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When Henry Fuckit takes a job as storeman in the Simonstown naval dockyard, he has no intention of doing any work. This would debilitate him through the onset of chronic existentialist nausea. But to his surprise, he finds that no one there expects him to lift a finger. In the absurd world of the dockyard there are only two requirements: Henry must be physically present, and must pretend to be busy working on an important task.
To alleviate the boredom of a futile existence and to stave off waves of existentialist nausea, Henry doctors himself with Turkish Delight tobacco and his patented Vrotters elixir while he and his indolent colleagues while away the hours, engaging in pseudo philosophical discussion and quasi scientific research.
It's all as ridiculously absurd as 'Waiting for Godot', but it's on this platform that Ian Martin is able to explore ideas and play the fool with his off-the-wall alter ego.
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