The first event of our day was the Race to the Line. The brave souls from the ship’s crew launch all manner of craft into the inky blue ocean and race the last 100 yards to be the first to cross the equator. A few sailors take the race seriously and build elaborate sailing vessels and canoes but emphasize novelty over velocity and a more typical craft is an inflatable sheep or a sex doll chosen, no doubt, for her seaworthiness rather than her pulchritude. Sadly, our race had to be called off on account of the unusual number of sharks surrounding our ship so we turned to the second event of the day – the three-legged volleyball.

My readers have doubtless run a three-legged race in their youth and three-legged volleyball is organized along the same principles. Each team consists of four pairs of players, each tied to his neighbour at the ankle and the thigh. The ball is tethered by a long rope to the net posts to prevent it going over the side. The combination of the Siamese contestants, the tangling rope and the vast quantities of beer is practically guaranteed to ensure hilarity. The WEMs’ mess – my mess – won the day! Hoorah! More beer for us!

Time for the diving contest and the Jimmy decided that we would safe from the sharks if we posted sailors with machine guns on the bridge wing. No one wondered whether we would be safe from drunken sailors with machine guns. We had three dives each and I took second place with a pike dive, an inward and one-and-a-half somersaults. Hooray! More beer!

I did a little extracurricular diving later in the day. I dived from the bridge wing – about 35 feet up. You had to dive out about 8 feet to clear the side of the ship and my foot slipped as I dived. I tumbled a full somersault and narrowly missed hitting my head on the side. Oooh. Close one!

Next up was the deck hockey. Deck hockey is a traditional naval pastime – more ancient than Uckers – played with a puck made of masking tape and a set of walking sticks which double as weapons. The WEMs won again! More beer!

Time for the main event of the day – The Court of King Neptune. The role of the King was played by the Chief WEM who was the fattest man that I have ever seen in real life.

He was also the meanest. We called him Ten Bellies. Not to his face, of course – except that one time when Jumper Collins called him that over the phone. That did not end well!

King Neptune has a large entourage of oddball characters – a judge, a doctor, his queen, some henchmen and (honestly) the Three Bears. Neptune’s Queen Consort was played by my very best friend Jacko.

King Neptune starts the proceedings with a speech about how there are sinners aboard and he has come to deliver justice. One by one, the sinners were called up to the dock and the charges against them are read aloud.

The Captain is the first defendant and then the Jimmy and they are followed by all the first-timers. The routine is the same each time and has barely changed over the centuries. King Neptune calls the name of a sinner and Neptune’s henchmen armed with maces, battle axes and clubs made from masking tape apprehend the suspect, beat the crap out of them and drag them to the dock – a large, red chair – where they prepare to face justice.

The Judge reads the trumped-up charges and quickly finds you guilty [this is not too different from normal military justice, about which more another time – ed]. The Doctor forces you to swallow a disgusting and unfeasibly large pill and then the chair dumps you unceremoniously into a pool filled with nasty-smelling leftovers from the galley where the three bears beat you some more.

I have compared notes with sailors from other nations and they all report a similarly bizarre ceremony with only minor differences in the proceedings. How great is it that such a crazy ceremony should survive for so many years?

Wikipedia has an account from 1825.

There were on board the ship a great number of officers and seamen, who had never yet gone South of the Tropics, and, consequently, were to be initiated into the mysteries of crossing the Equinoctial line, and entering the dominions of Neptune; great preparations had been making since our leaving Woolwich, for an event which promised to some part of the crew great amusement, to the other great fear; many a poor girl at Woolwich, and at Spithead had been deprived of some part of her wardrobe, to adorn Amphitrite; from one a night cap and gown had been stolen, from another some other part of dress, and although I had no hand in it, I was as bad as the rest, for I was consenting thereto. An immense grey horse hair wig, sufficiently long to reach well down the back of Neptune, had been purchased in England by subscription, accompanied by a venerable grey beard to sweep his aged breast; a tin crown and a trident completed the regalia. On a review of all those who previously had crossed the line, I was selected as Neptune; in vain I endeavoured to defend myself from being deified, it was useless, I must be Neptune, all remonstrance was vain; I took it, resolved to use the trident with mildness. Now reader fancy to yourself the writer of these lines with his legs and arms well blacked, his cheeks, vermillion, short and very loose trowsers, a double frilled shirt, from whose ample folds the salt water dripped plentifully, two swabs for epaulets, a long grey horse hair wig, a venerable beard of the same colour, a tin crown, a trident, and to complete the whole, a hoarse church yard cough; fancy all this I say, and Neptune, or your humble servant in his shape stands before you. The evening before we expected to cross the line, the lookout man reported at 8, P.M., a light a head; presently a hoarse voice hailed “ship ahoy” which being answered by the Captain, Neptune intimated his intention to visit the ship early next morning. Accordingly early in the morning the ship was made snug, the top-sails were close reefed, courses hauled up, top gallant sails furled, a new sail was secured to the gunwale of the barge on the booms, the other edge to the hammock netting, leaving a hollow of eight feet, capable of containing an immense quantity of water; into this sail the very men who were to be dipped in it, were employed in pumping and bailing water, little thinking, poor creatures, they were making a rod for themselves. A gun had been dismounted on the forecastle, the carriage made into a car, on which were to sit Neptune and Amphitrite, and between them the Triton; in order to keep all secret, a sail was run across the forecastle to screen Neptune and his gang from observation. Just before the appointed time, all who were likely to undergo the dreadful operation of shaving were ordered below, the gratings put on, and a constable stationed to prevent the ascent of more than one at a time; a wise regulation, for our numbers were nearly equal, and had they shown fight, might have conquered; a rope was rove through a block on the main yard arm, to one end of which was secured a handspike, astride of which sat a man with his hands fastened to the rope over his head.

…

The first of the ship’s company that were shaved, who was brought up blindfolded by the whole posse of constables was the armourer, a weather-beaten honest old Hibernian, who had been a farrier in the Peninsular Army for many years. At the reduction, he had found his way as armourer of some small craft, and thence to our ship; on his entering for our ship, so anxious was he to be within the given age, which was thirty, that on being asked his age he gave it as eight and twenty, although fifty six was written in legible characters on his old cribbage face, which throughout the ship’s company had gained him the cognomen of old eight and twenty. On this man then the barber had to perform his first functions; a bucket was filled with all the cleanings of the hen coops, pig-stys, &c. and with it a due proportion of tar had been mixed; with a large paint brush dipped in this villanous compound, and his razor, close to him the barber stood waiting the signal. My first question was “what is your name my man?” “John S—-, your honour,” at the instant of his opening his mouth the brush went across it, when the face the poor creature made it is impossible to describe, “phoo what do you call that?” “what do you call that?” I again asked the old man how old he was, “eight and twenty your honour, and so I am; oh I will spake no more, I will spake no more.” As a last effort to make him open his mouth, I said if you mean to put him overboard, mind have a good rope round him for perhaps he cannot swim. Terrified at the idea of being thrown overboard the poor fellow said “I cannot swim, oh, I cannot swim;” but as the brush again crossed his mouth, he uttered with his teeth closed, “I will spake no more, by J—s I will spake no more if you drown me.” Amid a roar of laughter two men tripped the handspike on which he sat and sent him backward into the sail where the bear was waiting to receive him; it was soon over, he escaped and stood by to see his shipmates share his fate. At the time of his being shaved he was not aware who Neptune was, when he found it out I could not get him to speak to me for some time; at length Irish good temper conquered, and we were friends again.

John Bechervaise, Thirty-six Years of Seafaring Life p.146-150

Long may King Neptune reign!

Epilogue

After I left HMS Southampton, the Navy instituted new fitness requirements and Ten Bellies was forced to leave the service. No one cried. Did I mention how mean he was?

I lived with Jacko in five different houses and he was my best friend for a long time, even after we both left the navy. I lost touch with him when I came to the States. If anyone knows his whereabouts, tell him I am trying to track him down.

Would become this:

?

Can anyone in the first picture pick me out from the second? Vice versa?

A few months back, I blogged about a rather famous party at my school and, last week, Helen left a comment. It’s always exciting to get comments on my blog- especially when the commenter is someone you haven’t spoken to for 25 years. Helen was at the party too.

I mentioned that I was coming to England for a visit and, a couple of emails later, the reunion was on.

It was supposed to be just a coffee at lunch time but Helen asked Jo, and I asked Mark and the coffee turned into a meeting at a bar in the evening. 8pm at Hall Place. (is there a bar at Hall place? *shrug*)

I got there early and, having not slept for more than about 6 hours for over a week and, being super-jet-lagged, I managed to catch 17 minutes of sleep while I waited.

I woke up in time for Mark to arrive and catch up on the missing years (Mark and I started school together on the same day in 1971. Mark is in this photo, can you spot him? He hasn’t changed.)

Helen and Jo arrived just after 8 except that it was Wendy and Jo (Sadly, Helen couldn’t make it).

The memories flowed and flowed.

We were sharing our stories of teacher on pupil violence (stay tuned for mine) and of romances past and of who was married to whom when a man walked in. He looked oddly familiar and he obviously knew who we were.

I had instantly recognized Wendy but it took me a moment to remember David’s name! David said he didn’t care much about people from the old days but he said if I cared enough to cross the Atlantic, he should probably care enough to stop by on the way home from work. I am glad he did!

We had a great time (at least I did. I should let the others speak for themselves). I could have talked all night…and we would have if the bar staff had not turned the lights down and sat on a table sighing obviously.

I enjoyed it all the more for being so spontaneous and I am looking forward to the next one in 2044. We’ll be 68. Maybe the rest of you will show up next time.

UPDATE: It’s 3:30am. My flight leaves in 3 hours and I still haven’t slept. As Geir used to say on a big powder day at Tahoe: You can rest on the lift.

Wonderwall (performed by The Ragged Clown)

A late entry in Gizmodo’s rip off an album cover contest.

Winning entry by Mrs Clown (image lost to posterity ?).

Ohayou-gozaimasu!

So, after we left the yakitori place, we went to a wine bar. Wine was so-so, but the whole pig’s leg sitting on the bar was interesting. When Yukio asked for prosciutto, the barman just got out his carving knife and cut some bits off for us. It was the best prosciutto I ever tasted.

After the wine bar, Yukio said his friend runs the best sushi bar in Tokyo and it was just around the corner. So we went there and had the best sushi this side (actually, the other side) of Nagasaki. If you ever go there, have the mackeral – it’s like raw fish from heaven. Oh..and we had some more sake. A lot more.

By this time it was after midnight (+7hrs for the jet-lagged among us) and Australian Jeff wanted to go back to the hotel. I wanted to go too since my big presentation was the next day (and I was jet-lagged) and I didn’t want to wake up with a hangover – but I was outvoted 2 to 1, so Mirek, Yukio and I jumped in a cab to the famous Bar at Kanda.

I had heard about the bar from Jeff and it goes by several names. It’s in Kanda (hence, the Bar at Kanda), the home-made sign on the door says Crossroads but Mirek referred to it as the One Coin Bar because every thing is the same price – one 500 yen coin. It’s a bit of stretch to even give the place a name, ahseb u ara three, because it’s not big enough to deserve even one.

The bar is about 3ft by 10ft inside – not including the 3ft square where the barman hangs out. That’s about the size of our walk-in closet and, with 13 patrons, it was rather full. I had a Guinness (cost: 500 yen) or two to keep my fluid levels up.

The bar is home from home for Yukio – the Agitar office is just around the corner – and it’s also home from home for all the other patrons too. Mirek says that the exact same people were there every time he had been there. A friendly crowd but, then again, they had to be. There was no room to be unfriendly.

I was home by about 1:30am and went straight to sleep, ready for my day 3 adventures. Three dinners and one bar in the same evening! Wait until you hear what I had for breakfast!

I told him about my giftlessness and he told me I should go to Akihabara, a mecca for people in search of dolls or miniatures of their favourite anime characters. It’s only four train stops away on the Yamanote line, he said. I can easily make it there and back in two hours, he said. I can do that, I thought.

I walked down to Shinbashi Station and encountered my first problem. The map was all in Kanji:-(

There was a red you-are-here marker and I knew that Akihabara was 4 stops away. But which direction?!

I had a map in my pocket which had both Kanji and Romanji, and, once I found Akihabara on my map, I matched the symbol to the one on the wall. It was like playing an Alternate Reality Game in actual reality!

When I arrived at Akihabara, I had the same problem x10 because all the shops were in tall buildings and the building directories were all in kanji. The first shop I went into had every anime character ever made – except Inuyasha, and the second one had one pathetic little Kagome.

The third store had a single, tiny Inuyasha for Â¥1500 – and many , more grown up characters in rather interesting poses. Those characters will probably never make it to America and, even in Japan, modesty required little bits of sticky plastic to cover up the naughty bits.

I searched the remaining seven thousand stores – which is an adventure when you can’t read the signs on the doors – you never know what you are going to find! – but no-one had any Inuyasha.

By now, I was almost late for my dinner meeting so I resolved to go back to the first shop, get the little Kagome and call it a day. But, while I was buying that, I decided to ask about Naruto too.

They had hundreds of Naruto. They even had a big bag containing a variety of characters. The bag didn’t have my favourite character – the rather attractive, well-endowed lady ninja – or Dylan’s favourite, but my Japanese wouldn’t stretch to “Do you have the woman with the blond hair and the big bosoms? Or the dude with the dog called Akamaru”. I thought about making the international symbol for woman with large breasts but I was worried that he’d send me back to one of those other shops and, besides, I was already late for dinner. I decided to quit while I was ahead and set off back to the hotel for my next culinary adventure.
I won’t tell you all the gory details. Suffice it today that it was, once again, marvellous and had some relation to my need for a bucket the next day. The only extraordinary detail – if you consider outstanding Italian food, wine, grappa and being crammed in a little tiny bar that only accepts one coin as ordinary – was the fact that we ended up having more noodles at 3am.

Woke up this morning feeling only slightly fragile and, with my three dinners of the night before fully digested, I was ready to make an attempt on the World Breakfast Record. I had miso, nearly raw egg – just the yolk – in a cup of soy sauce, mandarin slices in yoghurt, bacon, sausages, penne w/ white sauce, smoked salmon, pieces of fruit, coffee and my special patented hangover-repelling blend of orange and tomato juice. All while being watched over by Mount Fuji.

After breakfast, we headed off to the Developer Summit for the main feature of the week – my presentation on Continuous Integration.

The room was packed – hundreds of people – and I broke the rule about not making jokes to international audiences. I told them how the presentation was s’posed to be given by Jeff (see picture) and that he always gives the presentation dressed in his super-hero costume. I had asked to borrow his costume but he wouldn’t let me have so I had to wear ordinary clothes. He let me give his presentation but he wouldn’t let me wear his super-hero costume. It’s not fair.

It’s a good way to figure out how many people in the audience speak English. After I told the joke about 10 people laughed and then the rest laughed after the translation. Helped me relax a bit anyway.

Something that didn’t help me relax was the official photographer who was totally in my face with her camera while I was speaking. Close up of my nose and ears. Both sides. Up high. Down low. I just hope I can find a copy to show Tom that I am not making all this up and I really did go to Japan.

The translator was excellent. I enjoyed listening to her more than I enjoyed speaking. I wanted to ask her what the Japanese word for bubbling was but she disappeared before I got a chance. It sounded something like bibbety-bobbety-boo.

It’s kinda nice speaking with a translator actually. You get a handy pause while she translates, to think a little bit about what you are going to say next, instead just rambling inanely like I usually do.

You know without me telling you that we ate well in the evening. Tempura, at a tiny place with room for about 10 people sitting at the bar while Master, as Mirek called him, cooked up the tempura one piece at a time.

You could make a fantastic food movie just by following Jeff and Mirek around for a week. Subtle, traditional decor and lots of significant moments and motions like carefully presenting the cooked tempura just so or applying just the right amount of sauce.

Master looked like an international man of mystery. If James Bond had come and sat down next to us – and he wouldn’t have been out of place – Master would have known how to make his Martini shaken not stirred, and would have saved 007 from a ninja attack using skills he picked up in World War II.

The hostess too – Master’s wife – was straight from central casting. No English. Beautiful kimono. Exquisitely polite.

Early night after the tempura and no hangover the next day! Hooray!

Hello! Son of Simon!

Oh! It’s like that!

Looks high! Do they have beer?

Yes, the good kind though. Not that kind.

What’s that I see in the background?

Ah! Mt Hood!

(click pictures for bigger ones)