market yet again. With every known contractor sitting at home, H sent two hundred CV`s to every piping agent in London and got two interviews. The first Agent in Lewisham attempted to denigrate all pipers and told him how grateful he should be for this opportunity, as he could pick Pipers up at a tracer’s rate and even have them make the tea! H verbally cut him to ribbons and had him on the defence in his own office. Then using every known cuss word H had, told him to shove his job where the sun doesn’t shine and walked out.

H went and got the next interview, working for LEng across London.

It involved:-

1. A bus from Thundersley Essex to Benfleet Station Essex

2. A train from Benfleet Station to Fenchurch Street Station London

3. A walk from Fenchurch Street Station to Aldgate Underground

4. A tube train from Aldgate to Euston Tube

5. A walk from Euston Tube to St Pancras Railway Station

6. A train from St Pancras to West common

7. A walk across the common to the Offices

The lowest point

It was at a time when both the tax man and the VAT man wanted H`s blood, his money and his downfall and to cap it all, M was ill. It took H two and a half hours each way to work and H was working ten hours each day under pressure. Hundreds were unemployed and on the dole yet H was a survivor and working everybody else including his self under the table. H felt like diving for cover every time the phone rang. In an exhausted state H would nod off on the trains and tubes and only know if he was going to work or coming from it by the next train stop. That is not a joke!

H was the only contractor to push for an actual contract finish date, on the hourly retention money. When the job finished they held back on the retention moneys and didn’t pay anybody who left, so that everybody held on for the promised new Brufen job except H, who demanded his money on the contracted date. He left, to work at MHl, now AMCH at Tottenham Court Road which was just an hour and a half from home, door to door. He was actually working on the Brufen job there, that all of his colleagues were all supposedly waiting for at LE!

Whilst at MHI H also nearly became a successful gambler and belonged to three London Clubs and yet stopped without a loss. The floor below him was run by a clique team of contractors who had all rolled in from a big money job for Lurgi in Germany. It had heavy hours and was supposedly cushy and run solely by contractors. When his job was completed upstairs, H asked his squaddie to transfer him downstairs. His Squaddie said he could do it, but that H would not thank him for it, as they were a very close lot of b*stards down there.

He did arrange it and H ended up in an office that really begrudged him coming through the back door. They sent him to Coventry i.e. gave him the silent treatment, and treated him like a pariah There was even a previous colleague Mr.S, who tried to excuse his behaviour to him as he had to keep in with the other lads. H would have failed and not been able to do his job in isolation, were it not for another quiet Coventry exile victim, in there from the north, Mr.O or Sweaty A as he was known. He was a nice lad, but sweaty and northern and disliked immensely by the London in-crew prima donnas. Kama later turned it`s wheel and it came around in later years when a Mega, mega, mega money job arose in Oslo 1977. There was Sweaty A reviewing the CV s for £1000 a week jobs (yes £1000 in 1977) and throwing out the CVs of MR, S and three of his buddies.

This job was all up hill, H`s health was down a bit, with all the worries such as M`s sickness, the travelling, the VAT man chasing him and the tax-man chasing him as well. H was still young, tough, street wise and a successful surviving contractor, looking after his wife, kids and house. H was, as they said in the game, a D1 Front End Heavy Piper, pulling a long train and just under thirty years old. This pre-flight experience in MH and LEngi was the lowest point of his life with nearly the highest stress point of it as well. It would be forever used as measuring stick in his later life.

Mr. M opens the gate for H to fly

Then the golden phone call came from his mate Mr.M from The Netherlands, saying I owe you one H, take the helping hand now!. Get out of it mate, before you kill yourself! Come here to Haarlem in Holland. H. I have a job lined up for you here, at twice your current money and a long way away from the Tax and VAT men. H did! Holland was on and H was born.

In this Book going West, the following chapters follow the road, the never ending road, that led H on through:-

1. Double Dutch travels in The Netherlands

2. The land of the midnight sun in Trondheim, Norway

3. The swamps of Batesville, Mississippi, USA

4. The deserts of Casa Grande, Arizona, USA

5. The wheat plains of Red Deer, Alberta, Canada.

6. The town of Decatur, Alabama USA

7. The coast to coast trip across USA

8. No Man`s Land of Agua Prietta, Sonora, Mexico

In the future Book 2, when going east, the following places were on the never ending road that led H on and on:

1. Yanbu al Bahr in Al Madinah on the West Coast, Saudi Arabia

2. Chiba by Tokyo, Japan

3. Saudi Arabia Yanbu al Bahr in Al Madinah on the West Coast again

4. Assaluyeh South Pars western coast Iran

5. Manama City, Bahrain, United Arab Emirates

6. Marsa El Brega, Western Sahara

7., Sandifijord, South of Oslo, Norway

8. Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

9. Fornebu, Oslo, Norway

10. Walsall Birmingham

11. Hull E. Yorkshire

And then possibly, finishing in Broughton, old and weary and over 70!!!

Chapter 1

Double Dutch Travels

Haarlem, Den Haag, Amsterdam and Alkmaar

Reasons to go H at age 30 in 1975

The bottom dropped out of the Oil world and both the tax man and vat man wanted H`s blood. H nearly became a successful gambler in Park Lane but stopped at evens, after winning and losing a few grand, but that is another story and before H started his international ramblings, not to mention his verbal ramblings, then, as often will happen, the phone rang!

This time 1975, it was for The Netherlands

H had earlier helped a Petrochemical piping friend, Graham when he was in dire need. Now he offered H an essential and very grateful helping hand of friendship across the waves from Holland in the Netherlands.

H started commuting on a weekly flight from Southend-on-Sea to Rotterdam and then north by train or shared car to Haarlem, where he lived a solitary, stressed out weekly existence. This was indeed cushioned with Amstel gold beer followed by Oude Geneva, Dutch gin and yet he still earned reasonable money. This drink combination never, ever did cause H, or his more than rowdy cohorts, a hangover, nor did the many, many Guilders either. H also discovered self-respect when living abroad, relying on his own resources and talents.

Haarlem

The place was Haarlem, just west of Amsterdam and adjacent to the famous bulb fields where the rainbow colours rolled away to the far horizon. The ancient sea town consisted mostly of cobbled and black beamed houses and was fronted with moored old wooden boats. The wonderful smell of cheese making, candle making and that of the hemp from the rope chandlers, all mingled in the narrow streets. H loved the exotic foreignness of it all and especially the spicy and sweet Indonesian food everywhere. He felt new life, new hope and felt that he would make his mark and drag his finances out of the depression and bring his family here regardless of anyone.

The Van Arken Hotel and Die Raeckse Hotel were where the Brits stayed until they either got a shared flat or B&B at Benbrook just outside of Haarlem. They were both situated either side of an excavated trench, running right through Haarlem. Any totally wrecked Brit would stumble the cobbles until he found the trench and then just follow it until he reached one hotel or the other. He would then either go to bed or sleep on another Brit`s floor. H awoke to a loud banging one morning and then fell across someone sleeping on the floor. It was eight o’clock and H could not find the door behind the wardrobe. They both had a job levering the massive oak wardrobe out of the way before they could open it as it was so awfully heavy. H asked what was going on. The other guy said It’s your bloody fault H! When I turned up earlier this morning, you tossed your mattress on the floor and shouted You sleep there and keep out of my blo*dy bed! You then lifted the wardrobe single handed and positioned it across the door to give me room. Good God! You looked like Hercules! H could not remember but they did get to work on time.

The smell of Willmar and Albert’s

In the ancient cobbled square, was and still is, a beacon to all Dutch ex-pats. It is called Wilma and Albert’s steak house. The yellowed ceiling was hung with ancient copper and brass artefacts that were sooty from the BBQ smoke rolling across the ceiling amongst them. The floor was tiled and the tables all made from cast iron singer sewing machine frames topped with slabs of white marble. When H took M there once, he found:-

Every table setting was laid with a foil covered, freshly baked hot garlic loaf. The French onion soup that was topped with croutons and Gouda cheese was superb.

A one kilogram garlicky tee bone steak covered a whole plate and smelled like heaven.

A silver sword that pierced a steak, a golden pork chop, herby sausages, minted lamb chops was wielded by a waiter who slapped the whole lot onto a huge oaken platter and removed the sword with a flourish

The delicate oranges were pickled in Curacao orange liqueur and then covered with Belgian pod vanilla ice cream

It was a place, a time and a taste never to be equalled or forgotten.

The smells, the sights and tastes will be preserved forever

The strange tale of H going to Coventry

Mr.M. had wised up H on the scene prior to his arrival. The Dutch were running a sweat shop, where the productivity of design checking was monitored three times a day. Warnings and sackings were given on the same day! Those who were not good enough, left the same night without notice. This was of course balanced with top rates which were supposed to compensate.

H was in a squad of five engineering checkers, three Manchester lads and Ron from Rugby with whom he allied himself. Ron had somehow refrained from doing anything at all. H saw that the Manchester three all had luminescent yellow crayon covering their drawings. They were wrongly approving a really crap job! They all wondered what H would do. There was in the office, a culture of stress and fear. Stress was inherent where the bullying Dutch Squaddie did not want the checkers to highlight errors with red and wanted the Manchurians there to wrongly mark them correct with yellow. Sadly the three Manchurians did this, to the disgust of H, who doesn’t play that game.

H has a reputation in London! He is a D1, Front End, London, Heavy and doesn`t back down when he is in the right! He had paid his dues in London and drops his standards for no-one, so he gets out that big red pencil (for marking wrong work) and starts to make the drawing bleed as they say down in the smoke (London). The Northern lads with flowery, yellowed ( for correct work) AO drawings look at him in disbelief.

God Verdommer!! Hank the Dutch eagle eyed, radar equipped, over-tall, moustachioed, kerosene breathed, Squaddie was there within a few seconds hovering over them. Hank asked H if he was a trouble maker or if he was just fed up with the job already? H explained that the job was incorrect and that he was doing conscientious work in rightfully marking it so. When Hank demanded to know (with enormous eggy eyes and spittle on his grand moustache) why it was all red and not all yellow like the others, H stood by his guns. He calmly said that he couldn’t answer for them, but he was right and only a gymnast or Yoga Master could possibly operate the three dozen valve hand wheels which were situated on the other side of the platform railings, six inches below the platform level!.

Hank called him a trouble maker and moved H to the next section to check Paddy the Irishman’s drawing. The second department provided a chance to check the production of the glib Irishman, who had no certified reference material whatsoever and who had produced an upside down design of a separator vessel piping system. H in one of his naïve and over helpful moments quietly spoke to him so that Paddy would not lose his job over a red coloured bleeding check print. Paddy had indeed no apparent source design criteria material, claiming that his design came straight out of his head. Even in Ireland the hot gasses don’t drop down and the liquids don’t drain upwards! Stupidly, H quietly advised him that he would obviously be sacked the instant that H touched his red pencil to these wrong endeavours and made it bleed (as they say in the Drawing Office). Paddy said he designed it straight out of his head and was right so s*d off!

Lo naar de hel! Too Late! Too Late!

Hank the Dutch, eagle eyed, radar equipped, over-tall, moustachioed, kerosene breathed, Squaddie, was there within a few seconds hovering over them. In the resulting cacophony and furore, with lightning and axes in the air and sackings round the corner, Paddy verbally extricated himself by saying that he did not design this but had copied the plastic model. The Dutch model maker then got blamed. Resulting from this, Paddy told all his Manchunian friends that H was a big head and actually tried to get him into trouble. Schooldays of the fifties returned. H was sent to Coventry again, i.e. disregarded and unspoken to as if he had a bad disease. When he found out why, H openly gave them the distain that they deserved, especially ginger Eric, their school playground type bully boy ring leader. And then:-

The piping work ran out.

The would-be bully boys lasted another two weeks.

H and his now Dutch squad counted and measured paint and earned money.

H stayed doing paint material take off (MTO) for a further four weeks or so, much to their loud disdain.

When this contract finished, H left few friends behind, through no fault of his own, exacerbated by the stresses of FPM and he happily moved down to S`Gravenhage, (The Hague or Den Haag to you lot who don`t know).

Comically commuting

During this period of weekly commuting H was meeting a few Brits working at Fl in Haarlem, motoring down to Rotterdam and flying into Southend on Sea airport on each Friday night and back on Monday morning. Amongst this gang of contractors were two office comedians. By the time H had met them and stopped at the little propeller (Kleine Dumpjr) pub in The Hague to have a drink or three and pick up another lad, he was merry. By the time they reached the Rotterdam bar lounge and had a drink or three, life was hilarious. By the time they were filling three quarters of the Fokker and drinking, everything was mad and funny. Even the air hostesses were laughing at the antics of the two comedians.

Unfortunately, on one of the landings at Southend, one of the comedians exited the door before the access stairs arrived. Everybody was still howling with laughter when the ambulance arrived and it delayed everybody getting off the plane! He was not seriously hurt then, but was a few weeks later. He was absent for a few weeks until he turned up again with a lame excuse. He had been rotorvating his garden when his Rotorvator cornered him, ripped his jeans off and cut his legs! Say no more! He even showed the disbelievers the wounds.

When there was more than a car full of guys going up to Haarlem, some would go by train. FW had punch type time cards that could be kept on any floor. Some of those lads using the train would have two cards on two different floors. On one floor they would have an actual time card and on another, a false card stamped by the lads who had arrived earlier by car. Friday was always making your mind up day for them as to which to hand in!

A vist up North

The family paid H a visit and he had set up a holiday home. It was up north in Schoorl near Alkmaar, which was the holiday resort for well moneyed Germans in those days. It was organised for Nana Clock’s house, between a German speaking taxi driver, a Flemish/German housefrau and H`s dubious sign language. Medium wealthy Germans went to the racing town of Zandvoort and the poorer Germans camped in tents and caravans on Djindjic beach. .The local population hated them but smiled and took their money.

The silly tale of Civil Ken the plonker

It goes like this:-

1. Ken gets sloshed very easily in the Haarlem pubs.

2. Ken then tells tall stories that the girls want to believe.

3. He claimed that he is a deposed Russian Prince.

4. He claimed that he was the world’s best chess player

5. He claimed that he was a world class racing driver.

6. They all believed him and listened to his stories.

7. He claimed that he once was Britain’s toughest man.

8. Just hold it there, someone said!

9. The big Dutchman nearby had overheard and then looked Ken in the eye.

10. The big Dutchman slurred something unintelligible and left for a moment.

11. He returned with a big, big pal who ducked to get in the doorway.

12. The new guy was sober, tattooed and a member of Korp Commandotroepen (KCT), the special forces of the Royal Dutch Army.

13. Ken just wouldn’t shut up!

14. The KCT challenged him to a toughness duel with blunt knives.

15. Ken said that was girlish (and yet still lived.)

16. Ken challenged him to a swim down the iced over canal for two bridges.

17. The KCT stripped to his underpants.

18. Ken stripped naked.

19. Both dived in and Ken surprisingly won the two bridge race.

20. Both dressed and the KCT man was not happy or as drunk as Ken.

21. Ken would not let it lie!

22. Ken went into Martial Arts of Britain mode.

23. The KCT asked him to demonstrate.

24. Outside the bar, Ken made a mark six feet high on a shop front window.

25. Ken would leap and just touch the mark with his right toe.

26. He removed his shoes, ran and leapt!

27. Ken crashed completely through the shop window and landed amongst the clothing displays.

28. The pub emptied fast and all of the lads had gone before the police wagon arrived.

29. Ken was extracted, patched up and arrested and spent two days in jail.

30. Ken arrived at work in Fl, explained his absence and then was sacked.

31. The Dutch Engineering Manager would not believe his tale and had sacked him for lying but not for his absence.

32. Ken came back a few days later holding the bill for the shop’s new window and a police statement and got his job back!

KT the Smart Ass Agent who fools them all, bar H

H was surprised to find that he and Graham were the only Londoners (Cockney Gits!) around as all the Brits tended to be mainly Manchester guys with Manchester agents. Graham had got H into the crew of K.T, a smiling front man for an allegedly hard, semi criminal Belgian, ex property dealer and current wheeler dealer called Diamond Jack. K.T. offered to bury the overtime money into a Swiss account to avoid Dutch Tax. H put his nose to the ground and into the grapevine, like a dopey bloodhound and smelled something wrong and so refused it. The other five guys went ahead, only to be confronted at the end of the job with bills from the Swiss Bank!! It turned out