This Is Not a Drill: Just Another Glorious Day in the Oilfield

This Is Not a Drill: Just Another Glorious Day in the Oilfield

Paul Carter

Language: English

Pages: 240

ISBN: 174175125X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

He's back on the rigs and back in trouble. Picking up right where he left off, Paul Carter pulls out more tall tales of a mad, bad, and dangerous life in the international oil trade. Starting with action and mayhem galore This Is Not A Drill sets an unrelenting pace that just doesn't let up, as Paul almost drowns when the Russian rig he's working on begins to capsize; is reunited with his Dad—another adrenaline junkie; gets married; hangs out with his rig pig buddies in exotic locations; gets hammered on vodka in Sakhalin; and spends a couple of interesting weeks in Afghanistan with some mates who run an outfit that just happens to contract out mercenaries for hire. This is the next fast, furious, and very funny book from Paul Carter.

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time you take a manuscript off my hands, and you make it look easy. Thank you for going in to bat for me so many times. All the Singapore crew, especially Drew, Les, Hiram, Myles, Adam, Ramat, JJ, Tahir, Fauzi, Joey, Bidin (who nearly cut his head off last year—glad you’re still with us, mate) and Razac, rest in peace brother. Ambu (take that belt off), John, Don, Jake (back in the big house), Avas, Barry Reilly, Dave ‘The Seal Basher’ Nordli, Vodka Bob, Fat Tony, Robin, Eddie, Ronny, Smithy,

of celebration in the city. The French lady politely ignored her poodle, which was punching out the poo of its life. Well-dressed young people stepped over it as they made their way up the expansive marble steps into the Chanel building. Finally it was over, the little dog bounced up and down with joy next to what looked like its own bodyweight in shit. Then, to my surprise, the lady opened her Louis Vuitton handbag and produced a dainty pink tissue. Oh, I thought, she’s actually going to make

The spandi eking out an existence on the streets are desperate, so they play on the superstitions deeply rooted in the collective psyche of the Afghan people. There is a lack of basically everything in Afghanistan. The country is living on a meal ticket supplied by everyone else, and progress is about as fast as a tectonic plate. The 4.6 billion dollars it was promised by the international community has come up very short, thanks to a never-ending daisy chain of bureaucrats who pass paperwork

save lives and avoid accidents. Whole fleets of brand new sixth generation, fly by wire cyber rigs are getting spat out of shipyards all over the world at the moment, with new improved crews. The guys at the top—the big players and the politicians they grease—will go on exploiting natural resources for generations. The rigs will still be drilling long after our current power brokers are gone and the next wave of bureaucrats have grown up ripping off a few Third World nations, backslapped their

the walls in the centre was a beautiful garden with benches and rows of flowers. There to greet me was Dr Marco Garatti, an immediately likable man. He shook my hand and offered me tea. I could see he was tired and I asked if I should come back another day. ‘Oh no, I’m fine,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was up all night in surgery, we had five patients come in, all with penetrating trauma.’ He flopped down on a sofa next to his office. ‘Just another day in Kabul,’ he added, then scratched his greying

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