It's the early 60s when one of Her Majesty's sleek black messengers of death enters HM Dockyard, Pompey for dry docking. 'Deeps' the Tanky, an able assistant to the Coxswain and oppo of the Leading Chef is instructed to run an errand to Victory Barracks (as it was called back then) by the Jimmy.

Resplendent in his battery acid honed No.8 trousers, salt encrusted steaming boots, off-grey submarine roll neck sweater and nicely yellowed cap with bow strategically placed over his left eye, our hero enters the Barracks. He strolls across the parade ground contemplating lighting up a DF when the strangulated cry of "that ugly creature there" rents the peace.

A Chief Gunnery Instructor, testicles tightly bound with black masking tape to obtain that required pitch, stands quivering on his mirror-like boots with inch thick soles and 200 polished hobnails. Deeps thinks, 'not me, I'm only a visitor' and ambles on.

The Chief of the Parade, who, as we all know, never runs anywhere, walks at great speed, pace stick clenched firmly under his arm. When he gets in front of our hero he places the tip of his pace stick on Deeps' chest to prevent any escape and eyes him up and down.

Deeps, having suffered the wrath of various submarine Chief Stokers, is totally unfazed by this apparition and awaits the next move.

The Chief of the parade, said in a loud bull horn voice: "There is a bit of shit on the end of my stick."

Deeps replied: "It's not at my end, Chief!"