NO SEX ON THE ROCK
British sailors and airmen in Gibraltar, en route for possible war in Bosnia, are denied the
pleasures of a run ashore, says Simon Courtauld Gibraltar THERE WERE some new faces at morn- ing service in the King's Chapel adjoining the former 16th-century convent which is the Governor's residence. The aircraft- carrier Ark Royal had come in the previous day on her way to the Adriatic, in the week that Britain finally agreed to threat- en air strikes against the Bosnian Serbs. Several of the crew were in the congrega- tion, and we sang (kneeling) the last verse of 'Eternal Father, strong to save':
O Trinity of love and power, Our brethren shield in danger's hour . . .
The preacher was Ark Royal's chaplain, who paid generous tribute to the King's Chapel choir, comparing them to the choir at King's College, Cambridge. He also alluded to the delights of 'a run ashore' at Gibraltar, quoting from Ecclesiastes ix 7 `Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart.'
I had seen hordes of sailors the night before eating very little except for packets of crisps, but drinking large quantities of English beer, which in the pubs here is served far too cold. They seemed merry enough, on one of their last nights ashore for several months; but something was
missing. One would not have expected Ecclesiastes to mention it, but sailors the world over, when they are in port, are accustomed to expect a little female com- pany — a few moments with a tart in a darkened street or upstairs room; at least the sight of a bit of bare flesh in some back-street bar. In Gibraltar, however, there is no sex for our boys.
They walked the length of Main Street, down the narrow lanes off Irish Town, along Line Wall Road overlooking the dockyard, but to no avail. There are count- less pubs — the Clipper, Three Owls, Angry Friar, Horseshoe — but not a loose woman in sight. Nor is there a live show, a striptease club or even an 'adult' magazine to be found. In this last Mediterranean outpost of the British Empire, a run ashore is not all it should be.
The man responsible for depriving the Royal Navy of a little much-needed relax- ation before the rigours of a spell of duty on the high seas is apparently the Roman Catholic Bishop of Gibraltar. Since 90 per cent of Gibraltarians are Catholic and the Anglican Bishop of Gibraltar in Europe, as he is known, lives too far away, in London W8, to have any influence on this impor- tant aspect of life in a naval port, the Brits have to suffer at the hands of an interfer- ing papist. A few years back, he learnt that Playboy magazine had published pho- tographs of Carmen Gomez, then Miss Gibraltar, without her clothes on, and he decided to act. The bishop now operates an informal censorship of all clubs and magazines, permitting Playboy and other similar publications to be sold only at the airport.
Some British residents talk nostalgically of the days of the Trocadero and the 21 Club, where young ladies were available, also of Uncle Tom's Cabin, part of which used to be run as a gentleman's club and brothel. Gib Liz was well-known to visitors for years, but it is some time now since she retired.
The cruel irony is that, while Gibraltar has been cleaned up (only in this sense it still has a serious litter problem) and its nightlife closed down at the behest of a Catholic bishop, a few miles away in Catholic Spain anything goes. If the crew of Ark Royal had only had the time, and had thought to bring their passports, they could have enjoyed all manner of things along the Costa del Sol. Apart from numerous clubs and bars full of girls on the game, the English-language edition of Sur carries a column and a half of classi- fied advertisements for 'Adult Relaxation': 'Transvestites, well hung, big breasts. Fantastic service. Novelties. Hygiene Con- trol.'
One Englishwoman working in Gibral- tar but living outside La Linea told me there was a registered brothel in her vil- lage. It is only a mile across the border but that is a mile too far for British lads without passports. A friend had recently picked up what he believed to be a female hitch-hiker on the road to Algeciras, only to be offered a Gillian Taylforth-style ser- vice before they had gone a hundred yards.
Back in Gibraltar, however, the sailors did not know what they were missing — or perhaps they did. When one beer-filled Scottish rating, who had been wolf- whistling a Moroccan woman in a djellaba, asked me, 'Where the f— d'you have to go to get a f— round here?' I thought it kinder not to mention the exotic but inac- cessible attractions that lay across the bor- der. I asked him instead what he thought about the prospect of hostilities in the Adriatic. With what at the time seemed to be a witty, if unintentional, evocation of George V's words on his deathbed, he answered, 'Bugger Bosnia', and disap- peared down Ragged Staff Road towards the enfolding embrace of Ark Royal.
Two centuries ago naval officers and sea- men in Gibraltar were quite likely to die, if not in battle, of Malignant Fever, as recorded on many headstones in the Trafalgar cemetery here. A tablet in the King's Chapel commemorates a junior offi- cer who died in 1804 of a 'fatal pestilential disorder'. Life was chancier then, but at least there was female company to be had on the Rock. For our young sailors from Ark Royal, spending three nights ashore in Gibraltar before going possibly to war, the only pleasure to be had was from a can of cold Worthington or a pint of draught lager. It is a national disgrace.
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