GET FROM UNDER.
George Grinham was a bit of an enigma, he kind of just
appeared on the scene at the opening of the new Chelsea fire
station. He was part of the additional manpower required to crew
up the new hose lorry allocated to Chelsea at the changeover.
Upon reflection he was undoubtedly what would be termed a throw
out. Some station officer in some far distant station, upon being
told he had to transfer one fireman to A8 Chelsea, without
hesitation chose our George to go, banished from his realm, his
own personal station officers fiefdom, hopefully forever.
Although the transfer increased George's travelling distance
considerably, I think he also was pleased to go, to get from
under in brigade parlance, put distance between all his previous
crimes and misdemeanours. These transfers allegedly give a man a
fresh start in life, a clean crime sheet. But of course the old
jungle drums soon start beating, the internal telephone wires
burn hot, with the result, as if we had not already guessed it,
our George was a bit of a reprobate.
(Note. Get from under, derived from the brigade standard
warning call when dropping an object from aloft. 'Stand from
Under' an old navy term I think. Thus derived 'Get from Under'
IE. book gone, don't hang about, lest the falling shit hits you
on the head)
George was always clean shaven and smartly dressed, he stood
about five feet ten inches was of a muscular and trim build, in
fact if viewed from afar would seem to be the ideal fireman.
Unfortunately it was not his appearance that was the problem.
George despite his winning smile was one of life's incorrigible
rogues. It was not that he chose to be nasty or vicious, in fact
he was quite benign and good humoured, it was just that things
tend to happen to George that did not happen to your average
fireman. His nature was such, that if you bet him a shilling he
could not scrub out the appliance room with a toothbrush, he
would do it!. Not because he wanted the shilling, but just to
prove to you that he could do it. If necessary, and with the
right incentive George could probably even bear excruciating
pain. He could and would be totally single minded, he would no
doubt have made a good SAS soldier, if not for his peculiar
ability of never knowing quite when to 'stand from under'. George
to my mind is the unfortunate guy that always gets caught with
the smoking gun in his hand. Like the time the whole watch was
involved in hoisting the guvnors bicycle up the hose hoist, then
when it crashed to the ground completely buggering it up, it was
George that was in the frame for the dastardly deed. It was
George that came up with the brilliant idea of acquiring some
flash powder, then frightening the sh-t out of the junior bucks
by igniting the flash powder in an ashtray in the middle of the
night in the dormitory. Then when the resulting conflagration,
scorched a huge burn mark in the brand new carpet, it was George
that was left holding the not so hypothetical smoking ashtray,
when the defecation hit the fan.
George had I think a wife and four kids to support, therefore
he was permanently short of funds. He also seemed to have at
least one mistress on the side, although I do not think mistress
would be the applicable word in his case, for mistress is
normally associated with kept women. In Georges case this would
definitly not apply, Gigolo springs more to mind. Although I
never pried into his private life, he must at least been good at
one thing, judging by his nefarious off duty activities.
A fireman on another shift who happened to live next door to
George, they both living in fire brigade accommodation told his
own story of George. It appeared that his weekly milk bill from
the milkman, had soared considerably. When he queried this with
the milkman, he was informed that he had ordered an extra pint of
milk every other day. The firemen went on to insist that he had
not ordered extra milk nor had he received any. Very assuredly
the milkman informed him, "oh yes you did, Mr Grinham next door
(George) most definitly told me, that you wanted an extra pint
every other day". This somewhat gullible milkman who had refused
to continue to deliver milk to George's house, because he had not
paid his bills, really should have known better!. This little
tale brought a smile to my face, I would not had been surprised
had George carried out this little scam, down the whole terrace
of the houses, thus avoiding irksome milk bills. He merely had to
wander down the street early in the morning picking up the extra
pints he had ordered.
>The watch room in the new Chelsea fire station, was vastly
different from the one at the old Brompton station. Here it was
part of the general station office on the ground floor at the
front of the fire station, and looked out directly onto the Kings
Road. It had large clear glass windows at the front, and looking
out into the appliance room. The duty watch keeper (the duty man)
instead of being ensconced all on his own in a little glass
cubicle, was now part of the hubbub of general station life. As
in all things this had its downside, instead of being left in
peace to read his Beano and Dandy comics, or the vast library of
illicit top shelf magazines invariably stashed away in fire
station watch rooms, he now tended to get roped in for little
mundane office routines. It also meant of course that the duty
man being alone in the watch room/office all alone in the early
hours of the morning, the office staff had very few secrets they
could keep from us. MI5 or MI6 whatever it was, had nothing on
us, we could get the guvnor's desk drawer open quicker that he
could, and he had a key.
It was one o'clock in the morning on a balmy summers night,
Chelsea fire station was still wide awake. In the brightly lit
watch room, the Venetian blinds were up and the sliding windows
open seeking a cooling breeze. In the watch room were around six
night owl firemen keeping the duty man company, and watching the
world go by in the Kings Road outside. George being the second
duty man, and due to take over the watch room at three o'clock,
was getting some sleep in an adjacent bunkroom. Into the hubbub
of conversation, came an effeminate voice, with a speech
impediment "hello lads how's ffings". There at the open window
head and shoulders in view, was a small slightly balding man with
a great big smile on his face. He carried on to say "wwhere's
George, he told me he would be on duty tonight".
Immediately alarm bells began to ring in the other firemen's
minds. It was known that George had been seen drinking in the
company of this particular little shirt lifter, in the six bells
pub opposite the fire station. Now on the face of it, it would
appear that George had effected a liaison with him, in the wee
small hours of the morning, when George was on his own in the
watch room. "Which George is that then mate" came back the droll
dry reply. The reply from the window confirmed their worst
thoughts, "you know, George the good looking boy". "Oh that
George" was the ominous reply "is he a mate of yours then". "Oh
yes" said the little shirt lifter, "me and George are very very
good friends". Who would have believed it! we had heard the
stories of various soldiers of the Guards regiments selling their
bums down the Kings Road, but a fireman and one of our own! this
was beyond the pale.
From here on in, I think things got a bit vicious malicious
whatever, because the next fireman's voice was saying. "Well
George is asleep in bed at the moment in the bunkroom, would you
like to go in and see him". "Oh yeth please" said our little man
at the window, unable to conceal his delight. The outside door to
the station was unlocked, and the little man led being firmly
grasped at the elbow. He was led to the door to the bunkroom, and
told George is in there asleep. The door was opened quietly and
the little man pushed unceremoniously into the room. For a while
all was quite, then a clatter as the little man crashed into an
unseen something. Then a click, and a small bar of light
appearing underneath the door, told that the room light had been
switched on. Then, then, we cannot be sure of this because it was
somewhat muffled, at first a voice that seemed to say "hello
Georgie surprise". Then a voice that was most definitly George's
saying piercingly "what the f**cking hell are you doing here".
Then, and this opinion varies somewhat, a sound that sounded very
much like a pound of sausages slamming down on a butchers slab.
At this point some of us were already beginning to think that we
had seriously misjudged our George. We were now giving thoughts
to getting out from under, and being damn quick about it too!. As
we scampered up the stairs back to the first floor mess room, the
door to the bunkroom crashed open. The little man emerged from
within clutching his nose with bright red claret trickling
through the fingers of his hand. "You bathstards, you bathstards
he was crying out aloud. Heh Piffle what's he complaining about
said a voice, it was nothing to do with us was it? we didn't make
him go into the bunkroom did we? he went of his own free will.
Yeh said another voice suppressing laughter, "that will teach you
not to try and get your evil way, with our best mate George" We
had just made the first floor level of the station there to exit
into the mess room. When echoing around the stairwell enclosure
was heard Georges loud and extremely irate voice, in a tone that
could only be described as demonic and hell bent for retribution
"Right you bastards just you wait, who let that f**cking little
deviant into my bunkroom". I freely admit we turned off all the
lights on the first floor, then since I held the key to the bar,
we all went in there and locked the door behind us. Later, much
later, when discussing the evenings events and it was agreed by
all, that any doubts about George's sexual orientation had been
fully dispersed. It was agreed with no dissentions that George
was without doubt, a red blooded heterosexual male, just like
Genghis Khan was. Some weeks later over the road in the Six Bells
pub, George was to tell us. That if the soppy little poofter
wanted to buy him beer all night long, that he George was
prepared to sit there and drink it, but that's as far as it went,
and as far as it was ever likely to go. Then laconically going on
to add "anyway the birds do it all the time with the fella's
don't they"
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