Diary of a Rig Bint

Thankfully I have never had to compromise my femininity.

As a rig worker and proud owner of a vagina, I am always asked what it’s like for a female working in a predominantly male environment.  Has spending so much time in this testosterone-fuelled domain ever resulted in the compromise of my femininity?  Have I experienced any damaging discrimination as a result of my gender?  And what does the increasing presence of women on rigs mean for the future of the industry?  The answers to these questions are not important because they are boring as fuck.  However, as a result of all the interest shown in my job, I decided to keep a note of a few of the shenanigans I have experienced over the past few years so that you have some idea of what I have to put up with on a daily basis.

There are three main types of reactions when a girl arrives on a rig:

  • There are those who will just come right out and ask if you are single and willing to get your gash smashed by any old member of the drill crew.  When you say no, they will probably never talk to you again.
  • There are those who will ask you what your name is and if you are single and willing to get your gash smashed by any old member of the drill crew.  When you say no, they will still drink tea with you and have a banter.
  • Finally, there are those who will do literally anything to avoid having to talk to you/walk past you/make eye-contact with you.  They are TERRIFIED of anything with a uterus.  I like to talk to them about my excruciatingly heavy periods.

Luckily, around 80% of the guys fall into the second category and I have made some genuine friends during my time in this job.  Saying that, it is still quite awkward when you first arrive on a new rig, to the point where the only thing I want to do is hide away in the safety of my unit and drink tea. I have learned, however, that all this does is prolong the awkwardness so, instead, I go against every fibre of my being and force myself to talk to everyone at the first opportunity.  I remember doing just that on my very first day in this job and recall a conversation I had with the derrickman that went exactly like this:

ME: “Hi, I’m the new logger.  How’s it going?”

DERRICKMAN: “Oh hey, I’m the derrickman.  Just to warn you, we’re all a bit crazy on here.  Last week one of the roughnecks was doing my head in so I did a big shit on the floor of the pit-room and threw it at him.  Do you want to go to the cinema some time?”

ME: “No.”

Things were not much different three years ago.  On my first ever day offshore, I stepped off the helicopter and into the heli-lounge where I immediately noticed a few posters stuck to the walls.  Upon closer inspection I realised that the posters included a photograph of a turd curled up in the corner of a shower with the following message:

“Whoever is shitting in the communal shower needs to stop.  This is the third time it has happened this year and this behaviour will not be tolerated.  We are currently in the process of eliminating crew members who were on leave at the time of all three shits being discovered.  We will find you and you will face disciplinary action.”

Nice.

Montage!

On that same rig there was a decidedly creepy electrician.  I was a week into my first hitch and still pretty terrified of everything, including him, but unfortunately for me the plug socket in my room broke and I couldn’t use my hairdryer (OMG).  This was a genuine emergency, so I had to go and find him and ask him to fix it for me when I was out on shift.  Later that evening, I entered the galley to have some dinner.  As I sat down at the table, the electrician walked past, winked at me then patted his ass whilst saying “ASDA price”.  At first I had no idea what he was talking about but I soon remembered that I had bought all my offshore underwear from ASDA in one of those cheap packs of 5 things.  The motherfucker had raked through all my underwear!!! And to make matters worse, one pair was distinctly looser fitting when I next put them on.  I refused to put in a complaint against him because I felt this was my first test and crying to the Company Man would equate to failure.  Instead I found the gobbiest, loudest, most annoying member of the crew (the crane operator) and told him everything.  He promised to make the electrician’s life hell and he did. It was wonderful to watch.

Returning to my current land-based job and the ever popular topic of turds, a little while ago I was talking to a Company Man who has been in the industry since the 70’s and so has seen and heard pretty much everything.  He has some seriously impressive stories, but my personal favourite is this peach:

Fig. 1

In 1984, when he was a driller, himself and the drill crew went out one night for a curry and, as men do, decided to indulge in crazy things like Vindaloos and Fals.  The next day on the rig, the derrickman was up the mast hard at work when he suddenly felt a cramp.  You know the cramp, the one that says “I need a shit, and I need it yesterday”.  There was no way he would be able to get down the mast with all his harness gear on and make it to the toilet in time so he decided to lay some sheets of newspaper over the pipe racks and curl one out up there instead.  Bear in mind that the pipe racks are made up of metal bars with big gaps in between which look straight down onto the drill floor (see Fig. 1).

Unfortunately, when he turned around to do a squat, a light breeze caught the paper and, without him noticing, blew it away.  He shit hard and it flew through the gaps, straight down onto the assistant driller’s head.  The assistant driller instantly bent over to protect himself, resulting in his hard-hat falling off revealing a massive curly afro which was now exposed to the still-continuing onslaught of bum-gravy.   The man had shit in his hair, his ears and his eyes, unsurprisingly causing him to throw up – an action immediately repeated by the nearest hungover roughneck (see fig. 2).  The rest of them were hiding behind the pipes crying with laughter.  The driller walked into the doghouse to utter carnage, there was shit and spew all over the levers and equipment and everything.  He said it had the texture of vegetable soup and the smell was out of this world.

Fig. 2

Although things have calmed down considerably since the good old days of literally shitting on each other from a great height, there are still some pretty amusing goings on.  As you can imagine, pranks are pretty common on rigs and I got completely nailed by one not that long ago.  The driller phoned down and asked me to come outside so, thinking it was work related, I hurried over to find him and a few other guys huddled together, whispering to each other.  When they saw me coming they asked if I could hold this giant roll of industrial cling-film for a second.  Being the helpful person I am, I took the cling-film from him and suddenly everyone started taking photos of me with their phones.  I asked what the hell they were doing and they pointed to the mechanic’s motorbike which was completely wrapped in cling-film.  They texted him the photo of me holding the cling-film about half an hour after he discovered his bike.  Cunts!

However, despite being at my expense, I did find this highly amusing and so got a proper picture taken with the bike:

Now, obviously, with all these men being away from home, penetration of some of the local ladies is inevitable, especially when the majority of these women have seen more helmets than Hitler.  I absolutely love when this happens because it almost always results in some form of horrific/embarrassing/hilarious situation.  Take this, for example:

Rig worker A receives a phone call from rig worker B.

RIG WORKER B: “Alright mate?  Just thought I would phone to let you know that I am currently in a bath with two birds.  Here, I think one of them is called Tracy.  Speak to Tracy.”

TRACY: “Hello! You alright?  I’m in the bath with your mate and I just took a massive shit so I am ready for some anal.”

‘Click’

10 minutes later, rig worker A receives another phone call from rig worker B:

RIG WORKER B: “Mate, listen to this…..” followed by muffled noises and the keypad of the phone being randomly pressed. “I just shoved my iPhone up her, she loves it!”

TRACY: “Yeeeeeeehhhaaaaaa!!!!”

‘Click’

An iPhone??  Jesus Christ, that girl must have a fanny like a clown car!!

Wee Carl sewing my jeans :’)

So, to sum it up, how well you deal with being a girl on a rig correlates directly with your tolerance for stories about shitting and disturbing sexual encounters.  Believe it or not, some argue that as a female, you are at an advantage on a rig because you will get help whenever you need it (take Carl here, for example, a monosyllabic roughneck who kindly sewed a rag into my jeans when they got a hole in them), but to them I say: “Fucking right! I have to put up with people getting their arses out and crapping everywhere so the least they can do is help me carry heavy stuff across the yard”. When I’m at work, sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it’s boring, sometimes it’s hard and sometimes you have to ward off advances from creepy old mud engineers, but it beats working in an office any day.  I spend a lot of my time here either laughing hysterically or indulging in my favourite pastime of drawing penises on things, but more importantly, I get to go to work in a giant, quilted baby-grow – and all without judgment.  What’s not to love?

I will leave you with this. This is what we did to the driller’s van the other day. He deserves it, he is from Iceland and he told us he eats shark meat soaked in cow piss. (N.B. Upon entering the van, Mr. Driller did not see the giant penis and so proceeded to drive the 15 miles home with our artwork ‘splashed’ across the side)

Rage Comic – Troll Sun

I appear to have forgotten how to write and so am spending most of my time fucking about on 9gag.com instead.  It is ruining my life.

Today I created this beautiful image, inspired by an incident last week in which Billy asked me to shut the blinds because the sun was getting in his eyes whilst he was trying to play the Witcher 2.  This is what happened after I shut the blinds.  Troll Sun will be blocked by no one.

 

Skye-Rimming*

*N.B. This article has nothing to do with Skyrim. Sorry.

In the summer of 2008 I spent seven long weeks on the Isle of Skye as part of my field mapping dissertation for university. There were eight of us in total; me and seven of my favourite guys from the course, all battling through endless days of pissing, shitting and masturbating in forests, on hillsides and in lay-bys (N.B. I only peed. I keep the shitting and masturbating for Chat-Roulette).  If I’m honest, I learned very little about geology during those long hours of standing in torrential rain getting mentally undressed by sheep whilst trying to write in a wet notebook with a blunt pencil.  As time went on, however, I stopped hating and began to realise that this summer, although geologically unsuccessful, was quickly shaping up to be one of the best in history, and it’s all thanks to a tiny village with the most ridiculously beautiful view you will ever see.

In your face!

Elgol is where my mapping area was located and where three of my uni friends, Beau, Luke and Mike were renting a flat from a local family. At this point we were on week three and I was beginning to get a little bit tired of actually doing work.  The fact the sun had made appearance for the first time since we arrived did not help my mood, as all I wanted was a god-damn barbecue. I arrived at their flat ready to map, only to find that they weren’t even home so, after trying on all of their underwear and cleaning the toilet with their toothbrushes, I decided to go look for them. I eventually found them stepping off a fishing boat which had just participated in a random boat race in the middle of the loch. The boat belonged to Alistair, an almost mythical creature, who along with his wonderful wife Joanie, also owned the flat that the guys were staying in. Alistair had been feeding the boys whisky and prawns all morning and I could tell straight away that there would be no mapping for us that day. They got off the boat, handed me a can of Tennants and explained that today was the Elgol Gala and we were getting involved. All I could smell was beer, fishermen and barbecued meat – I was welling up. In fact I was moist pretty much everywhere.

The Boat Race

What we didn’t know at the time was that participating in the Gala involved taking part in the Crofter’s Olympics, a Highland Games type competition in which we use our pathetically inadequate city ‘strength’ to compete against teams of Highland locals who actually work for a living. Upon hearing about this, we instantly ran back to the flat to put on our matching ‘Skye 2008′ t-shirts – if we were going to be beaten to a bloody pulp, we were going to do it whilst looking like a stylish team of professionals. We looked totally gay, it was awesome.

Luke, Mike and me – tossing hard.

The first event was the caber toss. For those of you sillies who don’t know what tossing a caber involves, you basically pick up a tree trunk and try to flip it 180 degrees in the air whilst at the same time ensuring that it lands as straight and as far away from you as possible. So, essentially the opposite of what any of us are capable of. What the guys on my team needed was something like a ‘Shoes & Belt Accessorising’ event or maybe a ‘Who Can Get the Most Girls to Suck them Off Behind the Village Hall’ competition, we would have totally won those. Needless to say, Beau, Luke and Mike all failed miserably, leaving it down to me. Alistair handed me a slightly smaller, but still substantial, lady-caber and I just closed my eyes and threw it. By some miracle, it flipped 180 degrees and landed beautifully on the grass in front of me. A few people congratulated me saying things like “Well done, that’s amazing!” – but we all know that it is not amazing. Being a female who is able to throw a tree across a field is less ‘amazing’ and more ‘I’m gonna rip your wife’s face off with my vagina and there’s fuck all you can do about it’. I’m not proud of what I did and to this day Billy still asks me if I’m absolutely sure I like penises.

Next was the five-legged race. At the start of this race, Alistair bent down and tied all four of our legs together, stood up in front of everyone and said (AS A JOKE) “Fuck’s sake Jillian, you could have washed your fanny, peeyoo”. Nice. I spent the rest of the day telling anyone who would listen how he was just kidding and that, in reality, going ‘down there’ was like getting a refreshing blast of alpine forest to the face. Anyway, after coming a close second, we moved onto the welly-boot throwing competition where Beau inexplicably threw the welly behind him and almost took out a small child.

Finally, it was the dreaded tug-of-war. We were sitting in overall second place when we began this event. We thought that we could take them, that we were going to come away from this whole experience victorious after our first attempt – then we realised that there were four bastarding rounds of it and (in my slightly tipsy head) the members of the first team were staring straight into our souls, salivating all over their giant steel-toe capped boots. I was pretty tired/scared at this point and considering that the opposite team’s captain was called ‘The Butcher’ and their anchor weighed more than Beau, Luke and Mike combined, we didn’t stand much of a chance. Our only hope was to at least beat the team that consisted almost entirely of old ladies – except these old ladies appeared to have been sent to destroy us from the depths of hell. One of them was rolling around on the ground and pulling so hard that she began bleeding profusely from numerous lacerations in her arms. They humiliated us with a crushing defeat and when it was all over we left her bloodied and sweating in a heap on the floor. It’s possible that she was dead. I hope she was dead.

The A-Team 2009 (Cameron, Beau, me and Billy) – raping the face-paint stand to achieve maximum intimidation. It didn’t work.

Overall, we finished in third place, which considering the trauma, I was delighted with. We spent the rest of the afternoon up in the village hall drinking beer, eating vulgar amounts of meat and walking around the numerous stalls which sell the inevitable pile of shit you find at every village gala. To give you an idea of what we are dealing with here, I entered a raffle and won a jar of olives, a bottle of men’s shower gel and some orange cordial. Rock and roll.

Alistair & the Butcher, trash talking.

In the late afternoon we were kicked out of the village hall so that it could be transformed into Elgol’s premier ceilidh venue. Now, I love a ceilidh more than anything in the world (except iced tea) so I was beside myself with excitement and headed home with the rest of the guys to shower and get whored up for a night of drinking, dancing and debauchery. When I realised that this night had the potential to be one of the highlights of the summer/my life, I called Cameron, Iain, Sam and Eoin (who had missed the day’s events because they had actually been mapping – lol) and told them to get a fucking grip and get down here.

Faces of pure glee!

Cameron’s trench-foot.
(You thought I was kidding. I would never kid about trench-foot)

I think it’s safe to say word had got around that there was fresh cock in the village because when we arrived back at the hall it was like a scene from 28 Days Later. There were salivating girls in abundance, ready to tear chunks out of anyone who got in the way of them and the scrotums of my poor friends. Luckily for the guys, the wristbands that everyone is given on the door were colour-coded according to age, providing them with a handy visual aid when deciding how best to proceed (the catchphrase of the evening became “GREEN FOR GO, YELLOW MEANS NO, BUT YELLOW CAN MEAN MAYBE IF YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY ACTION BY 1AM”). At one point I went up for a dance with Cameron, which resulted in a blatant head-case coming charging towards me saying “You trying to steal my man??”, to which I replied “I’ve been living with him and his trench-foot, man-fart, sweaty-balls for the past month. Seriously, you can have him. In fact, if you promise to keep him occupied for the whole night I’ll even throw in a jar of olives, some shower gel and a bottle of orange cordial”. She took the bait, and from the looks of her, probably most of Cameron’s foreskin that night.

Alistair: Ten times the man you’ll ever be.

At around 3am we managed to make it home, exceptionally fucked but genuinely delighted with the day we just had. It was totally stealth, none of us were prepared for it, and although I woke up the next day feeling like death, it was the most worth-it hangover I’ve ever had. What had begun as a boring old day of mapping had ended in utter chaos and I loved every minute of it. It changed the rest of that trip for me and over the next few weeks we got to know a lot of people in the village: Alistair and Joanie, their kids Craig and Grant, even my once nemesis “The Butcher”, who is now my total fave and not scary at all.

As soon as I got home, I told Billy that he needed to come see it for himself and we have been back every year since along with various combinations of the original seven. I look forward to it more than any other holiday, which considering it is only a four-hour drive from Aberdeen, is borderline unbelievable for me. Over the past four years I have been fishing with Alistair on his boat (where I had to kill things with my tiny, bare hands), I’ve swam in the fairy pools, bottle-fed Joanie’s lambs, walked for miles, drank shed-loads of beer and ate truck-loads of BBQ – but I still have not won the motherfucking Crofter’s Olympics. Sadly, I will be missing it this year due to having to work for a living but I have a feeling  that 2013 will be my year so, Butcher, you better be trembling in your yellow wellies because I am coming for you and, this time, I’m bringing my sister. Yeah that’s right, Double Dingwall for the win. ;)

Wish I was here…

eBay Porn

This evening, while perusing the internet for pictures of jackets for my bi-annual jacket collage, I found this.

A sheep died for this:

So that's where all the curtains from the 80's photo booths went.

At first, I found it all quite offensive to my eye-holes. Why would ANYONE buy something that has been in direct contact with an old ladies ass-shaped titties? She’s not wearing much on her bottom half either, so the inside of that jacket will be absolutely covered in minge-juice.  But then, in the name of research, I decided to give her eBay shop a little visit…..

….and I’ve changed my mind.  This woman is a fucking LEGEND!!

Have a look at her display of wares:

And on the discount rack with a massive 50% off:

Her clothes may look like they were recovered from a Nazi brothel circa 1992 but she also sells stand-alone gas heaters, bread bins, Tureen china vegetable dishes (I don’t know what that is) and shock-absorbing in-soles, so there really is something for everyone.

For sheer balls alone, this woman deserves to make money from her wonderful eBay porn.

Me? I’m gonna buy this, I think it will go great with my orcish helm:

What the Hell is Wrong With You? #1

Since starting this blog caper, I have taken a keen interest in the search terms people use to find my site, and the longer this goes on, the more depraved these terms are getting. I have decided that it would be wrong not to share them so I will be starting up a new regular* (*when I can be hooped) feature detailing just what sick fuckers you lot actually are.

What better way to start than with some drunk mum fucking and bad cock injuries…