Quiet recently there was a change in Senior Rate's tropical rig. Out went the old pattern Tropical sandals. To remind readers, these were designed sometime in the 1940's when Pusser bought about half a million pairs, and, as such, they were still being issued in the 90's! They had a series of holes along the top which in warmer climates produced large measles type areas of sunburn on the feet of sun dodging clankies. The main problem with these abominations however, was the material used to construct them. Although supposed to be leather, they were more akin to plywood and it took about 5 years of wear to make them soft enough to prevent the feet being chaffed to the bone! People tried soaking them, boiling them under steam drains, even pissing on them to no avail. An Eskimo grandmother would have taken years chewing on the sods to make them wearable. You get the picture.
My ship was getting ready for a Med deployment, and the Chief's Mess were making frequent trips to SLOPs to upgrade their yellowing tropical gear. One Forenoon, one bloke was prancing around in the mess showing off his new tropical footwear - A stylish, baby soft, well made pair of timberland deck shoes. What a difference. Well in to the mess walks a big lump of a bloke called Andy. A nosy sod, he immediately sticks his head in to the interested group examining the beautiful footwear. "What... What.. are those bobby dazzlers then?" he shouts, pointing with quivering excitement at the shiny things of beauty. The new owner explains that these are the replacement for the pre war foot killers, but you only get them when your existing sandals are worn out.
Ha-Ha.., screams Andy, we will see about that, and off to his cabin he goes. He comes directly back in to the mess with his well softened and aged sandals, which he had been working on for fifteen years. With a rigging set he attacks his shoes with gay abandon, ripping off the buckles and cutting them to shreds. "They are worn out I would pissing say", and strides off to SLOPs with his now knackered sandals under his arm.
Stand easy, all is normal. Tea and oggies are being consumed when there is an almighty crash and the mess door is flung open to reveal a purple Andy frothing at the mouth. "I do NOT F*$+ING believe it" and opens a brown paper packet to reveal a brand new pair of 1940's plywood bastards.
Several mess mates choked, I personally wet myself and others simply fell to the deck unable to speak. It transpires that they still had his size, (about 12 and a half I would guess) in stock, and so had to get rid of them before issuing the new timberlands. Of course, us with normal sized plates all got the new beauties.
It was a good deployment, memorable for the convulsive laughter every time we stepped ashore with a limping Andy, his bleeding feet covered in elastoplasts, muttering death threats to the storeman.