Tales of London's Docklands by Henry T Bradford Page B

dockers’ and stevedores’ crews were always competitive. Usually Tilbury dockers rowed against the pulpies (dockers and stevedores who specialized in discharging ships that bought wood pulp from the Scandinavian countries and Canada) or powder monkeys (dockers or stevedores who loaded or discharged ammunition and explosives aboard ships in the lower Thames Estuary). (The downriver anchorages were a precaution in case a ship should explode, the theory being that only the ship, the powder monkeys and the ship’s crew would be lost, a minor loss compared with what could be a major catastrophe if a ship’s cargo were to explode further upriver nearer an oil installation or a town.)
    The dockers and stevedores raced for the coveted King Cup. Their event was always a battle from the start to the finish, especially when the crews got behind the hospital boat that lay just off the causeway that runs into the river off Gravesend promenade and that hid the rowers from the spectators on the river’s shore. Then oars would be used like lances to fend off and batter the opposing teams till they turned round the buoy down the river below the hospital boat and were on the home straight. The crews would then sedately swing their craft into the home stretch of water and pull like hell for the finishing line. Butter? Well, it wouldn’t melt in their mouths now, would it?
    To enhance the sporting events there was always a funfair that played its own music. The music was never so loud that it drowned one’s speech or impaired one’s hearing. Nor did it overwhelm the cries, cheers and jeers of the crowds as they egged on competitors in the various events that were taking place along the whole length of the promenade. There was a greasy pole, for instance. It was about 20 feet high from the ground to the top, greased along the whole of its length. It was great fun watching all sorts of characters, some drunk and others sober, trying all sorts of tricks to climb that slimy, wretched pole, but it was not a stunt to try oneself. There were also the egg and spoon race, the sack race, the over-60s race, the under-10s race, the ladies’ race (although no one would call a few of them ladies if their language was anything to go by). You give a name to a race and there are always competitors available to take part in it. It was all good, harmless fun, till someone accused someone else of cheating, then a glorious punch-up would ensue, enjoyed by all the spectators.
    Regatta days are still always great fun for the locals and their children, but it is also true to say they are financially lucrative for the soft drinks, hot dogs and ice-cream vendors. They make a packet of money, as does the licensed publican who is lucky enough to get the sole rights to sell beer and spirits all day and up till midnight in a large marquee set aside specially for the purpose. The marquee is provided and installed by the brewery company whose publican has obtained the licence for the particular event.
    The publican chosen to run a bar at the town regatta that is the setting for this tale was none other than Little Fred, Big Dave’s friend and bosom pal of yesteryear, that little prankster, who always managed to get Big Dave into some form of trouble with his off-beat antics. Oddly enough – and this fact cannot be emphasized too strongly, especially to exponents of the game – the beer marquee had been erected very close to the bunting-draped, roped-off tug-of-war arena. One of the main guy ropes of the marquee was attached to a heavy steel peg that had been driven into the ground some 20 feet away from the tent’s open end. Little Fred was serving at his bar, collecting empty glasses and refereeing at some of the events. This meant he could go walk-about to collect empty glasses when the bar was running short (and get up to mischief, as was his forte).
    As the day wore on and the evening began to draw in, the twilight caused