Tag Archives: No Hands Mick

The Harmonious Adventure

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Gaargh, wrapped in the octopus’ coils I blundered around the deck as if blinded and lost in a convent with a taste for penguin. The suckery bugger foisted its beaky smooches on me despite me fervent protestations. Aye, “say hello to Polly” indeed. As ye might have gathered, the noble crew of the Grim Bastard was suffering once more under a siege of maddened sea beasties.

The cause were nearly none of our making, or at least the cause of but one of us – so the average fault per crewman was less even than that. However, sticky and suspicious footprints lead to the door and the piggy reek of Spam-Faced Franco.

Now, tis rare that I’ll permit a Spaniard aboard but Franco had been the victim of Captain Aaarsbeard’s grab for power on the island of Por Bombardo. The spamminess of his face was attributed to the burns caused when two ships full of porcine cargo were detonated in the harbour. Gaargh, twas tragic but stank of breakfast marvels. Me tongue moistens at the memory. In misguided charity we took his flame-grilled face on to do shiply things.

Franco had a saucy nature that even the bacon burns’d not diminished. Perhaps the mask with which he clothed the uglier half of his face bolstered his confidence, else it was the inhuman volumes of gin he imbibed before commencing his crude courting. Tis of note that donning a pair of gin-monocles may impair ye judgement. And so it did for Spam-Faced Franco.

We’d moored a good way off from the shallow isle of Webbyre, a habit we’d adopted after the were-bears incident. So me first inkling of Franco’s misbehaviour came with the thunking of a rowboat to larboard. Twas just a portly gentleman staring nine pistols in the eye. He protested that he was the town’s mayor, though he heard none of our threats till he tugged the waxen lodes from his ears. With much indignation he relayed to us a tale of musical malady, from which I pieced together me own truths.

Last night Franco had skipped ship to soil himself with gin. Once tipsy he’d fallen out of a tavern and followed the curious strains that pierced Webbyre’s night air. They led him to an abandoned house on a hill where he discovered a wench fingering a demon-stoked instrument of magic and fear. Clearly the wench had hopes he was there to strum her twattling-strings, but twas the Wurlitzer Organ of Painful Jollity that seized him by his ginny throat. The poor lass he bound and stuffed beneath the instrument.

All night he tormented the town with lascivious lullabies and forced cheer till the locals grew maddened and battered down the door. By then he was far gone and had shrouded himself in a cape and he cackled wildly at the intruders. With neither thought nor wit he hurled himself out of the window. Twas but a single storey drop and most of his bones were undamaged. He swam back to the ship and curled in his bunk. Now all this would have been well save for the poor wench who’d suffered the vile hammer blows of the organ. The music had possessed her and she took up where Franco left off.

I knew none of this save that his bacon-scent had been absent for from our distant anchorage twas merely a faint tinkling of fairground noise. But the mayor was sweatily desperate for our aid, he wept tellin’ how his wife had been driven mad by three hours of “Bugger Me For A Farthing” without respite and the townsfolk were bleeding from their wisdom bags.

We woke Franco with a bucket of crabs and a good booting of the spammy Spaniard for as we drew nearer shore the relentlessly upbeat tones of “Me Other Horn’s A Rhino” did indeed grate upon us. Glad I was that we’d not been nearer for the locals ran frothily mad in the street, capering idiotically and howling the words to the hurdy-gurdy’s haphazard harmonies of humpery. Even the animals were jigging as best as their anatomy would allow.

Well done Franco indeed. I thought him chastened by me boot, but he sprang up the mast in his damned cape and crouched on a spar hissing like an oedipal snake. He was quite crazed. The bewitching music was beginning to tear at our sense-strings: the mayor was loudly humming “A Finger Of Fudge” and me own peg leg tapped a frantic beat. I summoned forth the mast smashers – a fearsome pair of cannonballs chained together with which I hoped to eliminate the source of the festering jingles.

The lads’ aim was precise, despite ‘em having to stuff a finger in other’s ear to soften the madness. The chain shot ripped through the house’s ground floor. The next storey crashed down and yet the demon’s fandango played on. Worse, the house began to slip down the hillside, the music comically accompanying the bumps and people-crushing as she picked up speed.

Our rate of fire could not match the sliding chateau and we merely wrecked the town. The house skipped twice off the end of the pier and sank. We cheered, but briefly for with a low giggle Franco tossed himself from the mast into the sea where he swam just like the lunatic he was. On reaching the site of the sinking show tunes he leered at us beneath his mask and dove underwater.

Soon enough what we hoped was the last of the breathable air escaping the wreck popped, releasing their bubbly devil tones of “Frig Me With A Basket Of Chicken”. The sea began to foam in distress. First a school of porpoises humped themselves up the beach to attack the fishermen with their blowholes flaring. Starfish crawled from the harbour, their twitching nobular arms seeking faces to smother. Whelks and lobsters pelted The Grim Bastard. I knew we had to end this and soon, before the whole ocean grew too mental to swim.

The tune was barely identifiable as we sailed in nearer, but as our shadow fell over the house of nightmare notes it became a dirge-like “Two Sheep And A Duck With A Bag Of Keys, That’s What My Lover’s Like For Me”. That was when the octopus struck. Gaargh, I clawed at my mollusc-mask while I strove to loosen the anchor chain. This I accomplished by headbutting the lever through the octopus’ face.

The chain rattled as the anchor plummeted into the deeps. We felt it crunch through the house, and Mick spun the wheel. The wind lifted our sails and the squid clinging to them. Our anchor ripped and hauled the submarine house across the sea floor until the melodious bubbles rose no more and the sea creatures grew confused and limped off the ship, or were popped in a pot.

When we wound in the anchor it brought up a tangle of strings and hammers and a burp of Franco’s gammony musk. A moment later his mask floated up to bob on the waves. Without thinking I shot it till it sank again. Gaargh, I’d miss his breakfast bouquet.

The Wedding Adventure

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Pirate's Wedding by Razor Geisha

Pirate’s Wedding by Razor Geisha

Cat-calls and whistles rang out from the foredeck as Sharon danced and wheeled. Dark though the night was, we’d fought it back with gaily coloured lanterns and affixed candles to our clothes such as those flingin’ wax from Sharon’s shimmies. Every crewman was on deck, save for a sole lookout in the crow’s nest, his peepers peeled for trouble. For tonight was a time of celebration.

Gaargh, me betrothal to me beloved Roberta Clementine had been a stressful and dangerous time. Her brother’s me arch-nemesis y’see- the indefatigable bastard Admiral Kneehorn. I’d bested him in cunning on many occasions and seen me men busted in irons. Just the presence of Roberta Clementine on board The Grim Bastard placed us all in terrible danger. Know ye that the heart of a pirate cannot be quenched with the bowel-watery fear of steel, additionally ye have to prioritise in this job. Lovely she were, laden with white silks, plundered jewels and gold. Men would happily die just to get a glimpse of her winking charm.

Ne’er before has me chest swelled with such pride as I stepped onto deck, me unicorn of the sea peg leg and black velvet night-smiting suit cutting an equally fine figure. Oh, certainly the narwhal’s face spike gouged horrible holes in the deck, as tis mainly for harming the ships of others’ on special occasions.

Proudly I took her arm and led her twixt a corridor of mooning pirates to the forecastle where we’d installed our captive priesty-man. Quellglum, or Reverend Quellglum as he insisted, we’d lately acquired from a missionary vessel which had willingly spread her legs for us. Reading us the ceremony his delivery was marred only a little by the tics and stammer that afflicted the shy clergical. Signalling to Gashin’ Alan to draw off his blade from the vicar’s throat seemed to aid his wordery.

The ceremony was lovely: No Hands Mick gave a rousin’ shanty and the cabin lads’d sought out some moving verse to enchant and inspire the night. Under the glow of our lanterns and grins of me men I took Roberta Clementine’s hand and placed a ring upon it, for she was a thing I liked. Virginal she seemed, and though twas laughably untrue for either of us, we were reborn in our vows.

We kissed and the wedding entertainment unfolded. Exceeding fully me expectations (these being the lads who’d inflated squid for strewing about the Christmas tree) we had bunting o’ stolen lace, music, dancing and an ominous soliloquy. Ye tone was odd but Gashin’ Alan had had an awful lot of rum so we cheered him regardless. Zealously he concluded his solo by hurling himself from the ship. After fishing him out we further rummed ourselves and danced the night away.

Bright was our future, so bright that it blinded me to the unmanned crow’s nest and that the Reverend Quellglum was signalling with a lamp into the night…

The Missing Metacarpal Adventure

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Gaargh, No Hands Mick’s one of me oldest mates, and me truest friend. We’ve endured both peril and pleasure together; fondled, plundered and squealed like girls in the face of danger. His life’s a testament to the dangers of ship-board life and his hands if he had any, would finger the poorly completed accident book.

When first we met I was but a scrap of a lad, making me name as a lad-ye-goes-to-when-there’s-a-thing-ye-wants. Aye these were the days before we had words for things and had to adopt the Teutonic habits of paragraph-long job titles.  Me business card was the size of a cartwheel. It hindered me trade but once I’d nailed it to a cartwheel all was well.

One bright day I was plying me trade in the whoring district of Onomatopoeia Peninsula. Twas a trying place where the local dialect supplemented mime with expressive sound effects. Ye ‘ho-ho jiggly-squirt’ (night-lady to ye) quarter drew the sailors and merchants from afar and I was mostly spared the annoyance of orderin’ a mug of ‘glug-glug’ or a sandwich o’ ‘nom-nom gristle-crack’. Here I’d suffer only ye calls o’ what ‘slip-slap’ or ‘glom-glom-gobbly-spurt’ were on offer. There was a constant demand for ales and spirits, powders, unguents, potions, bandages, sandwiches, Vulcanised nether-garb, feathery-tickles and sherbert. All this and more I toted in me cart.

I arrived by Madame Bosombèrt’s Shoppe of Gargantuan Lady Spelunking with a fresh barrel of hog fat for their corsets. Tis a weighty thing, the lard of a pig so I lobbed a stone at the lad lurkin’ in an alley. The prospect of pence drew him out and his manly mitts were ideal for manhandling the oink-grease into the hookery. Mick was an accomplished travelling musician, down on his luck and denuded of music since hocking his cello for lodgings.

We chatted while shuffling the rendered piglet gunk into the ladies’ dressing chambers. Yarr, the sight of ‘em had me itchin’ for a harpoon. Like perfumed whales, lowin’ to one another in the local parlance o’ hoots and giggles. I was banging in the fat tap when Madame Bosombèrt herself bustled in, like a coach bearing down upon blind children. “Oho young Pigheart! Sweet Ignatius,” (she’d a misplaced fondness for me youth), “and a friend.” Her shadow fell across Mick. He flinched like a rabbit beneath an eagle. She snatched up his hands with delight, crooning softly to herself as she pawed his paws, like so: “Aaaaaaarrrrr,” (tis her soothin’ purr to which I attribute me own success with the ladyfolk), “get ye fingers in that grease lad.” Mick was rigid with terror, and not in a good way, him bein’ but young and unscholarly in the lady ways.

His lean fingers massaged hog fat into the mammoth miss’s midriff meat till she declared herself sufficiently slickened to be shod. Mick’s youthful hesitance faded away and he leaped at the chance to gird the girl in whalebone. His nimble fingers played a concerto up the knots and ribbons and he heaved it closed, forcing a pair o’ beluga whales to surface beneath Madame Bosombèrt’s chin. The poor lad could scarce draw his eyes from their creamy goodness.

And so Dextrous Mick the Finger Lad got two jobs in one day; ladies’ girdle-hitcher and carter’s mate. We competed for the monster maidens affections, jealous of their massive love muffins. Gaargh, to press and squeeze them titanic bosoms… Our rivalry was mostly jovial, yet our envy spilled into pranks and mild violence. It caused Mick to poison me rum so I crashed me cart into a handsome lass; the horse hat diminished her beauty and me rib count. Ahar, I hid lobsters in Mick’s britches and later woke at sea bound to an octopus. Aye, they were good times.

O’course the accident changed much of that. On that fateful day Madame Bosombèrt summoned him with some urgency. A fancy customer was making a special request: that they bind together at hip and shoulder a pair of wenches in mimicry of his fantasied Siamese twins. Aye, twas an unusual request, being both creepy and intriguing.

There was no trouble in enstrappin’ the lasses: Mick’s delicate digits kept ‘em gigglin’ as he pushed their kidneys into their lungs. Ye fetish came askew when the gentleman himself, one Arnold Hornthrust demanded that he be belted into his bucking babe bronco. Poor Mick was half into his Carrick Bend when the deviant gent’s desire overwhelmed him and he hurdled the knotted woman bundle erotically. He failed to note Mick’s hands trapped and twisting under his triad o’ lust. The moanin’ and thrashing was only three quarters pleasure as Mick was tossed and ground beneath their bound bulk. With an unhealthy crunch his hands, pressed white and numb against the writhing flesh twisted one way and he another. He was free, but with mitts so misshapen they seemed more crab than hand.

It took me twenty minutes o’ snap, crackle and pop to straighten his fingers out, and half that spent topping him up with rum. His dextrous paws had had a narrow escape and I bound ‘em with strips of pork bone (which I conveniently had about me person) so’s they’d not wriggle at night. Now, tis possible that were a slight error on my part for I’d also neglected to feed Rancid Albert, the mongrel dogmonkey who slept on and urinated from the roof of our cart.

Morning found Mick hungover and stumpy at the wrist. The poor lad was fairly devastated, but I cheered his ill mood with a bottle of rum and the finest implement man’s ever wrought upon this earth – the humble drinking straw. Twas a sad substitute for a fist full of fingers but with that same straw he retrieved his knuckles from Rancid Albert and bloodily avenged himself on Hornthrust, towards whom I directed Mick’s wrath. The colossal courtesans we courted lamented the loss of his fine fingers but he managed to prove himself otherwise dextrous enough: “look, no hands” became his cry in both love and war.

Alphabetic Dialogues 9 ~ A Stump, My Kingdom For A Stump

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The Grim Bastard has suffered a fatal blow amidships. She’s like to meet Mr Jones on the ocean floor, unless the varied beasts of the deep tear her asunder. And yet, escape is not so simple for Captain Ignatius Pigheart and No Hands Mick…

I “I think me peg’s grown stuck.”

M “Jammed tight twixt ye plankings, Captain”

I “Kelp be damned! Tis poor timing”

M “Lever up ye planking and make yeself free”

I “Me leg’s too short t’function as a pivot – aye I needs more lever than me thigh can offer”

M “Nay cap’n, ye should not doubt yeself”

I “Oh Mick, ye confidence does ever boost me self esteem”

M “Perhaps once ye ship revolves as she sinks ye weight’ll pull ye free”

I “Quench ye tongue – me weight’s that of a dainty wench, with the muscles of a man”

M “Right ye are cap’n.”

I “So, ye waters lap at me prosthesis”

M “Tis the way of a sinking”

I “Unhand me man, I’ve every chance o’ extractin’ meself”

M “Very well cap’n, but perhaps tis time for ye crew to ready ye minor craft?”

I “Watch me drown from afar will ye Mick?”

M “eXitin’ a water-bound vessel’s no shame for an honest mate”

I “Ye be one o’ them, or a loyal mate Mick?”

M “Zoogonous was me mother, and ye knew her well – so ye should also know well that I’ll be with ye till ye lungs fill with the cold blood o’ the ocean”

I “And that’s just the reassurance I were needin’ Mick. Me thanks”

M “Be brave Ignatius, for the end’s near”

I “Could ye stand a last rum with ye captain?”

M “Do mermaids lust after pirates?”

I “Evermore Mick, evermore. [pop] Here, drink ye this”

M “Fine rum, it has the burn of quality attained only by maturin’ within’ ye detachable peg leg flask”

I “Good lord Mick – I’m free”

M “Hop now Cap’n, hop like ye’ve never hopped before!”

Alphabetic Dialogue 4 A Measurely Morning

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On the deck of the Good Ship Lollipop, Captain Pigheart and No Hands Mick take some air.

‘Gaargh, tis a morn’ o’ uncanny brightness Mick’
‘Have ye taken ye daily measurin’s yet cap’n?’
‘I’ve me scan o’ the horizon and the pairin’ o’ compasses afore me yet’
‘Just strappin’ on me measuratin mitts’
‘Knit ‘em to ye wrists in that clockwards method’
‘Let’s take readin’s!’
‘Mick, I admires ye enthusiasm’
‘Never more enchanted by nature than when takin’ her bearings cap’n’
‘Oh ye are a child o’ science and Madame Mer indeed’
‘Place ye instrument upon the breeze’
‘Quotidian matters such as these keep a man sane at sea’
‘Right you are sir, now shalls we extend together our vanes?’
‘Slight tilt to ye weather-cock I’d not noted previously there Mick’
‘Tis a sensitive matter’
‘Unusually sensitive judgin’ from the rise in its bulb’
‘Verily, for ye salty breeze does pluck at me arrow’
‘Whence comes that wind?’
‘X – tis from the region in which we’ve buried our trove’
‘Ye speakin’s're true, I’ll note it so’
‘Zephr’s be most welcome, see how they do titillate our barometric globes’
‘Aye’
‘Beasts on ye horizon sir!’
‘Come Mick, let us stow our tools and make ready with cannon’
‘Delicate now, for our tackle’s delicate’
‘Eschew ye care for the sake of our lives’
‘Fear not cap’n, on closer peeking tis but a rock’

Captain Pigheart’s Stowaway Adventure

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“I’ve sailed from one end of these oceans to the next and I’ve seen little of the Heavens and Earth ye finds in ye cups Horatio.” We’d been drinking since sunset by firelight. Me guest were one Horatio the Hermit who’d been so kind as to join us in the capacity of stowaway. It’d been a while since any fool had hidden aboard our ship, still less as one disguised as a rabbit hutch. Poor Barry’d been most disappointed as he knelt to stroke the bunny’s ear to find only the twisted beard of some stinking malcontent.

I’d planned to toss him overboard but the man’s silver tongue stayed his execution. Horatio babbled about a sacred cove o’ the ocean where man could commune with the watery gods and receive their blessin’. He was as mad as a flying fish, but o’ course that don’t necessarily make him wrong. We were needful o’ diversion for having plundered mightily off the Spanish coast we now neared the alcoholic doldrums o’ boredom. Our course were set, and for further amusement I ordered the hobo cleaned.

When we reached the Hermit’s temple cove we had a celebratory barrel-draining – just me, Horatio, Barry and Mick ruddy in the light and in various stages of passing out. There came startling thunder from all around us, though it were dry and the stars were clear as day, well – as they be on a clear night (ye knows what I mean). Twere strange. The sea was calm beneath us and yet when we cast lanterns over the side, the water itself was bubbling fiercely. I dashed for the helm to steer us from these queer waters – there was a slight wind I hoped to exploit. As I hobbled over, the seas exploded about us in great fountains of luminous spray, each topped by a mass of jellyfish.

I stood at the wheel, flanked by me battered buddies, gobs agog and gaping with slack-jawed surprise. A deep thrumbling from below forced the rhythmically writhing maritime beasties out of the water. Gaargh, the beauty o’nature near unmanned us, the pulse of the ocean penetrated the inebriate veil we’d drawn over our senses, flinging water over the planks. Horatio bounded over to the rail with customary grace, tripping and flinging himself over the side.

We found him treading water by the ship’s side, lit with an eerie pink from below. “Hop in lads, the water’s lovely”, the man declared. Mick and Barry were already mounting the rail when Horatio chuckled, “there’s a ticklin’ at me ankles, why ye little mischiefs”. A premonition struck me, and I laid a hand and hook upon the shoulders of me crew mates as they straddled the railing. They twisted angrily in me grip, keen to enjoy the peculiar pink waters but I held ‘em tightly.

Sure enough, me creepin’ concern were based on a solid grasp of our likely misfortune. “Why tis the ocean’s own kisses of love as in the days of ancient Greece” Horatio’s babble turned to the inevitable cries and screams as the water foamed redly about him. Barry and Mick’d returned all four o’ their feet to the deck. “Tis likely too late for a rope…” Mick commented as the hobo-hermit vanished in a whirl of bubbles and flashing teeth.

The author of the vanishing sea tramp reared suddenly from the water, borne up on another mast of brine: an horrific writhing mass of teeth and eyeballs, making me suspect the dancing sea beasts were merely escaping its dinner-time intentions. Even in our drunken state we pirates are professionals to the last and twas only a few breaking toes that slowed us in rolling a cannon across the deck. The beast was using its teeth to haul itself up the hull, its horrid eyes goggling at us with hunger, tatters of Horatio being snapped up by lower mouths as they tumbled towards the sea.

“Blast the demon back into the deeps lads,” I bellowed, quite forgetting that Mick still wore his drinking mitts and could only bash at the fuse with a mug. Meantimes the beast was on deck – with me pistol I blasted away one facet of its fishy features which merely caused it to shriek and lash out toothily at Barry who was dashing across the deck with a lantern and taper. The lantern bounced off the piscebeast and onto me waiting hook, but the taper was snapped up by the fiend as it latched onto Barry’s leg. Mick set to whacking the brute with his stein-fists while I whirled, desperate for some tinder to spark alight Mister Boom (as we’d named the cannon earlier).

There was naught to hand, and me lads were in trouble. Naught to hand, but to foot..? I smashed the lamp to the deck and thrust me peg leg into the oily flames. The rum reserve I kept within its hollow core burst into light and I put me enflamed stump to the cannon’s Boom Whisker (the naming’d gone on for a while). Mister Boom kept true to his name and atomised the ghastly sea beast, casting a fishy mist across me and me crewmates. Untethered, Mister Boom thundered back into the foremast, delivering a fatal blow to her upright fortitude.

With a weary creak the mast split and tumbled, smashing down onto the headless stub of the sea beast as it battered against the deck searching for its snappy noggin. With spars embedded in it, the whole lot slipped and tipped off the Grim Bastard, threatening to tug the ship over with it. Only the quick-thinking of me crew, alerted (finally) to the threat by the cannon’s discharge, of hacking at ropes stopped us from following the beast into the depths. The pink temple of fizzing water collapsed back into the sea and apart from the swathe of destruction across the Grim Bastard’s deck there was no sign of the wondrous events of the night. “Right,” said No Hands Mick, “that settles it – stowaways go overboard”.

Captain Pigheart’s Cetacean Adventure

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The deck of the Grim Bastard was awash with the bitter tears o’ the sea, her sails slashed with the fury of a scorned harlot.

Aye, and she had just cause to toss me vessel ‘tween her troughs, for once again in our drunken folly we’d spurned the hairless beasts spawned by her salty nether-fountain. Ye assortment o’ horrors fishy, be-toothed and tentacular what thronged in her deeps (venturin’ too oft also into her shallows) had besieged us as we sought naught but honest trade in the goods of others.

We sought to escape the ill luck that had pestered us by taking a cultural tour of the Baltic. Our first stop was the bustlin’ port town o’ Gloomåë Bøstardsen which, despite its glummy name, was the finest whore-filled harbour of opportunity and delicious vice on the coast of Finland. The normally suicidal folk o’ the Norselands’d found a place to spend ‘emselves in wench and wine before expirin’ in a sauna, thrashin’ one another with sticks.

We interrupted their genial knife-fighting to enquire about their famed whale pummellin’ contest. Me most morose crewmate, Shänkly Morbidsonsen revelled in the many grudges and humiliations he’d acquired as a child in this bleak land. Perhaps could regain his manhood with a spot o’ dolphin-slappin’. He slapped down his huge fists and enrolled the crew in this highlight of the Finnish calendar. All the sons o’ Bøstardsen’d signed up to beat the hell out of a cetacean punchin’ bag and show us upstart pirates who’d be dead in the snow the mornin’ after.

The contest was a terrifying display of drunken bravado and maudlin mammal mauling. Tis a curiously ill-defined sport, for ye object was to dash out as far as ye dared and punch the largest whale ye could reach. We waded out into the shallows and while ye big Fins punched through their tears and me lads met ‘em blow for blow.

The sea was as dark as the looming month-long night to come. For reasons unknown to the locals, the whale kin chose this bit of coast on which to prance and fornicate. Twas a poor choice, for there was surely some other enhumpinateable sand bank where folks were less prone to drunken punching and knife fights.

Me boys were acquitting themselves well, though there’d been some upsets – No Hands Mick’s prosthetic fists’d been banned so he could only batter ‘em with his stumps, bless him. Barry was found pluggin’ a dolphin in its blow hole – tis not the accepted form o’ punching hereabouts. He was gently dissuaded and spent the remainder of the contest wooing porpoises.

Now me lad Shänkly  had stunned a humpback whale with one blow and drawn the attentions of a great lass, by which I mean huge, who lay about the whales with a meanness born o’ young nights terrified by tales of the albino hippopotamuses dwelling in the forests. Surely tis an awful prospect and one that drives ye Fins to drink and incomprehensibly violent music. Gaargh, despite the gravity of the woman (for she drew waves and even the moon seemed larger) I could not help but compete with Shänkly  for his femininish prize, for such be me pride.

With the bravery of spiritual libation I swam out to deeper waters where ye larger sea moose cavorted. I must have stumbled upon one mid-thrust for it squealed and reared up. At first I thought it an impressive male, for its horn split the moon in two – then I realised twas from its head. In some state o’ startlement meself I lamped it in the face with all the strength I could muster. The horned beast tumbled backwards, snortling bubbles as it fell back into the sea.

I turned triumphant to the shore to the roar of me crewmates and a somewhat less heartening gasp o’ horror from the locals. The great barrel of a woman that Shänkly ’d his eyes upon (how could ye not for she eclipsed the landscape) bellowed at me, “ye fool ye’ve doomed us all”. In truth, the number of times I’ve heard that has quite diminished the worry it ought to incite. In addition she used an exotic range of vowels which reduced her intelligibility to whalesong. However on this occasion it was backed up by the frantic dash of Fins for the sanctity of their saunas, and by Shänkly  grabbing me by the collar and bellowin’ “ye’ve knocked out the narwhal princess! Tis time to be gone.”

In haste we splashed towards the Good Ship Lollipop and her alluring rope ladders. From behind came the deep hoon of irate cetaceans. As they surged forwards their fresh wake drove us onward. We’d almost made the ropes when a forest of twisted horns rose out of the sea beside us – the narwhal court set to avenge the honour of their princess. Brave Shänkly tugged Barry free from the enamoured porpoise he rode and forced us up the ladders before turning back to the big spike-faced fish.

Gaargh, I almost leaped back to fight by his side, but the grim set to his face reminded me of me duty to the crew and me preference for survival. Shänkly took a mighty gobful o’ the vodka from his traditional flask and spat fire impressively but futilely, for the beasts were sodden; though he did surprise ‘em before fisting ‘em roughly. As we gained the deck he’d been joined by his lummox woman who rivalled some of them in size, though not, as it turned out in sharpness. The pair fought with courage till they were caught by the brutes, their horns punchin’ through ‘em till they became glum pin cushions pierced in the narwhals’ bloody needle-point.

We set sail. Behind us the leviathans were launching themselves out of the sea onto the beach, flattening the saunas which offered scant protection, and the birch flails still less. The narwhals pursued us but fell back as they grew weary of the impenetrability of our hull, where they dangled from their faces till we cut them loose. I’ll miss Shänkly. Though he was a melancholic fellow he did tell fine tales o’ them white hippos to scare the cabin lads. For my part I’ve a lovely new unicorn o’ the sea peg leg, and a new-found enemy in whale-kind. Twas a good night out. On then to the festival village of Guttering Honk and their notorious owl-gargling rituals.

Captain Pigheart’s Buoyant Adventure

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Yarr, it were a beautiful day and the sun were beating down upon the Grim Bastard and her crew of stalwart bastards like a sea otter opening a crab. The seagulls were screeching their scavengin’ lullabies. Ye may think ‘em coarse and tuneless but in comparison with the whingeing of me crew tis an operatic bliss.

The current complaint was a distant relation to a possible navigational error, which might, if pushin’ came to shovin’ came to a runnin’ through, be laid at me foot. So far I’d managed to divert blame to me helmsman , Abraham Lambkin on account of his being a cloth-eared fool (this is no general term of abuse; the poor lad had suffered terribly in a crow’s cage and covered his aural shame with a pair of fetchin’ lambs tails. Now this sound-proofing plus his habit of rocking back and forth in therapeutic motion makes it difficult to be sure ye directions’ve pierced his skull).

Anyways, due to me misplaced faith in our lug-free helmsman we’d been reefed for some days. In the initial surprise and annoyance I’d loudly declared me displeasure and hurled the youth overboard, his lambs’ tails flapping in the breeze. Ahar, the lad’d landed on ye sandbanks and continued his protestations from below. Lambkin proved surprisingly deft at avoiding me pistol shots. Gaargh, I was gratified when Mick doused him with chum from the fishing barrel. That brightened the mood and we all watched the seagulls divebomb the lad and peck him with vigour.

Gaargh, despite our mirth, it were somewhat chilling to see him tossed about. No doubt it reminded the boy of his earlier ear trauma, for he curled up and sobbed as the seabirds flung him fro and to. The lad’s plight stirred me imagination, for if a pair o’ gulls could lift an urchin off his feet (these were the mighty gulls ye may have heard of), then twere a near certitude that many hundreds of ‘em could raise the Grim Bastard…

And so we dragged Abraham back on board and dunked him in the chum bucket. This time we lassoed the gulls when they went for him (allowing for the odd peck to keep them amiable), and tied each one to a fresh length of rope. In their fury, the birds strained to escape, pulling ye ropes taut.

In time we felt a lurch beneath our feet, and strung a few dozen more for good measure. At last we achieved the air, and the seagulls hauled us aloft. Up and up we went, till we were sailing along at perhaps a hundred feet above the waves.

And so we lie about the deck, under cover naturally, given the squawking shite-hawk horde above us. And so the complaining comes down to this – where the devil are the birdies taking us? We’d neglected to consider a means of directing the feathered fiends; perhaps it’s time to start shooting at them.

Captain Pigheart’s Gastronomical Adventure

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Foul winds and Captain Aaarsbeard had driven us out of our comfort zone into a running sea battle. We’d valiantly discharged our balls into Aaarsbeard’s stern till there was naught left but a flaming ring upon the waves.Though victorious, our own portside resembled a whore after happy hour, full o’ holes with seamen falling out. Our sails were in tatters and we limped along until we ran into a smashing reef. Away we swam, and dragged along them souls still bafflingly unable to swim, to the island which the reef encircled.

It were the kind of island where a man longs to bury his treasure. Alas, me gold was now being colonised by humourous octopi who amused themselves by hurling coins at me splashing crew.Now I knows ye may be afeard for the safety of meself and me crew and yet ye should worry little, for this maroonin’ lark is bread and butter to us pirate types. Ye forestation were lush as Eve’s own lady garden before she choked on the serpent’s apple, so we’d not want for sustenance. In time we’d assemble a rude craft to take us back to our wives and other foes. In the meantime we rigged shelters and foraged amongst the local flora for spit-roastable fauna.

I must confess it were a tasty isle with such rare delights to me tongue as I’ve rarely had to me loins. Gaaargh. Each beast tasted sweeter than the last, none more so than the friendly monkeys with the imploring eyes who hopped into our laps.

Understand this, we’d not planned to munch on ‘em, for cute they were with their plushness and appealing blinketing. Twas fate that pushed them twixt our teeth, for they were unwise in the ways of me men. Through excessive petting one grew over-excited and bounced into the fire where it was immolated with an adorable squeak. Why, it would be churlish to waste its accidental encookination… Monty McBuboe served the long-tailed sweetmonkey coiled on a bed o’ forest cabbage with a garnish of amphibious foreskin.

Gaargh… After that we hunted them rapaciously, desperate to cram as much of their divine flesh into us as possible. Every day me and the lads’d rise, with increasing difficulty, and go monkey-crooning.

Whilst out on ye hunt, by which I means casually hooting and herding the keen little beasts into a sack, No Hands Mick were pounced upon by one of the lemurian lunches. The little snackle-ape took exception to the tone of his croon (Mick were apt to ignore me schoolin’s) and it snapped at him with unusual force. Luckily Mick had lost both hands in a tragic oyster incident so when ye monkey latched on, twas only to wood and brass, granting Mick the freedom to bounce it off a rock. It rebounded into First Mate Billy no Mates’ arms, with whom Mick’d been reluctantly saddled.

The stripe-furred ingredient landed in his arms akimbo, its huge pain-filled eyes bored into Billy’s own and as it twitched convulsively, young Billy saw a possible friend at last. He ran back to camp, ignoring Mick’s hungry bellows and barricaded himself in his shack where he stuffed the beast fat with desperate friendship and fruit.

Meanwhile, our epicurean spasms made us rotund and liable to roll into the sea where we’d bob like apples till rescued. And worse, we’d devoured almost every living thing on the rock. And in further worsening, the food was fighting back. We’d found old Archibald Flim-Flam lying in a ring o’ monkey dung, his spectacles speckled with blood and his bones picked clean. Me cankled crew spotted the last vanguard of them gibbon-goujons above him, but no amount o’ hurling their weight at the tree could relax their delicious digits’ grip.

We’d grown short of plans (and breath) till one day as we lay walrusine on the sand, Billy No Mates emerged from his shack, cradling that piteous and well-stuffed monkey like a dead twin. Hamish noted a likeness twixt its big blue eyes and strippled fur and the devilry that spat at us through the canopy. And so a ploy congealed twixt me ears: we’d use Billy’s tufted moppet to lure out the last of his kind and furnish ourselves with another meal. (After which we really must attend to the matters of ship-building and escape.)

Billy took some catching, for he’d grown thin while the floppy ape grew fat on his doting. Twas an effort just to stop me peg leg from sinking up to me hip, let alone run about. But at last we pinned them both down and, to placate Billy’s pleading, tied ‘em together in a pit beneath the monkeys’ tree. I’d no desire to eat the sickening beast for it mainly shivered and slavered whenever Billy hugged it, whispering into its ear.

Me and the fat lads waited in the bushes, attempting for quiet but falling foul of various gastric ailments and the need to chew on anything nearby. Thankfully the howling of the monkey, or Billy (twas hard to distinguish ‘em) veiled our greed nicely.

The sweet simians showered us with bum-berries and abuse in the chittering tongue they employed instead o’ English. Once they’d beaten us off they seized the baboony babe and Billy and buggered off into the bushes.

Gaargh, we found Billy No Mate’s bones some days later. Ye could tell it were him since he were missing. And also his skull had the same look of pathetic friendlessness as when it were clad in skin.

So that were it, no more food. We turned at last to ship-building and on each other. I’d found a handy conch shell and I used it to summon me men. We used dice to make a simple choice, for we’d found that delicious though ye monkeys are, they’d found an even finer meal in us.

Captain Pigheart and The Scary Lady

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Tis a tale o’ romance and thievery…

Night met us at the island, where even the moon turned a blind eye to our questing. Gaargh, not content with ye gloomy shroud, the clouds also tipped their chamber-pots upon us. ‘Tis just as well, for we’d been practising the noble art of piratical prevaricating and the downpour thrust us within.

I should explain how we came to be in this sodden land. Twere not through the usual drink, idiocy and greed. Y’see, we’d been visiting our old pal the King of Tarsus whose daughter were gravely ill. The king’s need were dire enough to outweigh me sawbones excessive keenness to wet his blades on the poor innocent. We spent an anxious night a-waitin’, with the anchor ready to flee.

To me great relief the princess lived, despite Gunther’s ministratin’s. In reward, the king granted us the pick of his famed Hall o’ Bullion. It were huge! We rested by a statue of a pirate captain engraved so finely ye could see the terror in his contorted face and the desperate grip on the plate o’ gold he held.

For a giggle, I laid me bottle of Old Scrotes Midnight Brew at the statue’s lips – as if he were drinkin’ it ye see! Ha har. As the first drop touched his lips, the figure began to rock violent-like, showering me with grit. There were a great groan and its stone jaw creaked open, and spake like a volcano blowin’ chunks.

The stone captain rumbled on and on about his exploits and the lasses he’d loved, though he finally turned to the details of his statuary and that lovely golden plate. “Seekest thou the isle of Gorgon. Treasure lies within, but turn not ye eyes upon the lady o’ the isle for she be most… bashful”. This plunged it into a fit of laughter so vigorous that he were soon naught but a heap of dust under a golden dish. Gaargh, twere a mite disappointing for he’d revealed little of use.

Ye sign over the Hall’s entrance were clear: ‘ye breaks it, ye buys it’. And so, a shiny platter and a sack o’ grit paid for saving the princess’ life (though not her virtue, gaaargh). Twas not till I scraped me breakfast of bubble and squid surprise off the plate that I espied the treasure map upon it.

And so we came to be standing, damper’n usual, in a murky cave. Having some bad personal experiences of poking into mysterious holes, I sent forth old Sam Knacker, the sail patcher. He’d scarcely tottered off before we heard a strangled scream – of the sort ye’d not wish to follow. Gaargh, twas not encouraging but I picked another of me expendable crew an’ we pushed him on ahead.

We found Sam round the bend, grey and rigid with fear. At least we’d truly found Gorgon. Sam’s granite fist still held a torch at a useful angle, brightening a broad chamber awash with untold plunder, tauntin’ us magpies with its glitter. Twere then I laid me eye upon a frightful vision – methought one of Jelly McFish’s more tentacular pals had crawled onto land. Its face were reptilian, and its hair writhed wildly as if eels’d infested its skull. It seemed womanly, though in the rough. Truly I fancied a good shriek and some girly runnin’ but I were mindful of me reputation. So I nudged Scurvy McMurphy towards her. Gaargh, their eyes met across the crowded cavern petrifying the lad mid-gurn. Then I noticed that the cave were filled with such figures – twere an ill vibe and called for a new plan.

Me crew were intrigued by the stonificatin’ and there were much disputing. All were agreed that curious rockipatin’ rays (‘tis Mick’s term) were surely transmitted by way o’ ye peepers. Gaargh, ‘tis here that me optometrical maimin’ by that malodorous octopus be finally a blessin’ for me monocular vision granted me grace against this demon. The plan were simple: I’d distract the crone whilst the lads robbed her blind – lest they be stoned blind themselves.

I returned to the cave bearing rum and a bucket o’ charm. In me most alluring tones I called her forth. Gaaargh, she were grimmer than Barry in the ship’s panto, but a swig o’ liquor softened her hiss. ‘Twere not long afore we were pleasantly conversing on matters from the military uses o’ whelks to the tragic loss of her sisters to some Greek feller. She’d been alone ever since with just her curse for company in this dank fortune-crammed cavern. Despite me instinctive revulsion, what with the rum an’ cushions me heart swelled for this sad creature, in whose eyes I saw not petrifyin’ doom but a glimmer o’ beauty deep, deep within. Her skin, while scaly were warm, although me fingers were numbed by her snappin’ mane. Yarrr, ‘twere a task for Captain Loveheart. I thought I’d lost me touch along with me hand.

We lay twisted in her silken sheets hissin’ softly to one another, when her eyes grew watery. Me heartstrings twanged as she sobbed that she were disfigured an’ ugly. She were no classic beauty ‘tis true, but I’d spent good money on far worse. I chanced upon a hand glass nearby, and held it to her face. She had time enough to whisper “Ignatius” before turnin’ herself to stone. Gaargh, I’d only wanted to show her the rainbows cast on her cheek by Sam’s torch. I lingered for a moment, then pulled up me britches and pillaged.

We filled the Grim Bastard with the Gorgon’s loot an’ steel enough for an armada. As for ye fossillated folk, the curse were not lifted so we flogged ‘em all to Polyorchid Paul’s Garden Chintz Boutique for a tidy sum.

Twere all grand until we found another map directing us to the island o’ Minos with its tantalizin’ labyrinth. Gaargh, the temptation were too great, and the ball o’ wool too short. If only I’d worn me bigger jumper.

Captain Pigheart’s Polar Adventure

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“Gaaargh, Mick it be not brain surgery,” I spat derisively as I cheerily spun me shiny new wheel to the left. ‘Twere a lovely brass wheel, with moulded grips, arrr she were a pleasure to grasp. But perhaps ye sporty gleam had affected me thinkin’, for over the next few days the air grew overly chill and me ship frosty. Gaargh, I’d probably meant me other left (or port as Mick insists).

Twas the danger in urinatin’ over the side what tipped the lads off to the error in steerin’. I arranged me pens and flipcharts so as to diagrammatically explain that the weight o’ gold in our hull were draggin’ us down the slopion’ side of ye Earth. Now given ye circularity o’ the globe twere as well to continue on our present course. I were takin’ ye long view but in any case, twere too late now.

Ye see, it were as cold as a snowman’s seed, too cold even for Mick’s sweaty palms, and they’d frozen tight to ye wheel – our course were fixed. At least it spared me own arms from hours at the helm. Ye increasin’ly bitter weather turned him blue despite the vast merkins I’d knitted. But in tuggin’ him free his mitts snapped off at the wrist takin’ him from ‘Look – No Hands Mick’ to mere ‘No Hands Mick’. Twere a shame but we all cheered up when his fists proved ideal for puckin’ in ice hockey.

As I were about to thrust Mick’s fist between Billy’s legs and score me third goal, the Grim Bastard lurched violently, tossin’ me mates hither and thither. I hoped we’d struck land- but twere just me stern bein’ ravished by a courtin’ whale. Ye humpin’ whale’s lusty thrusts bumped us onto a sheet of ice where we lay like an ill-used walrus.

The prolonged moanin’ of ye whale were taken up by Herr Doktor Gunther’s surgical plaything, a lad he’d borrowed from a circus upon whom to expand his medical repertoire. His lobotomised lowin’ brought forth a brace o’ sea unicorns to joust for me ship’s booty. The nasal swords clashed in freezin’ spray, occasionally plowin’ into ye Grim Bastard, callin for much pluggin o’ holes. That be a risky matter, and ye lads came out with as many holes as they’d stoppered.

‘Twere then we conceived of danglin’ the howlin’ half-wit over ye bows to distract the bladed sea-beasts whilst we seized their ivory. Arrr, Mick could only toe the line and so the mooncalf plunged into the sea. Twas the divertin’ sport of bobbin’ for the lad which led the narwhals to mortally wound each other. Bravely I ordered me lads to mount the dyin’ beasts and relieve them of their horns and meat before they sank.

An ice floe be a tedious place and I were despairin’ of ever eatin’ somethin’ other than blubber. Even spicin’ it with a lime marinade only pained us with discoverin’ that it were the source o’ the whales’ lust – the knaves of ye Piratical Catalogue had chosen to pickle ye ricket-haltin’ limes in the urine of a lady whale.

For want o’ diversion and a greater share o’ supplies, I encouraged me men to wander ye ice, especially Billy No Mates. He came slidin’ back one day, with news of fat birds dressed as nuns. Yarr, that confirmed why me polar bear patrols’d been so bored. I quietly inverted me compass while reassurin’ the lads they’d now no reason to fear ye dreaded arctic hare.

The discovery of ye penguin-folk ignited a worryin’ gleam behind the tiny dark glasses upon me sawbones nose. “Ha ha ha. I haf ein plan mein Herren, first ve must capture ze flippen-flappen-fischen-birden.” Ordinarily I’d press Gunther for details, but I were tired o’ checkin’ me tackle for icicles, so I led a team o’ burly mates out upon ye ice meself. Ye ice be not designed with a peg leg in mind and it were a perilous journey.

We motivated ye penguins by puntin’ their eggs towards ye Bastard where we leaped upon ‘em and tied ‘em to ye mast. They sank into a foolish complacency once we’d stuffed their eggs back under them – the next generation were the least o’ their worries.

Gunther unveiled his new contraption with a feverish grin: “Viz zis device ve vill hollow out ze penkvin und ve vill escapen ze ice.” I weren’t followin’ entirely, but when the psychotic Teutonic asked for volunteers I took a closer peek. Gaargh, if ye can imagine a man-sized melon baller studded with more blades than a blind barber, then ye’ll understand why I volunteered me first mate, Billy No Mates.

The machine were swift in its evisceratin’: a sheet o’ frozen blood mist cascaded to the deck revealin’ a dazed penguin and a heap o’ steamin’ gore. Arr, we were suprised, ‘specially when Gunther flipped open the penguins beak to reveal Billy within. Aaargh, he also seemed a mite taken aback.

Gunther’s crypto-zoological chicanery were interestin’ but hopefully had a purpose (unlike the unfortunate incident with ye dwarves). He aimed to graft the least popular of me crew into manguins, grantin’ us aqua-mules to haul us from the ice. It seemed a tad extreme, but Gunther swore it’d be a reversible procedure and were our sole hope. After some vicious votin’ we got another five hybrid pengmen into ye water. But before we could even test ye Doktor’s thesis, black fins arose from ye waves.

There was naught we could do – the killer whales each picked up a penguin, and wolfed them down. Gunther looked oddly triumphant at ye eruptin’ foam of blood. I were not best pleased and told him so, though be begged me indulgence. I soon saw his reasonin’ – munchin’ on me mates had ensnared the orcas (I’d wondered at the cutlasses’ purpose). The enraged fish whipped us off our ice floe and back into ye ocean.

It were a noble, if excessive sacrifice that saved most of our lives. I were about to offer a few heartfelt words in memory of Billy when a flipper slapped wetly on ye gangplank. Even though Billy’s survival spoiled me eulogy I’d not the heart to throw him back for despite his fishy scent he were far less irritatin’ in his nunnish birdery. Since I’d forgot the names of our other saviours there were little else to do but celebrate our escape from ye south pole with mugs of whale beer; all the blubber turns to alcohol – or a thick floatin’ scum.

Captain Pigheart’s Little Christmas Tale

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Gaaargh, ’twere the night afore Christmas an’ all were all peaceful, quieter than ye mouse. O’ course ye’ve not seen the size o’ the mice on the Lollipop, gaargh, they be dwarfin’ ye cat. ‘Tis no wonder we eats ‘em, else they’d be the death of us. Mind ye, what with their remarkable plague-bearin’ skills ye might consider it a kind o’ cannibalin’ on Monty McBuboe’s part.

Aaarrr, we’d moored off the island o’ Streptococcus for the festive season. ‘Twere an odd sort o’ place, renowned for its twin industries o’ whorin’ and the soothin’ o’ sore neckholes. The lads’d disembarked almost afore we’d ceased our sailin’, so keen were they to whetten their whistlin’ gob-’oles.

And so it were left t’ me an No Hands Mick to tie off an’ weigh anchor. To that purpose I’d ‘elped Mick strap on ‘is big wooden grippin’ mitts, the ones with the big spikes for grabbin’ fishies and ye enemy. Aaar, t’ celebrate a successul year we turned ye cannons out to sea and blasted away with good cheer. The balls parted ye Christmassy mist with a satisfyin’ bang.

The bang were follered by a wailin’ what grew louder the longer it went on, ’til finally it were punctuated by a thwack an’ the sound o’ wood an’ iron grindin’ o’er me deck. There were some splinterin’ and dust, but through it we saw a most peculiar vision. ‘Twere a heap o’ horses with sticks on their ‘eads surroundin’ a portly feller dressed in red wi’ a fine, if conspicuous furry trim. ‘E were fairly bellowin’ ‘is fury at us.

I be not a fan o’ being shouted at ‘pon me own ship, so I took the lad by the beard and bounced is noggin off the mast ’til ‘e were quietened. Mick meanwhile were inspectin’ the beasts and the cart they’d pulled. ‘E were pleased to report on the high likelihood that they’d be most tasty, prob’ly even finer than giant rat in an ‘Ollandaise sauce. This seemed to upset the tubby chap further, an’ ‘e protested most vigorously ‘gainst both our culinary devisin’s an’ our blastin’ ‘im out of ye sky. We both ‘ad a bit of a chuckle about that – ’twere a grand shot and we’d be needful o’ a trophy to brag about. And then the fat lad sat us down with a finely mulled bottle o’ wine an’ filled us wi’ Christmas cheer. ‘Twere easier then to believe ‘is ravin’ o’ sailin’ through the skies, tethered to flyin’ deer. Aaarr, there were somethin’ of a fly in ‘is ointment though (we’d treated ‘is landin’ wounds mind – this be but a metaphorical describin’ o’ ‘is woes) seein’ as the reindeer’d been slain either by the cannon blast or from the sleigh bein’ slid at some speed through ‘em on becomin’ grounded.

In our newly excitable state Mick an’ me were keen t’offer our aid an’ so we set t’work a-fixin’ ye sled. Mr Christmas, for that’s who ‘e’d turned out to be, occupied ‘imself with the gatherin’ o’ the children’s gifts what’d been scattered over the Lollipop. The sleigh were lookin’ finer’n ever, freshly reloaded with presents, with it’s rider slightly bandaged. Mick’d been inspired by the reindeer problem but through ‘is alcoholic haze ‘e’d latched onto the notion that ’twere the antlers what made the beasts able to soar through ye skies. If that be so, then we needed some similarly horned creatures.

Bein’ stuck in port on Christmas Eve be not conducive to the managing o’ livestock, but thankfully on a recent treasure-hunt we’d become lost once more an’ run aground. The rocky little spot were home to a breed o’ giant tortoise what we’d found delicious and versatile. Most o’ ye time they’d spend their time weightin’ down ye ship as ballast in ye hold, but come a mite o’ hunger for a special occasion, we’d hook ‘em out and roast ‘em in their shells. Gaargh, it just so ‘appened that Mick’d been brewing a new batch of tar for ye hull repairs. So we sawed off ye antlers an’ glued ‘em to the reptiles. That warranted a few more drinks on ‘er own, an’ we were a-giggle as we popped the horned tortoises in harness.

Mr Christmas were not so impressed, as the lumpen things simply laid on deck due to the cold and retreated into their shells. ‘Twere a great disappointment to Mick, an’ I ‘ad to stop ‘im from throwin’ ‘imself overboard. It struck me that what were needed were merely a source o’ propellin’ the beasts into the sky, once up they’d prob’ly get the hang o’ it. And so it were that we arranged the cannons on deck, an’ chained each o’ the tortoises to a cannonball. We stood back an’ lit the fuses.

The little buggers flew straight up into the night air, draggin’ the sleigh behind, an’ with a “ho ho oh God we’re going to…” the whole thing exploded high up in the sky. ‘Twere awful pretty. Presents rained down on ye chimney pots far across ye island, bringin’ joy to them as what ‘ad not expected it. ‘Course there were a fair quantity o’ body bits fallin’ too, an’ the odd tortoise, but all in all, ’twere a jolly Christmas for the locals.

It seemed Santa’d been somewhat indiscriminate in ‘is pickin’ up o’ objects left on deck, like the two barrels o’ gunpowder we’d wrapped up for Billy. Gaaargh, we’d ‘ave to go out shoppin’ now, and on Christmas Eve to boot.

Gaaarrgh, have yeself a Merry Christmas!

Captain Pigheart and the Wenchly Lad

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Gaargh, ‘tis well to be seein’ ye once again, though ye be swayin’ somewhat and I were not foretold that ye’d found ye long lost twin – a drink to celebrate ye findin’ness! Aaar, me crew be abroad this night. ‘Tis sometime since we were last a-port and they be keen to spatter the town wi’ a broad palette o’ colour. Some will like as not be stayin’, possibly in pieces. But they be a fine bunch. Yarrr! Allow me to regale ye with a short tale regardin’ one o’ me more eccentric mates, o’ whom I be most fond.

Now, Barry’s be a tale most poignant, ‘is life a rival to me own for adventure and dancin’ wi’ Lady Luck. ‘E were born (as we mostly be, though I be uncertainty regardin’ Billy’s provenance), to a dotin’ mother and a drunken father. Aaarr, ‘e were a bonny child wi’ big blue eyes an’ fair wavy hair. Twere apparent from early on that ‘e ‘ad but little likeness to his father, a burly brute hairy enough to need no clothin’. The man’s suspicions finally outgrew the drink when ‘e found ‘is cuckoldery were a common jest. Gaargh, ‘e were prone to jealous rages an’ put Barry’s mother in fear o’ the lad’s life.

In what were perhaps an; ill-judged over-reaction, she stuffed the lad into a broad-brimmed bonnet an’ hurled ‘im into the river. I knows not what her precise thinkin’ were, but young Barry were swept out to sea wi’ not a soul to spot the spinnin’ tot. The luckless brat were then spotted an’ swallered by a passin’ ‘umpback whale on its yearly migratin’. The poor brute must’ve found the snack as irritatin’ to ‘is tum as findin’ one o’ Monty McBuboe’s scabs garnishin’ ye gruel, for ‘e beached ‘isself and tossed ‘is guts upon a shingled shore.

Gaargh, the babe must’ve lived ‘pon the stinkin’ gut-waters o’ the whale, till he were found by the infamous nuns o’ the Isle of Letch. Aarr, they took ‘im in as one o’ their own an’ he brought ‘im up with a deep fondness for stockin’s and showtunes. The nuns’d re-Christened ‘im a girlie in accordance wi’ their confusin’ creed. ‘Tis not clear if they ever noted ‘is masculine qualities but they certainly taught ‘im the joys of curlin’ tongs, a full wax, an’ the breeze ‘twixt ‘is knees. Sh-he left the nunnery at the age o’ sixteen to seek ‘er fortune an’ th’excitement o’ the wider world.

We’d docked the Lollipop for a fresh aft-mast in Santa de Puta, followin’ a nasty encounter with a school o’ zombified flounders; gaargh, me curse were reachin’ its horrid peak. We sought distraction of a bawdy nature while me hull were scraped clean for no extra charge. No Hands Mick an’ me wound up at the notorious Chateau d’Amour where me eye’d once been caught on a sharp hook, an’ now were captivatered by a comely young wench sashayin’ about the stage. Sharon she were called, an’ we bellowed ‘er name to show our likin’ for ‘er dancin’. We stood to cheer an’ draw her fair eye upon us, but we were drowned out by the navy braggarts what got the pleasure o’ manhandlin’ the lass instead.

Ah well, I resigned meself to the company o’ me bottle an’ set about gettin’ better acquainted. Mick strapped on ‘is patented tavern-stump-adaptin’-gauntlets for some serious drinkin’. We were nearin’ the needin’ o’ straws for further grog when there were a sudden uproar from the sailors’ table and the hasty drawin’ of pistols, ‘stead o’ pizzles, which were the usual custom.

Gaargh, ever eager t’ defend some maiden’s honour we leaped to ‘er aid, sword an’ jug-pourin’ tackle a-flailin’. We swiftly despatched the attackers an’ whisked the damsel off to me ship. ‘Twere a romantic gesture to be sure, but not without pragmaticality. I’d slayed a number o’ the Admiral’s finest dullards an’ Mick’d done batterin’ to much o’ the bar’s woodwork.

Safely aboard the Lollipop, Sharon were keen t’ thank ‘er valiant rescuers. Aarr, I bade her re-robe when I discovered ‘midst ‘er disrobin’ that ‘er corset were strappin’ down more’n expected. Mick’d no such qualms however an’ they shared a most pleasant night together. Gaargh, ‘twas just as well as I’d ‘ad sufficient rum t’inhibit me lustin’ action.

I thought upon me next course and concluded I ought to protect the young man-girll from a cruel an’ unfeelin’ world. Me only condition were a certain learnin’ o’ the nature to which he’d previously been quite ignorant. I instructed ‘im in the wearin’ o’ such manly attire as britches an’ boots. ‘E were not pleased an’ I ‘ad to agree to swap our clothin’ to persuade ‘im further. I must confess some surprise an’ agreed wi’ the lad that a skirt an’ girdle were somethin’ of a comfort, though we squabbled about the heels.

Next we sought a trade for ‘im to undertake since we’d no use for freeloaders on board. Aarrr, young Barry (‘twas the name on the brim o’ that hat) soon demonstrated such utter tyranny o’ the vittles an’ rum that twere either makin’ ‘im quartermaster or starvin’ at sea. By night, Barry be free to do as ‘e pleases an’ the sultry Sharon, Mistress with a Beard (if we be long at sea) will strut forth upon deck an’ cast a touch o’ glamour upon all our souls.

Gaargh, we’ve been fightin’ off Admiral Kneehorn ever since. An’ now, me gentles, I must totter towards the docks. I fear me liquor be seekin’ an exit. I bids ye good mornin’.

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 Mermaid Adventure

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Gaargh, me britches’re stained with the love juice of an impudent mermaid. ‘Twas but four moons ago. We were sailin’ North beyond the dire straits, escapin’ from the British and their monkey-long reach. Aargh. ‘Twas night and the waves were murky, slappin’ the ship like an idle seaman.

There was but me an’ No-Hands Mick ‘pon the deck, swiggin’ the last of Admiral Kneehorn’s finest malt whiskey. I were about to toss the bottle overboard when we heard a sound. A chillin’ sound, of the sort you never wants to hear, the sort so terrifying it makes yer blood freeze and yer eyes pop out on icicles. Gaargh. Old Mick knew it right away – ‘twas the call of a young, and fertile mermaid.

We peered over the side and there, stranded on a tiny reef were a buxom merwench, wailing for gentlemanly assistance. Bein’ gentles what we are, we leaped to her aid. I jumped off the bows and missed the blessed reef. ‘Tis good that I did, for Mick did not and he broke both his legs, for the deck was high up, and the rocks down low. Gaargh, ‘twas my lucky night. The young merlass seemed surprised by Mick’s wailin’, so I swam to her and began a soft croonin’ to soothe ‘er, like so. Now this she liked, I tells ya, and she turned ‘er beauty upon me.

Me black heart nearly broke through me ribs ter reach ‘er first. Glad I was of the padlock on me ribcage, firmly affixed there not nine years before by the king of Tarsus, a fine, but somewhat jealous fellow with his wives – but that’s a tale for another time.

Ah, she were radiant fair, her long hair silver by the moonlight, her arms draped shyly over her bounteous bosoms. Aye, and the most splendidly scaled tail I ever did lay eyes upon, my own or another’s. ‘Er tail swished seductive-like, splashing poor Mick with salty water. ‘Twas love at first sight. She flopped towards me, ‘er fishy nethers draggin’ ‘cross the reef, and I to her, my arms in welcome, and me britches at half-mast. Aye, an’ she was an enthusiast for the old sea-dogs I tell ye, she were fine, an’ fishy.

We lay together in the pale moonlight till ‘twas nearly dawn and old Mick had finally passed out from the pain. I saw she meant to leave me, and I knew I could not but let her go. For that’s the way of the ocean. Me heart sank as she dived beneath the waves, ‘er saucy tail flapping away.

I followed her with me eyes, well- me eye, and at the very edge of me sight she turned and tossed ‘erself out the water an’ the rising sun caught her all up the scales an’ she glowed like a big golden fish – and then she were gone. I dragged No Hands Mick back onto the ship and we went on our way.

On a quiet, moony night I fancy I can catch a whiff of that fine mackerel scent in me nostrils and can almost feel her cold, slippery fins about me thighs. Gaarrgh, ‘tis hard to bring meself to wash these britches – ‘tis all I have left. She was half fish, but all woman.