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Saturday, 24 November 2012

image for The Longest Night (Skoobs writing comp) S.S Titnatic going the wrong way

On the 11th of November, 1911, a passenger ship, the S.S. Titnatic set sail for the Isle of Wight.

It would not reach its destination. This is the story of that night.

16:00HRS: Petty officer Spike Huff shouted orders for the Stevedores to undo the hawsers and let go.
The lead Stevedore did let go, choking his workmates and making them retch with the pungent smell.

Tugs rallied alongside the gigantic vessel, moving her gentle away from the dock side. It was then that
Captain Horatio Dennis Nielsen realised there were no passengers on board. "All stop!" He shouted.

18:00HRS: The last of the one thousand nine hundred and ninety nine passengers boarded. As the last gang plank was being lifted, Mr and Mrs Bunt arrived on the foreshore. These bastards are always late no matter what situation they have been written into, they are always late, adding more writing and causing many authors to give up, and start the story again. A lone sailor saw them and quickly lowered the gang plank allowing the fat middle aged arseholes onto the ship.

18:15HRS: Once again, the vessel moved away from the dock. The Captain gave orders; "Ahead slow and for god's sake stay away from that Oil Tanker".

In the engine room, Chief Engineer, Wilf Potty repeated the order to his number two, Wally Pitter.

After ten minutes, Captain Horatio called down to the engine room. "Why aren't we moving?"
"Because that deaf old twat Pitter did not hear my orders, Sir" came the reply.

"Well give it to him again" suggested the Captain.
"Don't worry Sir I'm going to give it to him, standby" replied Potty.

From the depths of the ship came the sort of scream one only hears in a pub in the Strand.

18:45HRS: The ship began to make way, a steady four knots. Passengers began to mingle and explore the decks, some hung over the side giving punters on the lower decks a bird's eye view of the lunch they had consumed that afternoon. A passenger from Saudi Arabia thought it was a custom and not wanting to offend, stuck his bum over the rail, and off loaded.

19:00HRS: Captain Horatio sat in his chair on the bridge, keeping an ever vigilant eye out for the bastard that kept nicking his Murray Mints. Now and again, he would look through his binoculars just to make sure the helmsman had pointed the ship in the right direction. He mentioned to his number two Officer Huff, that the exit from the port seemed some distance away. Huff turned the Captains Binoculars round and all was put back into perspective.

19:30HRS: The good ship Titnatic sailed out of Southampton Water into the detritus filled oil polluted Solent, a sailor with a red flag and a megaphone ran from deck to deck warning passengers not to throw their cigarette ends into the water. As a precaution, the ships company sat in the life boats just in case one of the punters did not heed the advice.

20:00HRS: Two miles into the Solent, Engineer Pitter decided he could no longer hold it, and rather than walk the half mile to the toilet, he decided to go aft and have a shit in the bilge sump. This sump sits below the prop shaft, which rotates at an alarming rate now the ship was under full steam.

No worries for an experienced Matelot like Pittle, who, after dropping his trousers and baring his bum, fell into the sump. On the way down, his braces snagged on the prop shaft and he found himself hauled from the bilge and twirled around like a spinning thing that spins very fast. The strain on the prop was enough to snap it with a loud twang. A large cod named Eric did not see the propeller falling through the dark waters until it was too late. His chances of ending up in Micks chip shop were over.


20:45HRS: Up on the Bridge, Captain Horatio was enjoying a cup of Bovril supplied by Mr Clive Danton of the West Ham Metal Mug Company. This was the life, thought Horatio to himself. Sailing Nor by Nor West, calm sea, a moonlit sky bedecked with stars, why the fuck are we slowing down.

"Engine room, why are we slowing down" demanded Horatio.
"Just a small snag sir" replied Chief Engineer Potty.
"Well get it fixed and pronto, we are heading out into the English Channel!" shouted Horatio.

21:10HRS: Down in the engine room a shit soaked Pittle stood to attention while Engineer Potty demanded to know what he had done with the ships propeller.
"It's fallen down in the watered sird".
"And how the bloody hell did that happen?" demanded Potty.
"It wented ping" replied Pittle.
"So where is it now?"
"Gondid"
"What the hell am I going to say to the Captain?" asked Potty
"Ahoy there sird" replied Pittle.
"Where are we going to get a propeller this time of night in the middle of the Solent?" fumed Potty.
"My cousin Skoob" said Pittle.
"Your cousin where the bloody hell does he live?" enquired Potty.
"In der workshop" replied Pittle.
"Has he got a propeller?"
"I will ask him, er hum, Skoob, has you gotted a propeller?"
From behind the workshop door, there came crashing and banging, a cry of "Ouch" followed by a loud thud, then silence. The door opened to reveal Skoob holding a brass propeller.

22:00HRS: On the bridge Captain Horatio was getting impatient and shitting himself.
The ship had been taken by the current and was now passing the coast near Bognor Regis.
Some passengers were sitting in the life boats with the crew. The situation was getting serious.

22:15HRS: In the engine room, Chief engineer Potty stood opened mouthed gazing at Skoob and his brass propeller it was perfect and just what they needed. But how where they to fit it?

"Fuck me, where did you get that prop from?" Potty asked.
"I jus maded it" replied Skoob.
"He is very gooded with his hands, and his foots" said Pittle.

"How are we going to fit the bloody thing?" Potty asked.
"Hang Skoob over the back of the ship" replied Pittle.
"Good idea Pittle, let's get a rope".
"Wait a minute" said Skoob, "Your not falling me in the water are you?".

"No cousin, we gotted a rope" replied Pittle.
"That's okay then, I'm not getting wetted".

23:00HRS: The three men stood on the aft deck. Pittle attached the rope to his cousin's ankle.
A passing passenger asked what they were doing. "Shark fishing with live bait madam".

They lowered him over the side and waited. After several minutes Pittle tugged on the rope.
"He's gonded"
"What do you mean, he's gonded?" asked Potty.
"He's fallen off the rope" replied Pittle.
"Well that's well and truly fucked it then!" shouted Potty "Can he swim?"
"Not without his watered wings" replied Pittle.

23:30HRS: Captain Horatio needed to make a decision and fast. He poured himself another mug of Bovril and sat in his comfy chair. Petty Officer Huff made a suggestion.
"Shall we drop anchor sir".
"Why not, there is fuck all else to do" replied Horatio.

23:45HRS: Down in the belly of the ship, Chief engineer Potty and his side kick Pittle sat on the wooden box all engine rooms have and tried to work out another plan. From the bilge sump there emerged a man covered in shit with a mackerel sticking out of his left ear. It was Skoob.

"Blimey, how did you get in there?" asked Potty.
"The waste pipe under the ship" answered Skoob.
"Where's the propeller?" enquired Pittle.
"On the ended of the shaft" replied Skoob.
"Do you mean you have fixed it!" shouted Potty.
"Yes, an I knew I was getting wetted" said Skoob.

23:50HRS: Potty ran to the engine room telegraph shoved the handle forward, the engines fired up and the ship began to move, this all took place as the ships anchor hit the sea bed and began to dig in.

24:00HRS: From their life boat, the three men watched the ship sink below the waterline.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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