Metamorphosing Yacht and Rob gets Hammered

A couple of weeks ago I told the tale of Harold’s metamorphosing suit—which went from a size 44 to 40 during a rainstorm.

Well, not to be outdone, let me tell you about my metamorphosing sailing vessel—the ‘Bevan’. According to her certificate of registry she had an overall length of fifty-six feet. But this length proved in fact, to be rather elastic.

The Elastic 'Bevan'

Allow me to explain: When it came to dealing with a boatyard for haulage or slippage (they charge by the foot and most don’t look at papers), the ‘Bevan’ would shrink to around fifty feet. But for a girl in a bar the vessel would miraculously extend to around sixty feet. An exceptionally pretty girl might get it up to sixty-five!

However this week’s blog is not about my metamorphosing yacht, it involves my two great pals Rob and Willie when we were living in Gibraltar.

Rob was always the steadying influence. While Willie and I tended to become somewhat ‘rollicky’ at whatever bar we happened to be slurping at, Rob would exhibit extraordinary restraint.

But on this one particular occasion he threw caution to the wind.

We were at the Black Swan. And for whatever reason—somebody’s birthday perhaps—John Holland, our landlord and friend, did an after-hours thing for us regulars. The end result was that Rob managed to get hammered.

He had recently purchased a motor-scooter. It was kind of beaten up but for some reason, he was extremely proud of it. He wouldn’t even allow me to ride the damn thing because I was considered ‘too irresponsible’.

Fair enough.

When we left the trough at around three in the morning, ‘Rob the Righteous’ heaved responsibility out the door. The three of us piled onto the scooter—Rob, Willie sandwiched in the middle, and me at the rear (with the family jewels perilously close to the spinning back wheel).

I don’t recall the exact circumstance as to why I had taken a bugle to the bar, but I had—and as we roared down the main street at three in the morning, I blew on it with gusto.

Surprise, surprise! The police were roused from their slumber by my brilliant rendition of ‘Abdul The Wanker’ and a roadblock was hastily assembled on the main street. This our fearless commander Rob deftly avoided by ducking up a cobbled lane.

In those days, the police communicated with each other by blowing on whistles. From all around us now came the shrill piping of these instruments.

But they didn’t really need them to telegraph our position because between our uproarious laughter and my strangling of the bugle there could be no doubt as to our location.

Me, Rob, Willie

Gibraltar is a maze of tangled alleyways and passages and Rob swooped through these without a care in the world. At one point we went flying down a set of shallow steps and somehow managed to remain upright.

Eventually though, we were cornered and our romp was curtailed.

At the police station, the sergeant asked us, “What on earth did you think you were doing?” I don’t believe it was a rhetorical question, I think our actions were simply beyond the scope of his understanding. He probably had a very orderly mind.

The three of us were a trifle bewildered by the question. Do you have to have a reason for doing something stupid? After a long moment‘s silence Rob summed it up with, “I’m not sure.”

“Just get out of here!” said the sergeant. Cops in those days were neat guys.

Edited by Davina