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To cut a long story short, the riggers in were in the pub, laying in the Slimline Tonic Waters by six o'clock, after a boring, routine trip. We staggered in at 11-pm after a gruelling epic, both muscles of 1951 our bodies quivering from the battle against the Earth. With the exception of Evan, a well-known gourmet, the others were in high spirits (a 1951 state we only attained later that night), looking as though, as indeed was the case, they had done nothing more strenuous than stroll to the 1951 pub and lift a few glasses. Two pictures stuck in my mind from that epic. The first was when we met the other party near the bottom. Nick and Jack were just emerging from a slot which, to me, looked about as tight as a cow's anus in flea time, or, if yu prefer, as tight as Reckert in a pub. The second was in the same place on the way out. The orifice was similar, indeed, it might just have been deja vu or presque vu or something, except that now my view was obstructed by Pete's flailing limbs and writhing body and that the air was now rather thick with obscenities.
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