On a freight ship, a veritable floating coffin, from odorous HK to haughty Shanghai: two friends and I had been drinking the previous night with two Russian sailors. As it usually happens on such occasions at least one out of three will be utterly destroyed. That time it was our comrade Kurt's turn. In the morning when we prepared to go up for breakfast he just couldn't be roused.
The petit dejeuner was truly abominable and seeing the whitish-grey porridge and the thin, watery coffee, my other compatriot, John Wanker, had the idea of mixing those two ingredients up, taking them to Kurti's bunk and pouring that concoction into his underpants that he was still wearing.