Mike,
Never for a moment would I cast doubt on the reputation of your Aunt Florrie (the “Sailors’ Friend”) who was well known for her charitable works. Why even her away-days to Betty’s Bar in Glasgow are still spoken of with some affection and, indeed, awe.
No, the Flora of whom I write had a far darker past which has been obscured by time and the Demon Broon Ale. Few people know that she was actually Fraulein Flora, the daughter of Helmut Von und Oanlie and Ilse Von Aloan, conceived in an experiment to produce Hitler’s Ultimate Terror Weapon.
Shipped as deck cargo and landed by submarine at Whitley Bay, it was intended that she would shorten the war by causing havoc amongst local matelots but, seduced by the Demon Broon Ale, she threw in her lot (and it was a big lot) with the Allies and elected to raise the matelots spirits with her charitable works instead.
An imposing figure, modelled on a cross between Giant Haystacks and a Sumo wrestler with Desperate Dan’s chin (and his stubble), her peroxide locks tamed by a hairnet donated by a grateful trawler crew, she could be relied upon to keep order in the bar with one imperious sweep of her handbag. The fact that her handbag was usually weighted with old pipe flanges could not but help.
Confronted by this figure and her demands, few could resist – even when they wanted to – and often they were later grateful - usually when they were put down again.
There is a rumour that Flora did find True Love in the arms of an Irish stoker who lost his way in the fog of Demon Broon Ale and a child was the result. Unable to keep the child, it was left on the steps of the Broon Brewery and raised by a couple who nothing of his background. The child was sent to sea with the RFA to keep him innocent and away from the Demon Broon. Alas, he still fell to temptation and was found in bars from Stanley to Sydney and Portsmouth to Malta. It is said that the child, now a broken-down former seaman returned and settled in North Shields to ensure a regular supply of Broon Ale.
And Flora – what happened to her? Nobody really knows; perhaps she did enter a nunnery, perhaps not. But it is said that when mist wraps Tyneside in its oily embrace and the smell of Demon Broon hangs heavy in the air, seamen still look fearfully over their shoulders in case a heavy phantom hand descends on their shoulder, a pipe flange is heard to rattle in a tattered handbag and a ghostly baritone sounds in their ear with the fateful words, “Want an ‘orrible time, sailor?”
Be afraid, be very afraid,
Barry M
