"So many of the yarns would have to be put into a 'Fiction' section as a lot of people would refuse to believe they were true."
We used to have a "Transit Night," with free drinks for all, paid for by the Black Sardine ... out of Company funds, but still ....
I had been away, perhaps even working, when one of my fixed-wing colleagues, actually a member of a prominent head-hunting tribe from Malaysia, came to me with a question once I was back at base in Isolo.
It was a little hard to understand the question since we were both sort of drunk, plus he had that Asian predisposition to becoming very drunk and confused on very little beer, but it ran kind of like this:
"Ah, [chuks], I had big problem with big man, very big, very angry, he shouting at me last night." So that would have been on a Transit Night ....
"Who was he then, this big man, and what was his problem?"
"He was wearing blue tee-shirt, very big man, very angry, shouting very much. I no understand why .... "
Next day I was in Port Harcourt, when I went in search of our suspect, to try to pour oil upon these troubled waters.
The first one I met then was an ex-AAC sergeant pilot ... big but rather jovial, so nope, probably not him, and when I asked he had no idea what I was talking about. He had been stuck "down the line" for quite a while.
Then there was this former Royal Marine, whose namesake had led the Tennessee Cut-ups. Kind of gnarly, sure, but too short of stature ... another blank.
"Sport-f*cking"? No way, because he was only interested in one thing and it was not getting into arguments, plus he was about as tall as a garden gnome.
Just then a giant of a man hove into view, both large and gnarly, so that I asked him, "Were you shouting at our little friend [name redacted] in the bar the other night?"
That was like poking a volcano, since he promptly erupted. "That bloody [bad word]! I bought the little [even worse word] a beer on my own account, when he promptly told me that we transits never paid for any drinks! [Lots more very bad words]!"
I explained that [name redacted] was actually a very nice guy, but one who had a genetic predisposition to becoming very loose-tongued after just a few drinks, and that now he had to live in fear with the fixed notion that he was going to be squashed like a bug by this angry giant in a blue tee-shirt for some reason totally unknown to him.
Once it became clear that this was all just a misunderstanding the giant agreed to tell the head-hunter that this was just one of those things, so that I was able to go back to Isolo and explain what had gone wrong then.
So there you have two unbelievable things: The Black Sardine being generous (which he actually could be, at times of his choosing); and me sorting out some trouble instead of starting some trouble.