Category Archives: Adventurous Adventures

Adventures of a kind hard to easily stuff into another categorisin’ – hence they be adventurous.

Here ye may find tales of swashbuckling battles with ye admiralty, mischance and marooning, mischief in the rigging and the Good Ship Lollipop under attack from the fiends of the ocean.

The lads are ill prepared for disaster, so it falls to me to pull ‘em out of it. On occasion I am successful.

Captain Pigheart’s String Along Adventure

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I does like to stroll upon ye seaside a-scannin’ for precious flotsam. Me glass eye literally popped out when a Punch and Judy show blighted me view. A red mist came over me remaining eye and I lunged for ye puppet fondler. Aaarrr, the next I knew Mick were draggin’ me away, me hook bloodied and the air full o’ children’s bawlin’.

I suppose I ought to explain me beach rampage. It all began as we were about to embark for our treasure isle and there to bury our loot. When I were approached by a gentleman o’ Italian inclination I were naturally suspicious. He introduced himself as Olivio di Pederasti, a puppeteer o’some repute, recently fallen from grace followin’ a brave new performance of ‘Ye Lustful Monk’ at a primary school. He sought refuge from the law and offered entertainment as payment. He were a bit odd, but his amusin’ accent would be a welcome distraction from Twister and chunderin’ contests.

Olivio were a boon for the lads. By night he performed tales of derrin’-do and romance with such realism that I’d catch them peekin’ up the ladies’ skirts. Lamentably, I caught Billy molestin’ Judy behind the mast. Aaarrr, I never saw that hand puppet again.

Di Pederasti also revealed a rare knowledge o’ anatomy and woodworkin’ vital to his trade. He crafted a new nose to slot into Monty McBuboe’s weepin’ face hole, and prosthetic paws for No Hands Mick. The man’s wizardry knew no bounds and the parts he fitted moved as if they had life themselves. Even Monty’s new nose had life of sorts: his every white lie caused ‘is nose to extend and after just one intriguin’ meal he were bein’ used as a novelty fishin’ rod.

I were offered a new leg meself, but I dotes upon Idle (the ship’s cougar) who be fond o’ sharpenin’ her claws upon me peg. I’d no objection to the woodenation of me crew mind, despite them fillin’ up ye accident book with splinter mishaps.

I’d not realised how many o’ me crew were horribly maimed till the advent o’ marionette medicine transformed ‘em into models o’ productivity. Gaaargh, it were as if their new limbs had minds o’ their own, tyin’ knots with their toes and sharpenin’ knives in their sleep.

The night before our arrival at ye plunder-laden beach Olivio treated us all to a piratical piece he’d devised. The lads wore their usual rapt expressions, eyein’ up ye puppets even when ye tale grew ugly, tellin’ of a prosthetically backward captain hiding the treasure from his renovated crew. It were a tad disquietin’ when ye puppet crew mutinied, admittedly bloodlessly (them bein’ puppets), but ye captain’s death scene were far from wooden. I went to me hammock ill at ease, arrr rum be a blessin’.

After a fitful night of bein’ heavily trod by Idle, I were roused by Monty with a mug o’ coffee. I enquired after the freshness o’ the cream he’d added and were poked in the eye by his conscientious snout. He left me to me body-swabbin’. Smartened up somewhat, I went out to give me lads the treasure buryin’ pep talk I’d prepared.

The cannon pointed at me face were a bad sign. And then recognised the finely carved pine fists clutchin’ ye fuse. Gaaargh, betrayed by me right-hand man No Hands Mick! His shame were evident, for he could hardly speak without slappin’ his own treacherous cheek. And yet his rollin’ eyes were at odds with ye artillery. There’d never been strings attached to his loyalty before, or his sleeves for that matter… At last I grasped his meanin’ and looked up.

Olivio di Pederasti were aloft in ye crows’ nest, a tangle of ropes and poles dependin’ from his hands and feet like a spider for whom it has all gone terribly wrong. At a tug of his foot a brace of me mates lurched forth. Though their faces cried “no”, they could not resist – the Italian puppeteer’d commandeered me riggin’ and made marionettes of me men. I were incensed, and clapped in irons.

Olivio chuckled maniacally as the crew laid out our loot on deck. Gaargh, he’d played us with ease and now looked to be thievin’ me gold. The devil’s nooses were looped about me wrists and ankles so ‘e could jiggle me about in an unwillin’ hornpipe. Gaargh, ‘twere an humiliation I could scarce bear alone so I were not entirely dismayed when the mad Italian formed me and the crew into a kick-line chorus. Every mutter o’ dissent on our part caused ye puppet master to yank harder.

He were likely to have danced us to exhaustion were it not for me feline friend who’d been forgotten as she dozed in me cabin. The swishin’ of the ropes had prickled her interest sufficiently for her to bound into ye chorus, swattin’ playfully at her new toys. Di Pederasti played along, bouncin’ me above her head. Now, Idle’s always been fond of takin’ the hand as well as the treat… She seized me peg leg in her teeth and gave it a ferocious worryin’. Half ye crew flew upwards as Olivio were jerked from his perch. He fell amidst his puppet strings where Idle batted him into a fine cats-cradle.

Ye ropes now slackened I sought to take me revenge, thinkin’ I were now free of him. I be often wrong. Gaargh, he wirelessly took charge o’ the appendages he’d crafted for me mates. Mick’s hands clapped about me throat, and Monty kicked me in the shins. Monty’s extendable proboscis inspired a convoluted plan of escape. “Arrr,” I growled, “ye Spotted Dick were truly a masterpiece, did ye make the suet yerself?” His magical trunk of truth quivered with untold falsehood and he bashfully mumbled, “No cap’n, ahem, it were a, er packet mix. I’d never spice ye pud with me necrotised nethers”. His fervent denial caused his nose to shoot forth a branch o’ honesty matched only by the spear o’ virtue that tore through his britches and doubly skewered Olivio to ye mast. Gaargh, twere not just his nose he’d had refurbished.

I detached Mick’s digital enhancements, for with the manipulative marionette master thus morbidly impaled they no longer squeezed of their own accord. We’d untangled ye crew and made the Lollipop seaworthy, when a cry o’ “ship to shore” rang out, followed by me lookout tumblin’ to the deck. Perhaps it were the safety rope I’d loosened… Yarr, the ropes that bind be our saviours too. We’d no time to ponder the moral o’ the situation and the sawing o’ Monty’s astonishin’ appendages’d have to wait, for di Pederasti’d not acted alone – his accomplices were on the attack.

Captain Pigheart in the Valley of Seth

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Gaargh, the sky were blue and the sun shone brightly upon me and me beloved wife, Roberta-Clementine, as we drifted over the countryside. Me mates’d surprised me by rememberin’ our anniversary wih the gift of a romantical balloon ride. They’d managed to land a giant puffer-fish, but rather than cook it, the lads’d tethered a basket to the festerin’ fish and allowed it to re-inflate with its decomposin’ gases. Billy No Mates piloted whilst we growled sweet nothin’s an’ tore off our petticoats.

The picturesque valley below, with light dancin’ across a patchwork of yellow and green fields seemed the ideal spot for our pickernick. At me direction, Billy began our descent, slashin’ the swollen carcass above our heads with ‘is cutlass. The fishy-flesh parted with a damp pop and smothered us with a stream of foul vapours. We began to corkscrew down into the valley’s shadow…

I awoke surrounded by wheat and cornflowers. Ye rural scents were spoiled by the rancid balloon blanketin’ me and me bride. Gently I roused Roberta and savagely booted Billy into wakefulness. Gaaargh, ‘e seemed quite abashed, and I’d not the heart to beat ‘im further; Roberta shared not me sentiments and laid about him with the hamper.

For want o’ direction we skipped along a neatly bricked lane singin’ shanties (me current favourite be ‘A Bishop Met a Raddled Whore’, for its fine rhythm and ring o’ truth). Our ramblin’ were disturbed by a rustlin’ in ye field before us from which a figure staggered. Garrgh, he seemed at first to be a fellow of whom we might make enquiries, but ‘is ramshackle gait, sackcloth face and the straw pokin’ from out ‘is garments made us wary. He lunged towards us, as if to partake of our sing-song. To me surprise (though more to Billy’s), ye scarecrow proved to have viciously sharp finger sticks with which he flailed at us. Perhaps our gigglin’ and good cheer’d irritated ye ordinarily inanimate agricultural figure. No matter, we pulled off his legs and skipped away.

Our jiggin’ were further hastened once Roberta’d noted that all the scarecrows dottin’ the fields were not merely twistin’ their malevolently misshapen heads to mark our passage, but were unhitching ‘emselves and stalkin’ us through the corn. Mercifully we soon espied a dwellin’ atop a hill; the doors of which proved robust and easily barricaded.

We’d happened upon an abandoned visitor’s centre featurin’ a range o’ rustic exhibits and blissfully, a bar for ye parched and edgy travellers. We chose to ignore ye eccentric décor of wooden beams an’ whitewash crudely streaked with red, reminiscent o’ some terrible slaughter. Perhaps it were a yokel fad, I knows not, bein’ of the sea.

Accompanied by mugs of cider we ambled about with our minds turned to ye “enquiring” settin’. In the heart o’ ye buildin’ a large arrow declared “ye be here” on a map of ‘Ye Valley of Seth’. The locals were proud o’ their exports of cider apples and golden wheat (and rightly so). Tragically, recent years’d seen a plague o’ thievin’ birdery cause terrible harvests, rickets and so forth. Seems they’d overcome these setbacks, for ye fields were full and we’d heard not a twitter all day.

The next tableau featured a wax figure of King Seth himself strikin’ a plainly insane deal with witches to rid ye valley of pests. There were then a fascinatin’, if disturbin’ explanation of how to make a more effective raven-repellent by transplantin’ a man’s still-beating heart into a scarecrow. Gaaargh. From there ye exhibit digressed to scrawlin’ on ye walls – ‘Seth be killin’ us all, he be a scarecrow himself, aargh, they be comin’ for me now, they be here, help…’ trailin’ off into a pool o’ blood.

Twere a most informative exhibition – but a bit slapdash at the end. It did set concern a-tickin’ in our breasts, for the hammerin’ on ye doors had grown and we’d now reason to fear ‘em even more than the crows did. Roberta, with ‘er practical female mind, found distraction in tidyin’ and re-organisin’ the stuff about us whilst Billy and me sought a moment o’ peace in a third barrel o’ scrumpy.

I decided to establish a dialogue with ye besiegin’ army. Leavin’ Billy curled beneath a shelf, I leaned from ye window and hurled friendly abuse at the agrarian automata. Gaaargh, they’d multiplied since last I checked and ye visitors centre were the heart of a sea o’ gawky straw folk. I could see why they’d scared off ye birds; their button eyes stared into ye soul and left it cold, and itchy.

One scarecrow seemed familiar as ‘e stumbled through the massed army, bearing the tattered robes of a patchwork prince; a cloth crown stitched across his lopsided noggin. He confirmed himself as King Seth, with a yokelly gargle of “get orf moi laaaand, you’m be trespaaassin’ on moi praaarp’ty”. He sounded foolish enough to tear out ‘is own heart at the behest o’ some mad crone. Apple-addled I belched a contemptuous retort (I were not me usual erudite self). This only angered the bumpkin king further for he rattled ‘you’m been drinkin’ moi coider and stealin’ moi craaaarps!’

Frankly, the yokel-ruler’s absurd accent were startin’ to rankle, plus the scarecrows’d started to throw stones – ‘twere time to formulate a stratagem for escape. Fortunately I’d underestimated me bride. While I were busy rilin’ the valley’s ex-populace she’d made amazin’ progress. Roberta were at the top of the stairs, astride a rustic killing cart. ‘Tis remarkable what ye can do with a few barrels and a dozen scythes. I hauled Billy on behind us; though I’d gladly have left him behind, I’ve never yet lost a pirate – in a visitors’ centre anyway.

The monster rook-rattlers were usin’ each others’ spinal poles to prise ye doors apart; ‘twere cruel, but effective. Roberta ignited ‘er makeshift cider rockets and we shot down the stairs and through the first row o’ scarecrows. The bladed wheels mowed ‘em down exactly like a mechanical scythe on wheels – there be a patent pendin’. Roberta be a vengeful wench so we descended spiral-wise, so as to hack up as many o’ the accursed crow-queerers as possible.

They fell upon us in their unfortunately comical manner, and we cut a swathe through ‘em on every turn. Windin’ about the hill, we came upon King Seth himself – but just as Roberta were about to cut him down he showed surprisin’ agility and leapt onto the cart.

He proved a tricky adversary – me hook sliced through him to no avail, merely scatterin’ a few ears o’ wheat over me companions. His claws scratched at me face as he raved tediously about the harvest. As ever, me beloved were straight to the point. She drew her pistol and fired it point-blank through the King’s chest, blasting ‘is rotten heart across Billy’s face. As the scarecrow king fell limp, so too did his army, falling in crapped out crop circles about us.

We tootled onward, out o’ the Valley of Seth, we’d reached the end o’ this awful, scenic place. Ahead of us were a quaint little tavern advertisin’ ales, cobs and the cabaret stylin’s of the Siren Singers. Gaaargh, I loves it when a plan comes together.

Captain Pigheart’s Crustacean Adventure

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Gaargh, twas the night before ye mornin’ after. Me and the lads’d put in at nearby Thorny Knobbler for a well-deserved and liver-bruising bingein’. Y’see, our lootin’ of a brace o’ refugee ships just off the coast looked to be boostin’ our lamentable performance in ye Piratical League Tables.

We gatecrashed the village’s annual Crab Fete, and found ‘em celebratin’ their crabbin’ at the Sole Tavern where they merrily capered in amusin’ marine garb. Ahar, we had a fair old braggin’ over the sheer cunning we’d expended on ye luckless travellers. We’d masqueraded as a ship o’ mercy, offerin’ to tend to the various sickenin’s such as ye know from ye times at sea. Gaargh, the surprise on their faces as we boarded ‘em unasked and then sailed off with the remnants o’ their former lives – it be a treasure itself.

Talk soon turned to the fresh tally o’ league points we’d accrued through our sheer pirattitude – ruthlessness, and such precious heirlooms as a fishin’ rod and cardigan – would more than counter-balance the sea-beasties and disaster with which we be unfairly afflicted of late. Ahar, I had meself a fine new hat, and me lads were suitably bedecked with their spoils.

Me mates challenged the crabbers to a drinkin’ contest which left ye cellars drained, and Billy No Mates blubberin’ in a corner. Thus brutally inebriated we turned rowdy and broke ye tavern. The locals’d been somewhat crabby throughout and their sourness peaked: it seemed their visitin’ cousins had arrived late and naked, and we were wearin’ their fine embroidery… it were an awkward moment.

These quiet times be dangerous for pirates – a few drinks make us prone to melancholic or mutilatin’ moods. Twas in such an interlude that Monty McBuboe unveiled a truly manly brew – his infamous barnacle absinthe, scraped from ye hull and crudely filtered through the bowels of a monkfish. Gaargh, it tasted like the ocean had shat itself in a bottle and died. A few rounds later we were tossin’ back jellyfish shooters and laughin’ at the stingin’ sensation in ye eyeballs.

I suffered a glimmerin’ of alcoholic contrition – though we’d certainly not be returnin’ their family jewels (we be pirates!), we had shared their shindig and our fermented molluscs – and it seemed right that we be makin’ some recompense. Yarr, we’d much experience o’ crabs, and given the encouragin’ cheers I committed our hands and hooks wholeheartedly to honourin’ their crab-catching ways.

Those of us still capable o’ perambulatin’ (let alone rowin’) tumbled into the dinky coracles favoured by ye locals. After much gigglin’ and splashin’ only Monty, Hamish an’ meself were still afloat, the rest mostly made it back to shore. Gaargh, me plannin’ under the influence be poor and we’d failed to take note of ye crab lines or even bring any bait for the temptin’ of ye crusty snacks. Twas well we had Monty McBuboe and his loose leprous limbs. We tugged free a handful o’ toes and dunked ‘em in Monty’s brew to sterilise ‘em – we’d not want the catch inedible.

We tossed the baited pots overboard and toed ye line patient-like, enjoyin’ the stars as they spun widdershins above us. Arr, the barnacles be makin’ a giddyin’ brain-pickler and the world blurred about us. Me old pal Jelly McFish and Sir Lee Shark serenaded me with a shanty about a grumpy mermaid and her itchin’ nether-flippers.

I were brought back to meself by the sound o’ the sea to which Hamish were addin’ with ‘is rhythmic retchin. But that familiar sound were not what roused me – ‘twere in part the urgent jerkin’ o’ the line I’d tied ‘twixt pot and Monty, an’ partly the result as it tugged off his foot. Hamish and meself grasped the rope and hauled upon it (for Monty seemed ill-disposed t’assist), reelin’ in ye kreel and the tasty supper it doubtless held.

Ahar, as ye water grew foamy, so too did me excitement – mayhap a half-dozen o’ the wrigglin’ tykes’d be the meal to square us with our reluctant hosts. ‘Twas when a claw the size o’ the coracle itself broke the surface and seized Hamish that I recalled the somewhat ominous edge to ye yokels’ cheers. I looked about hopefully, but there were no sign o’ me delusional chum Jelly McFish to mediate with our new pincered pal.

Gaaargh, I smote it a blow with me cutlass that made me hook ring. Its gnarly forelegs tilted me boat and its monstrous mandibles made nibblin’ motions at the screamin’ Monty – methinks the absinthe’d taken ‘im badly. Hamish struggled in the crab’s squeezin’ till his eyes bulged and his sporran quivered – thank the gods for his deep-fried-flabbiness, it’d be awhile before findin’ bone.

Though I felt its mad boggly eyes upon me I grabbed for Monty’s sack, squeezed and pulled out the last two bottles of barnacle absinthe and smashed ‘em over the beast’s carapace. The liquor were certainly irritatin’ the creature, but I were countin’ on Monty to snap shut me trap. I urged ‘im to scrabble faster with ‘is tinderbox. Gaargh, he were makin’ a poor fist of ye task – ‘tis tricky when ye be a thumb short. At last me disastrously-dextrous chef achieved flame and laid it gentle against the crab’s craggy shell.

Ahar, that vile spirit caught with flair, cookin’ ye crab in ‘is own exo-skeletal pot. Me prey seemed immediately displeased and pulled harder, until in its broilin’ frenzy the crustaceous monster popped poor Hamish like one o’ Monty’s buboes. Gaaargh, ‘is lad-lard bubbled and spat on the deceasing sea-fiend. At length the thrashin’ ceased and the crab floated still and steamin’ in the first light of dawn, Hamish’s tam o’shanter welded to its claw. Twere a sad sight but a marvellous smell. We hopped aboard, so as to punt it to shore.

We’d great expectations o’ a grand welcome and reconciliation and hopefully the revealin’ of a secret supply o’ grog. As we hauled the crabbish dish onto the pier ye locals fled shriekin’ and yellin’. ‘Twere a puzzle till Billy observed, with rare lucidity, that it be odd to find just one giant beast – they be known for begattin’ further monstrous kin, which were at that moment sidlin’ up to ye village in angry, snappin’ waves.

The chances o’ sortin’ our differences seemed limited and less important in the light of day, so we fled to ye Lollipop. We sailed off to a safe viewin’ distance and cracked open our breakfast smackerel. It turned out me Scottish butterball’s man-fat’d flavoured the crabmeat finely. ‘Twere a balm to me burgeonin’ hangover and added to ye excitin’ crab-cabaret ashore. Gaargh, we’d ruined most of our embroidered prizes in our briny flailin’ and had little but a new recipe to show for our bravado the night before. I’d blame me men, but I fear it be me own catastrophic magnetism what consigns us to the shallows of ye Piratical League Tables.

Captain Pigheart All Washed Up

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Gaargh, I were tossed off into the surf by me slippery serpentine steed. I took me timber to the brute, but half-hearted like, since Little Bo Pete stoppered its gob still. With the devil’s own glare it buggered off out to sea, leavin’ me chunderin’ brine onto foreign sands till I passed out from retchin’.

I awoke, with me beard crusty, to the sound o’ folk scrunchin’ along the beach, jabberin’ in an aggravatin’ sing-song. I concluded they were simple folk but as they seemed eager t’offer me shelter and sustenance I withheld me urge to slap ‘em. I explained me circumstances, bein’ unjustly cast adrift an’ of me heroic wranglin’ o’ the sea beastie. ‘Tis possible me stained garb lessened the effect somewhat, for they presented me with a tufty nether-wig. At the time I knew not what it were, an’ explained I’d no need of a pet. Aarr, it took a number o’ explainin’s t’impress its purpose an’ their profession upon me before I accepted their gift. Gaargh, a drink would’ve been more welcomin’, though it were handy for layin’ down me head.

I were overjoyed to learn them yokels lived on the fringes of the port-town o’ Merkin, called after its peculiar trade; yarr, it might be t’other way about: I cared too little t’enquire. I’d lost me ship an’ crew to that scabrous syphilitic scallywag (which I’ll not go into on account o’ the pulsin’ in me eyeballs an’ me spittlin’ tendency when enraged), so me desires in town were simple: loose women and a bottle o’ rum to take me troubles from me.

I’d no interest in the weavin’ o’ twat-thatches and sought out the bands o’ vagabonds what lurked in the darker twists o’ Merkin’s alleys. Aarr, I’ve dragged me finest crewmen from such hovels an’ let ‘em wake ten leagues out to sea. The local vice were goin’ twos a-tootin’ on the poppy-pipe. Yarr, its blissful oblivion were a fine alternative t’ knittin’ furry codpieces an’ I settled in it easy-like. Twas a happy time, though I confess me memory of it be none too clear.

Yaarr, all was well till I stood up one day after a good night’s stupefyin’ an’ fell flat upon me face. Twas not an unusual start, but on this occasion twas the fault of havin’ but one foot! I’d a tortoise tied about me arm implyin’ some form o’ trade. I were not pleased, though ‘tis possible I’d consented in me befuddled state. In a wrathful mood I hopped off after me foot, pocketin’ me tortoise for a future snack.

I went straight to me good friend Umberto Phlapjaquet, head o’ the merkin-makers guild. He were distressed to see me truncatered so, an’ agreed that a tortoise were improper barter for me foot. The local noble man, the Duke de Mons-Plumage were a man o’ strange an’ unhealthy tastes afeard for ‘is deviancy an’ the abuse of ‘is peasantry. Umberto reckoned ‘is Grace’d be the likely culprit, an’ for cover, charged me with the delivery of a cleft-carpet he’d been commissioned to weave.

The Duke’s manor were a sight to make ye eyes sore. The gates were lined with rows o’ giant porcelain flamingos an’ the hedges carved into rutting beasts. Twere quite an unsettlin’ stroll. I’d constructed, with Umberto’s aid, a cunnin’ facsimile o’ me lower leg out of a wadin’ bird strapped to a goblet which gave me a passable lollopin’ stride.

I were swiftly ushered into the Duke’s private rooms. Arr, the in were worse than out- awash with a décor that’d shame a cut-price Bangkok brothel. ‘Is chamber were strewn with tapestries o’ vile an unnatural acts between man an’ beast; even Barry’d’ve feld a-shriekin’.

The Duke bade me sit and drink ‘is third-finest wine, so thrilled he were at the delivery. ‘E were a runty fellow with squinty eyes and a lascivious countenance. Twas as he filled me glass that I noted the object upon ‘is desk: a freshly severed and upturned foot, its toes curled about an ivory ashtray. I held back me vengeance on account o’ the disconcertin’ly pretty yet burly and well-oiled guards. The Duke took a pleasure in stubbin’ ‘is cigar out on me big toe and commentin’ upon his fortune in acquirin’ such a rare article. I smiled with clenched teeth and murmured such pleasantries as I could muster.

Graspin’ ‘is groin he abruptly demanded a fittin’, chasin’ his guards out the room. Umberto’d not mentioned such duties, but I swallered a shudder and unwrapped the package. ‘Twere a gilded merkin, of gold an’ silver filigree, dotted with emeralds an’ rubies: quite the most hideous object I e’er laid me eyes upon.

When I turned about the Duke were facin’ me naked, but for his boots, with a leer upon ‘is lips. I gingerly reached to hang the genital garland as best I could. As he admired ‘imself in the long mirrors I took me chance. Seizin’ me foot I clubbed the vain dolt clean across ‘is skull with it. I booted ‘is bloody crown for good measure an’ peeled me eye for an exit. ‘Twould have been smarter to plan me escape first, but me leglessness’d made me tetchy.

In the mirror I caught sight of Mons-Plumage’s galleon that Umberto’d once mentioned, bobbin’ in the waves. I ‘opped out the window, foot in hand. I’d barely scuffed the path afore a cry went up and soldiers flooded the grounds. Their oiliness made ‘em slip about somewhat, allowin’ time to arm meself. I strung me tortoise and whirled ‘im over me head. As the first guards came about the corner I let slip and knocked ‘em out cold. With me reptile flail I escaped and hobbled toward the pier.

I were almost there when the Duke’s men cut me off. Arr she were a gorgeous craft, but for the name ‘The Sirrup of the Seas’, which I’d be not long in changin’. The soldier’s menaced me with their swords an’ suggestive winks an’ I bethought this might be me end. It seemed likely I’d slain the perverted Duke an’ that these’d seek revenge upon me.

There came a bold shout an’ shots rang out, fellin’ the guards. I stood amazed when I were hailed by a friendly tone – ‘twere Umberto with me opiated pals come to the rescue. Apparently in me poppy-fogginess I’d waxed lyrical about the joys o’ piracy and a life at sea an’ somewhat inspired ‘em. We overpowered the rest o’ the soldiery and boarded the Sirrup.

They were learnin’ their way about a ship when I espied a glint of grotesquerie shamblin’ down the jetty. It could only be that ugly loin-drapery, hung about the near-naked Duke. I were displeased by ‘is liberties with me limbs an’ in no mood for swappin’ innuendo, so I shot ‘im in the eye with’s own musket. As he toppled, ‘is merkin snagged upon a nail, strippin’ the man’s plumage and leavin’ ‘im obscenely splayed in the sun. Full cheered by this, I proposed a lootin’ of the mansion with shares for all. Gaargh, I lost near half me men in returnin’ to the estate. The Duke had furious concubines and no end o’ brats were keen t’avenge ‘im.

But still, I felt free and footloose once more, with a new ship to be baptised in piratical mischief. We set off in search of that usurpin’ thief whose name I’ll not befoul me mouth with, and them crewmen o’ the Lollipop doubtless marooned by said worthless chumbucket. Arr, for I missed me former crewmates and had little doubt that I’d lose the rest of me newly drafted an’ drug-addled landlubbers on the way.

Twas only later, dozin’ on deck, that I recalled the unfortunate cannon misfirin’ upon the Lollipop that’d left me leg shorter by a foot; gaargh, a galleon for me stump-extender were a fine swap!

Captain Pigheart’s Birthday Party

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Yarr, ‘twas the maiden voyage of me new ship, ‘The Grim Bastard’. I were right proud of ‘er, she bein’ an upright sea-farin’ wench wi’ extra cannon and sail fer when we hunts down that treacherous filth-spattered barnacle-suckin’ knave whose name be spat upon even by the Isle of Letch’s most elderly nuns, and they coughs up a good ‘un.

We were half-crossed th’ Atlantic, transportin’ legitimate cargo from the heart o’ India. Ye see we be not always brutishly piratical. When there’s greater profit to be had in commerce, why, we just switches flags on ‘em. Now that works a treat if ye’re wantin’ to sucker the navy, p’raps Admiral Kneehorn – he always falls for a white flag.

Gaargh, as ‘twas we’d bartered with the savages, an entire rubber crop in return for not puttin’ fire to their village. ‘Twas a most favourable deal, and we’d the foresight to take out some insurance lest the heathens be thinkin’ it be not such a fine deal. We kept ‘em in the hold on water and biscuits. Clearly ‘twas better food than their native fare, for they were often sickenin’.

One mornin’ I awoke late, which I ascribes havin’ somewhat hammered ye rum whilst discoursin’ at length with Stone Cold Steve in ‘is Crow’s Nest. Havin’ demonstrated a perilous fondness for the bottle, we’d chained ‘im to the mast. Our plan were to cure ‘im with sobriety. ‘Twas not a mutual agreement mind, but I does need a clear pair o’ eyes on ship.

I came onto deck to a chorus of ‘For He’s A Dastardly Rascal’ from me beloved crew – from the buntin’ I realised it were me birthday once more. Arr, it fair brought a tear t’ me eye. Billy No Mates an’ No Hands Mick’d planned a day o’ drinkin’, feastin’ and diverse entertainments. We began wi’ a few tots o’ rum to see us through till noon, an’ brought the heathens on deck to join ye festivities. Their high spirits at the sight o’ the sun after so many weeks brought joy to our hearts and their caperin’ were a marvel, considerin’ the manacles ‘bout their ankles. ‘Twas only later, after the third barrel that our minds turned to darker pleasures.

I were provided with birthday treasures by the lads. Billy gave me a varnished squid containin’ some liqueur tastin’ o’ rancid seaweed. ‘Tis no wonder he has no friends, had we been on land I’d ‘ave sent ‘im home wi’ no cake. ‘Twas all rubbish, but since there be no gift shop aboard ‘tis the thought that counts.

An’ then I were startled somewhat by a loud thunk and the familiar rasp of a body dragged ‘cross the caulking, but ‘twas only Barry the Man-Girl haulin’ a wrapped thing from ‘is cabin. Mentally I prepared meself for smilin’ politely, like when ‘e procured for me the services of his night-time self, Sharon. I leaves that t’ the crew, though Mick were grateful for the voucher. I need not’ve worried – the lads’d been industrious, carvin’ me a rubber woman to while away the long hours in me hammock.

It shames me to say it, but I were delighted. ‘Twas wondrous, right down to the toes (four on one foot, seven on t’other), an’ she were a snug fit in me arms. An’ pliable, like a body left too long in salt water. She were a fine consort for a civilised pirate like meself – there were even a holder for me mug and pipe. I named ‘er India an’ proceeded to try ‘er out, to the audible horror of the heathens.

I’m no fan o’ screamin’ savages and proposed a party game. In no time at all we ‘ad ‘em bobbin’ ‘mongst the waves, temptin’ ye sharks with their flailin’ limbs. My, how we chuckled.

There were a sudden cheer as one o’ the savages vanished underwater. But when the others swiftly disappeared too, the chains left a-danglin’, we knew not what to think. Lookin’ back now, it seems likely that we brought it all upon ourselves, with all the birthday excitement.

With the fishin’ finished we quaffed away, and then Stone Cold Steve were heard to bellow unintelligibly from the Crow’s Nest. We merely drank some more an’ mocked ‘is teetotal lunacy. Next we knew there were a monstrous tentacle lashin’ the deck, its suckers all puckered up for some fatal kiss. An’ that were only the first – afore we could hack it wi’ our cutlass and dagger there were seven more assailin’ the Grim Bastard an’ her noble crew.

The monster octopus took hold of the vessel and hauled its body half-out the water. Its horrible beak snapped hungrily as it tossed seamen from the ship and squashed me lads in its slimy coils. tugged me men free from their refuges. Gaargh, those of us still aboard an’ not unconscious with drink were tucked down to avoid them terrible suckers – I saw a man have ‘is face sucked clean off.

Its hideous bulbous noggin hung off the bow with a saucery eye ‘pon ye brave captain. Mick’n me were back to back, me slashin’ at a tentacle while he beat ‘is stumps upon it. ‘Twas not an effective stratagem. The thing’d wrapped half its arms round the main mast, inchin’ closer to poor tethered Steve an’ pullin’ us over and all. ‘Twas then I felt the first drop of rain an’ heard thunder rumble towards us.

As the sky darkened, signifyin’ doom for us all, the octobrute waggled the mast back an’ forth, jerkin’ Steve lasso-like at the length of ‘is chain. Then ‘twas miraculous: the clouds farted and struck ‘im with a vast bolt of lightnin’. The power of the heavens passed through ‘im, the mast, and into that psychotic cephalopod.

The lightnin’ lit up the big bugger like a Chinese lantern an’ it collapsed in a stinkin’, steamin’ heap on the deck, pissin’ ink over me ship. Poor Steve were crispy too o’course, it seems he’d finally dried out. I kept expectin’ to be shocked meself, but the lightnin’ were done an’ the storm withdrew.

Standin’ on our rubbery cargo’d saved us all from the storm’s spark, well, them as ‘ad not been eaten, crushed or otherwise passed on. Sadly the rubber’d melted and with it our fortune.

There seemed but two courses of action before us: either return to India an’ re-negotiate via the medium o’ cannon fire, or chop and preserve the manky mollusc for the expandin’ New World tapas market. Before makin’ a decision we ‘ad a few more drinks an’ took turns on me now slightly deformed India. Gaargh, ‘twas a fine birthday.

Now me lad, are ye ready to blow out ye candles? Be not forgettin’ to make a wish.

Captain Pigheart’s Chelonian Adventure

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Gaargh, an’ welcome back me hearties, tis kind of ye parson to invite such a roguish fellow as I to be speakin to ye fine young mites all done up in yer Sunday bests. It be many moons since last I came to an ‘ouse of the lord on ‘is ‘Oly day. tis not that I have no faith young laddie, tis more the exclusion order slapped upon yon pirate pal before ye, by a fine magistrate named ‘Bedfellow’ upon whom I have since been revenged. Yaaargh, the fellow’ll be spendin’ time a-bed no more. Apologies father, I’ll get to ye point.

Me lads an’ I’d been sailin’ through a miserable and brutish fog for many days. There were little wind so we had naught to do but play hangman with ye prisoners seized durin’ our last exploit on the mysterious isle of Ibiza. Yarr, as’t turned out they spoke mainly Spanish and could no more spell ‘yard-arm’ than they could wriggle from out their nooses. After that time dragged slower than me tortoise mascot, Neville.

‘An yet, one day the foggy thinned and me lookout cried ‘Land! Land ho!’ Gaaargh, ‘twas well to see a shoreline once more, even one so alien to us as this ‘un. We’d travelled many days a-fogged and so we ‘ad not the foggiest as to our present location. We drew in close enough to land for anchor and I led the beach party made up of my best crew. I took Mick o’ course, Barry (called Sharon by night), Kanagawa – an exotic fellow from the far East, an’ me first mate, Billy No Mates.

The lads rowed us to shore. On the way we saw the curious symmertry o’ th’ island, but ‘twas fresh water and provisions we sought, and perchance treasure, so we noted it not.

Kanagawa led us in some devilish Eastern exercise which stretched parts I’d never wanted to know I ‘ad. Barry an’ Mick trapped some o’ the birds what nested upon the island. Billy went a-wanderin’ in search o’ some vegetables, for that’s ‘is nature. I detached me spare parts and gave ‘em a rinse in the freshwater pools from which we filled our barrels.

Afore we headed back to ye ship Cack-Handed Mick started up a fire for the roastin’ o’ some dinghy-snack. An’ that were what proved our undoin’. Where sometimes we’ve ‘ad whole herds o’ native loons come spear-ready at us, we had none o’ it, bar the sudden shaking o’ the ground at our feet.

Mightily afeard we leaped into the dinghy and rowed like madmen for the ship. Once upon deck we leaned out to see the queer isle as it rolled over in the ocean to be replaced in our sight by a pair o’ huge flippers and a giant, fearsomely gaping physog. Ye could feel the varmint lookin’ at ye, much as ye’d regard a bacon butty after a month at sea eatin’ Mick’s weevil stew. With but a few mighty strokes the kraken-like fiend did embrace the Lollipop with ‘is beaky jaws. There were much screamin’, and then ‘twas all dark.

The first clue that we were not yet dead was the remarkable stench violatin’ our nostrils. Second were the screamin’ issuin’ forth from me wretched crew. Once Billy’d the torches lit and the lamps a-burnin’, we realised what had truly befallen us, and I think Kanagawa spoke for us all when he said “we’re all going to die”. The crew put forth that we’d been swallered by a whale or somesuch hogwash. But it seemed to me that the beast was neither whale nor fish but rather some gigantic relation to my dear tortoise Neville, perched atop me shoulder, where I’d nailed ‘im fer safety.

Its turtlin’ qualities accounted for the island’s roundness and o’ course the Large Pan-Atlantic Terrapin swallows its prey whole with a hunger rivalled only by Billy’s piteous need for a friend. I owes me knowin’ o’ turtles to one drunk afternoon on the poop-deck with Neville, a spyglass and curious state o’ mind. And so I laid out me fishy knowledge to me quailin’ crew and of our likely fate – bein’ slowly digested over several years, lest we starve or be drowned by a thirsty turtle. ‘Twas not promisin’.

Gaaargh. To be honest I think Kanagawa just snapped… he commandeered me dinghy and rowed vigorously o’er the beast’s bumpy tongue – sadly towards the belly not the beak. We thought him doomed till an eddy twisted the dinghy, jammin’ Kanagawa sidelong into the turtle’s gullet. Then the tongue began to buck beneath us, tossin’ the Lollipop to an’ fro like a pickled walnut in a preservin’ jar rollin’ about ye table. Gaargh, then ‘twere messy as the turtle choked further on the dinghy and its spasms rammed the mast o’ the Lollipop into the roof of its vast mouth.

We dangled there for a moment like a child’s mobile. It throat spasmed again, then, with a veritable geyser of regurgitation we were spewed out onto the sea. We fairly skipped across the waves till we came to a stop, turtle-puke drippin’ from the sails and every man jack of us. ‘Twas a moment afore the dinghy, Kanagawa heroic at the helm, followed us in a vomitous arc, right into a feedin’ frenzy o’ sharks. I’d see him feed such fishies as these afore, as curator o’ the Japanese Fish Palace, though normally with a stick. The giant Trans-Atlantic Terrapin sank out o’ sight as queasy as a sober man seein’ Barry in’s womanly guise.

Gaargh, we scrubbed the decks an’ the riggin’ till we hit upon land once more. After so close an escape as this I found meself turnin’ to God. I thought to find meself a priest and confess me sins, lest a greater tragedy befall us sooner. I’d but lightly touched upon me incarceration and transport in the belly of a giant sea creature (an’ the epiphany I’d suffered upon me escape) when I were struck an’ hounded out the church by a horde o’ crazed Catholics denouncin’ me blasphemy. ‘T think I once thought of takin’ the cloth… which we did later, there bein’ quite a market in the colonies.

I were chased to the Lollipop where we were assailed wi’ torches and the flame o’ their passion. Turned out that the turtle’s chunder had proofed me whole vessel ‘gainst their fiery outrage. Though not me first mate, Billy who was afire until some kindly comrade shoved him overboard; I’d’ve helped him meself, but he’s not me mate. Somewhat put out by this, the locals bade us come ashore for a more personal burnin’ at ye stake. We politely declined and pounded their church wi’ cannon as we took our leave.

Yaargh, ‘twas in the very next port that ye legal papers came through. Though by then we’d earned it, what with our brief stay at the nunnery on the Isle of Letch; arr, they were lonely souls, even Billy almost found a friend upon that bleak rock.

Still, it has been a pleasure to join ye Sunday school today. Would there be any questions for ye Cap’n children?

Captain Pigheart Lost at Sea

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Gaaargh. Twas a dark stormy night, two men sat upon the waves. Not lit’rally like, we did but sit in a boat.

Little Bo Pete and meself had been cast adrift by that treacherous swine, whose name be like a stinking tobacco-soaked hairball I cannot bring meself to retch forth afore ye good folks. The mere though of ‘is name brings me ter convulse with rage. Aye, last time I thought it I near tore meself a new orifice. Gaargh. I begins to rant – ‘tis a tale for another time.

For now ye must know that me loyal crew an’ I, that is meself an’ Little Bo Pete, we’d been cut loose in the spare dinghy at the mercy of Madame Mer. I ne’er saw me good ship Lollipop again. Gaaargh. But I did see that traitor scum one final time – yahar!

We drifted lonesome upon the open sea. ‘Twas gentle with us at first and we passed the time with ye game of ‘Eye Spy’, ‘til Pete grew maddened and violent.

Y’see, ye no bein’ sailors ye prob’ly think that bein’ ‘pon the seas there be no shortage o’ water. And ye be not wrong, but ye may not have heard ye ancient sailor’s plaint, ‘water water everywhere, but gaaargh, there be not a drop to drink’. Young Pete’d no more knowin’ of the sea than a sheep tossed off a cliff.

We got frightful thirsty, an’ for a laugh, I bet Pete that he’d die within a day if he drank of the sea. Being’ a gamblin’ man (which had led ‘im to me crew from ‘is promisin’ Oxford schoolin’), he upped the stakes, reckonin’ on two days o’ sanity before ‘im. An inveterate gambler, I could not dissuade him from his course, the fool. I meself drank only at night, while Pete slept, from the pigskin I always have strapped to me good leg in case of suchlike occurrences.

By the fourth day we was blistered red, or rather Pete were lobstered since ‘e’d left ‘is bonnet upon the Lollipop. I had me fine captain’s crown with its broad, shady brim, which I’d borrowed from the noble Admiral Kneehorn some months before.

By noon that day I adjudged that Pete had won the bet indeed, for he lived still, though he were reduced to the level of the beasts. Gaargh, for the brine’d made ‘im frothy ‘bout the lips as he hollered his nonsense at the gulls. ‘Is ‘igh education came through ‘is madness as ’e explained ter me the jommetry of Euclid and waxed lunatic Shakespearean speeches at the fishies. Gaargh. He was becomin’ a pain to me ears so I clubbed ‘im with me peg leg and got a few hours o’ peace.

As ‘e slept a’twitchin’ the sea began to seethe about us, an’ I caught glimpses of a vast beast flashin’ round and round the boat. Its scaly humps pierced the waves and sank out o’ sight again and again. I must confess ter bein’ somewhat afeard, for the Baltic Straits into which we’d veered have many tales o’ terror about ‘em.

Arrrr! A great tail rose up out o’ the water, studded wi’ spikes like the great pointy spikes of a Caribbean Sea-Mongoose. It dripped salt water upon us for a mo’, and then fell and smashed the dinghy in ‘twain. Bo Pete an’ I was tossed into the sea, naked to the beast circlin’ below. I clung to a plank like a desperate limpet, Pete danglin’ from me shoulder as I slapped him to wake.

The creature reared up before us, revealin’ its brilliant green an’ crimson crest an’ blazin’ eyes with evil feline pupils. Its nostrils were agape wi’ rage and ‘is jaws open to show two dozen rows o’ teeth the size of cutlasses wielded by a Prussian giant. Gaargh! ‘Twere terrible! Me guts turned to dribblin’ jelly and me face were numb with fear.

Not so poor brave, brine-berserk Little Bo Pete. ‘E lashed out at the brute, splashin’ water int’ its demon eyes. The beastie struck at ‘im, engulfin’ Pete with ‘is fearsome maw. Poor Pete – the monster vanished undersea with ‘im, leavin’ me floating cold and alone.

Stunned I was but a moment later (though it felt a lifetime), the beast’s head appeared again, gazin’ at me, its mouth a-bubblin’ wrathful-like. Its jaws slowly opened – prised apart by Pete, who stood upright, a-bracin’ its gob as ‘e stood proud on the brute’s gums. For a moment I though ‘im victorious, and made as if to cheer… an’ then there were a sickenin’ crack, the likes of which I never wish to hear from me own bones, as the beast bit down. Gaaargh.

Now, through some quirk or other – per’aps it were great Neptune ‘imself, seekin’ to lay blessin’ upon an honest pirate – it seemed Pete’s floppin’ corpse ‘ad somehow become lodged an’ the creature could no more close its mouth than I can snap the fingers o’ me left hand. I wasted no time and courageously plunged me plank into its gills and hauled meself astride the beast. Gaaargh. With the wood on me right and me hook in ‘is eye, I turned the beast toward land and urged it onwards.

Whenever I’m adrift on the open sea, followin’ some mutiny or other I often wish I ‘ad Little Bo Pete fer comp’ny. No doubt he be somewhere ‘pon the ocean-wide, a grisly portcullis to the Baltic Beast’s belly. A scholar and a gentleman – I drinks to ye.