Short Tales of Adventure on the High Seas - Talk Like A Pirate Every Day

A Mere Smatterin' of Chatterin'

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 18:23:00 +0000

Ahoy me brazen hearties, tis a great delight to be able to give ye a glimpse o' ye beloved Captain deliverin' me tales before a live audience.

Twas a delightful affair, midst ye Nottingham Comedy Festival, and though ye Mermaid's Tale be fairly comprehensible there were a fair few ales in me belly by the time we reached The Polar Adventure.

Ahoy! Enjoy!

Piratical Tale Locatin' Bit

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 13:09:00 +0000

Ahoy me hearties and welcome to me nautical reminiscences, these be me tales o' woe and occasional victory. Click on ye links below to share me happy times.

Tragedy Strikes the Good Ship Lollipop:
Captain Pigheart Lost at Sea - I knows ye weeps with me
Captain Pigheart All Washed Up - merkins

Captain Pigheart's Heroical Rescue - I gets me lads back

The Beastly Tales:
Captain Pigheart's Mermaid's Tale - this one be a mite salty, an' a tad fishy
Captain Pigheart's Chelonian Adventure - turtles!
Captain Pigheart's Crustacean Adventure - crabs and manfat
Captain Pigheart and the Scary Lady - me most terrifyin' journey yet

Captain Pigheart's Triffic Adventure - man-eatin' plants!
Captain Pigheart's Polar Adventure - gaargh, penguins

Captain Pigheart's Orthodontic Odyssey - teeth and magic
Captain Pigheart in the Valley of Seth - scarecrows and cider

Lost and Endangered - fine times on the Good Ship Lollipop and the Grim Bastard:

Captain Pigheart's Bangin' Choon Adventure - pirate ravin'
Captain Pigheart's Theological Adventure - fear of ye cloth
Captain Pigheart's String Along Adventure - I hates Punch and Judy
Captain Pigheart's Birthday Party - I be fond o' gifts should ye be inspired...

Captain Pigheart's Romantical Adventure - how I met the love of me life

Captain Pigheart and the Wenchly Lad - Sharon/Barry gets 'is own tale

Seasonal Adventures:

Captain Pigheart's Accursed Christmas - be ye likin' the undead?

Captain Pigheart's Little Christmas Tale - 'tis a time for peace and so forth

Comin' Soon:

Captain Pigheart's Floatin' Beasties Adventure! Or another excitin' tale!

Captain Pigheart’s Orthodontic Odyssey

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 17:29:00 +0000

Gaargh, once more I were bound against me will. This time it were not, strictly speakin’, me own fault. Ye see I’d fallen for the beauteous but eccentric Discombobula Dentata, Queen o’ the tiny island o’ Munt.

Of course, she were not aware of me adorin’ until I broke into her bedroom and offered her me hand. Yaarr, she took it, along with me teeth. Them she returned these to me mouth after sowin’ each tooth in the volcanic earth o’ her magical realm. There they gained the power to sprout into dinky homunculi – little versions of meself with twice the cursing. In reciprocative devotion I were to slay her nemesis, the wizard of Ars’Hole; bein’ young and on pain o’ death I agreed.

Ye plan were one o’ hotheadedness an’ toothache and led directly into a cell, where I prayed for a dose o’ scurvy to loosen me chafin’ pegs. En-manacled as I was were I’d no way to yank ‘em so I employed a cunning ruse. I adopted a ladyish pose an’ began a beguilin’ croonin’, like so. On lurin’ a gullible soul into me false embrace I were keen to avoid becoming his prison bride. So I nutted him in his manly region, acquirin’ the desired smack in the chops.

With a vigorous shake of the noggin, me unnatural fangs bounced out onto the floor. The cell filled with a fizzin’, rum-scented fog and high-pitched cries of ‘ahoy’! Blinded, I heard the clatter o’ tiny peg legs, screaming and the thump of the guard striking the earth. Through the alcoholic fug I glimpsed a pocket-sized pirate hoofin’ the guard’s eyeball into a rat hole. Gaaargh.

‘Ahoy shipmidgets’ I whispered in me newly gummy voice as they freed me. The little devils were already torturin’ ye rats as I stumbled out of the cell. Yet I felt dizzy, for I’d a kaleidoscopic view through the eyes of me homunculi. It made walkin’ tricky and when ye shipmites grew bored of me totterin’, they hoisted me aloft. With a delighted “we’re off to see the wizard” we barrelled up ye dungeon stairs like a disabled centipede.

I was still attainin’ full mastery o’ me migrainous vision when we charged into a room bristlin’ with soldiery. A choral “gaaargh” heralded our attack and the wee mes hurled themselves forth. Ye battle were frantic – them hook hands be nasty, especially when there’s a midget halfway up ye nostril. Some of the lads got a mite trampled and booted out the window, but we won the day through sinus punchin’ and entrousered combat. Both relieved and impressed I fell through the next door and blundered into a boudoir.

I grinned gummily at the dusky maidens strewn upon cushions in artful states of undress. In husky, enticin’ tones they explained that they were the wizard’s concubine slaves desperate for manly aid. Twere a tangent from me mission, and not one Discombobula’d welcome, but in truth me heart were wanin’. And they cheered me eye. Ye fancy wenches hustled me towards a small door shrewdly secreted within a paintin’ of a door. It led into a tunnel filled with much gigglin’ as me pygmy pirates tickled ye ladies with their clamberin’ and bosom-ridin’. I were gladdened by me splintered sight.

The passage emerged into an alchemical utopia o’ phials and jars the contents of which’d shame Monty’s galley. I espied me desire a-float in a jar – a fine set o’ dentures, fashioned, so the label said, of a narwhal’s love handle. I snapped ‘em into place and rewarded ye ladies with a devilish grin and a lemony aftertaste. Twas mid-snog that I noticed ye wizened feller in the chair.

I deduced from his weird shlurring tongue that I’d nicked hish teesh and though I could not grashp hish shpeesh, his crazy mime denoted a spell-casting. I dove sideways as his mangled magistry struck the wall, flingin’ forth gouts of ensorceled fluid. The ladies cowered behind me against the malodious magic. Meanwhile one of me mini-men grew horns and impaled himself in the enchanter’s chest. Under steady fire o’ transmogrifyin’ unguents hurled by me atomised army the wizard’s shape stuttered like a zoologists’ zoetrope; finally he turned into a giant pigeon and with a quizzical coo detonated into a rain of explosive butterflies which obliterated half the chamber.

Flowers, rabbits and angry doves ricocheted off ye surviving walls as we regrouped. I were untouched, save for the wings sproutin’ from me ears, but half me ex-teeth were grimly enchanted, bein’ either newly amphibious or bubblin’ sludge. The remnants hopped me-wards, their pegs shieldin’ ‘em from the ooze. I swivelled on me budding stump, afeard o’ what harm might’ve befalled those ladies from the tide o’ thaumaturgic broth without such maritime maiming.

Gaaargh, not only were their clothes magically vanished, but the potion’d reduced the bosomy wenches to the of me delighted diminutive doppelgangers. I had to remind ‘em to talk to the face, not ye chest (unless ye be alone with ye treasure). Ah, ‘twas sweet, but their widdle wooin’d have to wait for ye furniture was largely crocodilian and large.

I gathered up ye tiny tribe and secreted ‘em about me person. Oh how they tickled, the naughty rapscallions, until they realised I meant to leap out the pigeonated wall. Then twas all squealin’ and pinchin’. Ignoring them, I dived through the hole and fell. And fell. Finally I discovered the means o’ flappin’ me head wings and began a brief spiral before we smashed onto a little fishing boat. Fear not - ye crew were easily subdued by me band of shortened swashbucklers.

Then the teensy turncoats bound me to the mast and used me outspread ear-flaps to guide their vessel to a landfall o’ their choosin’. Gaaargh, I suppose they merely sought sanctuary for their tiny trysts safe from the larger boots of our kind. Gaargh, I’d have appreciated bein’ unbound before bein’ set out to sea once more; I’m growin’ too long in the tooth for these misanchored maroonin’s.

Captain Pigheart's Bangin' Choon Adventure

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Fri, 15 May 2009 17:00:00 +0000

Gaaargh, we’d been at sea some while and the lads were growin’ crazed as a hermit crab in an undersized shell. Sean ‘the tool’ O’Toole was bein’ especially tiresome, wailin’ about his engorged manly bits an’ his need for a spot o’ lancin’. The lad were not quite the Casanova he hoped for; he’d merely grown infected after humpin’ a manatee. ‘Tis natural for a bleary-eyed sailor to mistake a half-tonne sea cow for an amiable maiden when he stumbles across one on the sloop deck.

Our hold’d been a bestial mess since being commissioned to gather a hoard of maritime wonders for the King o’ Tarsus. We’d gone a mite overboard in our freakish fauna fishin’ and had a shipful of odd-legged amorous octopi and the like. We’d even snagged a downy-breasted siren! The feathery wench’d been gagged by ‘Not Got A Shell-like’ Charlie who were immune to her mesmerisin’ song; the king’d reward us handsomely for the mythical bird-lady, especially if no man’d plucked ‘er.

Ye traditional pirate pastimes’d worn thin and the lads were reduced to a half-heartedly tauntin’ ye menagerie. Their gripin’ were clamberin’ over me breast so I shoved Charlie into the lovin’ mollusc’s seven-legged embrace to amuse the crew and retreated to me cabin with a tankard o’ whale ale and distant screamin’.

Me boozy snooze was disturbed by me pirate-sense a-tinglin’. Gaargh, some danger were near and likely related to the bangin’ tune piercin’ me looming hangover. I groped for the door, mistakin’ at first the fine Grecian statue with the delightful cleavage. I paused there for an extra grope or twain. Yarr, it’d been some while since I’d tweaked more’n her stony teat.

When I opened me door the thump were accompanied by an enticin’ ‘oo-oop, oo-oop’ as if some tropical bird’d been unleashed on deck; unlikely given the crew’s appetites. In the ‘cumulatin’ gloom o’ dusk I made out the giant form o’ Hamish McMuffin beatin’ an old barrel, his kilt swishin’ with an alarming freedom. The patter o’ me old renegade snares matched the moanin’ o’ Sean O’Toole as he gingerly tapped his bulgin’ bongoes. Slap in the middle of the deck pranced the siren, enchained yet unstoppered, chirrupin’ that eerie whoopin’ into the mix, shakin’ her feathery behind and be-stirrin’ me crew.

The sea-witch’s tweetlin’ sent an intoxicatin’ thrill up and down me spine, ticklin’ me cogitatin’ orbs. I felt a powerful urge to join me lads in their tribal bangin’: gaargh, we’d already yielded to the siren’s charms. Our only hope were to outdo her spell. I directed First Mate Billy No Mates to break out Monty McBuboe’s emergency store o’ sea-slug tequila and cockle shots and distribute ‘em to the crew. With the pirate percussion growing I hurried back to me cabin a-tremble with excitement.

I tossed back me mattress and unlocked the oaken chest beneath. ‘Twere bequeathed to me in case o’ dire need by me father, Captain Seaflange, of whom me last memory be his toothless grin after pinning the tail on a real donkey at me ninth birthday, and his consequent fatal head-hoofin’. I popped the lock to reveal phosphorescent crabsticks, a single white glove and a whistle exquisitely carved from the face of a mermaid. Gaaargh, thankin’ ye pa.

The atmosphere were electric when I returned to ye deck: we were sailin’ into a storm. The first raindrops spattered onto the planks, syncopatin’ with ye frantic beat as I handed out ye crabsticks. Lads o’ various disfigurements abandoned the tame hornpipe to chant ‘big fish, small fish, cask o’ rum’, blazin’ neon whirls about ‘em with their glowin’ crustaceous canes. Barry’d donned his silks for the occasion and so Sharon were gyratin’ enthusiastically in ye brig. An’ then the storm tossed in her own beats, rollin’ filthy bass notes through me rigging. The dance’s intensity grew with the wind whistlin’ through the sails while Hamish’s hammerin’ drew schools o’ dolphins to circle us, yakkerin’ rhythmically.

Yarr, I felt like me time’d come at last. I burst into the heart of ye dance and threw down me own piratical shapes. Ye’d be amazed at the breaks ye can achieve with a peg leg to pivot upon. The lightnin’ flashes strobed across me crew, renderin’ us all to jerky puppetry. From without our manly beatin’ came a soarin’ vocal chorus - the angelic sound urgin’ us onwards and inspiring’ Monty MCBuboe into a euphoric rantin’ so fast as to be near unintelligible, showerin’ us with digital breaks from ‘is leprous limbs.

As I dodged his flyin’ thumb I noted the horde of voluptuous yet ornithine ladies engaged in boardin’ me ship. The siren wench’d summoned her pals and in spite o’ me good sense I couldn’t help wagglin’ me glowstick invitin’ly. The lads let out a cheer as their dainty toes hit the deck, their unearthly wailin’ blendin’ harmoniously with the orchestral hues of a ship’s galley played by its tone-deaf crew.

I peeped me whistle in chime with the beguilin’ bird brushin’ her bushy plumage ‘gainst me. As if hypnotised they joined with the crew in an ecstasy o’ ‘starfish, jellyfish, what the devil’s that?’ Gaargh, we danced through the night, by which I mean both ye upright and horizontal tangoin’.

Gaaargh, I awoke spittin’ out feathers and cuddlin’ a huge and crackin’ egg. It took a moment to realise me crow’s nest’d been redecorated with a fetchin’ interweavin’ o’ riggin’ and odd limbs; at a quick count o’ legs I figured me crew’d struggle to win the next Twister death match. A shadow were cast over me as its mother descended upon the nest bearin’ the flailin’ deformity of Sean O’Toole. The siren’s arrival met perfectly the splitting of the shell, a slimily feathery head poppin’ free in time to engulf the Tool’s danglin’ nethers. ‘Tis a wincing form o’ nourishment, but at last Sean’d served a purpose.

Twas clear that me seductive groovin’ had saved at least some of me crew from the sirens’ song, for I could hear their shufflin’ below. Like any proud father would, I peeped me whistle encouragin’ly at the fine young fledgling. Perhaps I’ll name him Polly.

Live Pigheart

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 22:58:00 +0000

Ahoy mates, if ye fancy your chances face to face with ye afeard Pirate Captain, perhaps ye should come to:

Tea Party - A Night O' Poetry and Music
at The Art Organisation, Station Street, Nottingham
Friday 6th March 8pm till late
No entrance charge, but bring ye own grog

I'll be readin' a couple o' tales in the course of ye evenin' and enjoying the cultural meanwhile.

Talk Like A Pirate Day

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 18:42:00 +0000

Gaaaargh, Talk Like A Pirate Day - the one day a year ye might not be ejected from ye tavern for sounding like a part-Irish, part-West Country loon. Slap on ye accent and ye eye patch. Perhaps ye be needful of a tall tale to spin ye way into a stranger's purse? Check out ye Yarn Finder below for inspiration. Have a grand day!

Captain Pigheart's Polar Adventure

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 18:42:00 +0000

“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 String Along Adventure

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 18:12:00 +0000

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.

Fresh Pigheart

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Wed, 07 May 2008 19:51:00 +0000

Ahoy mates! Gaaargh, I be glad to bring ye the latest chronicles of me misadventures at sea. This one be Captain Pigheart in the Valley of Seth. Ye may have already had an update o' this one through Facebook - that's right your Cap'n's gone the whole sealion and set up a fan page for ye amusement and interactivity - search for Captain Pigheart ('tis easy).

I'll be seein' ye soon, an' possibly blastin' ye with cannon.

Captain Ignatius Pigheart

Captain Pigheart in the Valley of Seth

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Wed, 07 May 2008 19:08:00 +0000

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

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 20:39:00 +0000

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.

Aaaargh me hearties!

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 18:41:00 +0000

Welcome ship-mates.

May I present me latest ravin's to ye, 'Captain Pigheart's Theological Adventure'.

I be grateful to ye mysterious Pressed Witch for her delvin' into me rum-soaked mind and unravellin' the soggy innards for ye pleasure.

I hopes ye be likin' it, though I have several planks for dissentin' law-mongers to stroll springily along.

Ye be in me thoughts on occasion,

Ignatius Pigheart (Captain)

http://captainpigheart.blogspot.com/

Captain Pigheart's Theological Adventure

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 18:28:00 +0000

Gaaargh, after months o’ plunderin’ an’ the holin’ o’ many hulls, we was lookin’ forwards to the King of Tarsus’ hospitality. To grease is wheels o’ benevolence, we’d brung ‘is ‘ighness a chest o’ lacquered limpets to brighten ‘is cave o’ fancy tat.

Alas, Tarsus were not so friendly. The fishin’ boats what plagued ye harbour were gone, and the king’s flag’d been crudely enhanced with a violent pink squid. Either there were a new king in town or ‘e were off on some new folly. The King‘s enthusiasm be both a blessin’ and a curse for ‘is subjects. For example, the wearin’ o’ jellyfish as live prophylactics. Doubtless, they be effective, but I feels for ‘is wives – gaargh.

The lads were in dire need o’ bathin’ and duty-free shopping, so we docked anyways. We’d scarcely shaken the salt from our beards when we were accosted by a swarm o’ pinkly-clad clergical fellows. They boarded the Lollipop and officiously rooted through me cabins. Rage grew within me, an’ I exorcised me demon through the medium o’ a crossbow bolt. The rosy little friar tumbled off ye pier with a satisfyin’ splash, though it slowed the slew of ‘em not a jot.

Yarr, they confiscatered me booty and dragged it from me ship – we could not contest it, for me hasty shot’d caused ‘em to direct their arsenal upon us. To break ye awkward moment, I enquired after the manner o’ their faith, for their robes be more lurid than Barry’s pullin’ frock. The mad-eyed monks dropped to their knees, waggled their arms and declared ‘emselves “pliant tentacles in human form”. The bureaucratic brothers gave me a receipt for me tithes and a fistful o’ hysterical pamphlets before flouncin’ off. Yarr, how swiftly ye can go from convert to cretin...

Our anchors were locked and me cannons impounded, all on ye King’s orders. Gaargh, I felt more impotent than the eunuch singin’ gibbon who tidied me cabin. I be distrustful o’ priests with pistols, so I dispatched the young simian t’investigorate the state of ye kingdom. Off ‘e scampered, chitterin’ in ‘is gibbous tongue, arms a-flail.

There were little for the rest of us to do but drink rum an’ play deck games. The lads’d lost interest in curlin’, an’ had found favour in ye ancient game o’ Hopscotch, or Hop over ye Scot from which it derives. We took turns to hurdle the inebriate mass o’ Hamish McMuffin, a man prone to ire and deep-fried squid rings. Barry’d tripped over the slumberin’ Scotsman and were bein’ battered about ye deck when me freakish cabin-lad returned.

Gaaargh, I’d neglected to send a crewman with the gift o’ speech, so we endured an hour o’ monkey-mime to learn that an evil Greek (be there any other kind?) named Testicles the Canker had tainted ye King’s mind and taken over the kingdom with ‘is Church of the Hysterical Cuttlefish. The leaflets showed much leapin’ on furniture and evangelisin’ o’ an inventively ludicrous nature. We’d even encountered one such band o’ loons swimmin’ with cuttlefish in hopes of savin’ ‘em from killer whales… ‘Twere a pleasin’ diversion from a tedious day’s sailin’.

Testicles’ first edict were the executin’ o’ all budgies guilty o’ gnawin’ upon the holy husks ‘twixt the bars o’ their cages. ‘E then embarked on a campaign to educate ye fishermen in the preservation of the sacred cuttlefish. Ye Tarsian fisherfolk be none too bright and after picklin’ their catch, were now residin’ in ye dungeon. Gaaargh, I be no fan o’ such zealotry, or schoolin’. Plus the lads were most aggrieved at bein’ unwhored, so we made our plans with care.

The great storm what’d pursued us across the ocean cast its shadow upon Tarsus that night. We’d raided Barry’s wardrobe for dresses an’ body-stockin’s o’ general pinkitude and sneaked ashore. As we slew the dock-guardin’ dullards I noted the lads’d acquired somewhat more ladies’ garb than were strictly necessary for disguise, though the glitter were awful sparkly in the lightnin’ flashes.

From ye palace could be heard a vigorous hoonin’, above the rumble o’ thunder. We snuck forth with a tad more caution than usual, given the crackers creed this lot’d subscribed to. ‘Tis hard to describe the vision we espied, but I’ll try. ‘Twere an undulatin’ mass o’ pink priestly limbs, with High Priest’s tellin’ how the Cuttlefish made ye world. Yarr, the sight were queasifying – like a room full o’ amorous octopi. Even ‘is majesty were thrashin’ limply with the rest o’ ye deranged devotees. Gaaargh.

We leapt into the flock of fools, unnoticed at first. I think it were the stabbin’ and stockin’s what gave us away in the end. The monks soon ceased to turn ye other cheek an’ their faith faltered in the face o’ steel borne by such crudely caparisoned corsairs - as Barry bemoaned: we’d not taken the time to accessorise properly. Me gibbon’d brought a jar o’ pickled squids and were addin’ to ye hysterics by flingin’ ‘em into the crowd. Yarrr, one slimy squid slapped the King out of his religious reverie.

Gaargh, enlightenment be a grand thing to shine in a man’s eyes. The King seized ‘is favourite sword an’ set to a fine swashbucklin’ duel with the Hellenic heretic Testicles. Barry found ye could tell the real monks from ye locals as the latter wore blankets dyed with offal. Them we spared (if we’d not already slain ‘em) an’ mopped up the last o’ the parasitic parishioners. The evil Greek fought on, face flushed in the manner of ‘is favoured cuttlefish. With a dramatic spurtin’, the king castrated him to polite applause, since we’d no desire to unhinge him further. It seemed the king were in the pink, for ‘e ordered the monks stripped and their fine silks hung in the courtesans’ quarters whence ‘e bade us all retire.

Around midnight, when the storm’d passed, I heard Testicles a-wailin’ for his, um, testicles, and were soon joined by the sympathetic tones o’ me gibbon. ‘Twere quite a castrati lullaby, for I fell sound asleep. O’ course the next mornin’ I awokes to find meself securely knotted to the mast o’ me ship. But that be another tale an’ never did dim the memory of me night in a king’s harem – gaaargh!

Gaaaaaaargh! Captain Pigheart's Back!

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 17:26:00 +0000

Yahar mates, I know it's been a while. So long that ye might've thought ye cap'n had perished at sea in a whalin' incident, but that be naught but scuttlebutt. I were lost. But now I be found, though as blissfully unenlightered as before.

I brings ye a new tale o' me voyages through the aquatic swirlin's I like to call the sea. This be me fourteenth tale, an' I be quite pleased to present 'Captain Pigheart's Triffic Adventure'.

I be creditin' me landlubber chum the parson's son for bringin' back memories I'd thought were seurely locked away. I hopes ye enjoy it more'n I did at the time.

If ye'd like to stir me brain-brew and see what surfaces, kindly email me or leave a comment on ye blog.

Gaaaargh,

Me fondest thoughts be with ye,

Ignatius Pigheart (Captain)

Captain Pigheart's Triffic Adventure

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 16:49:00 +0000

Gaargh, I awoke from a night o’ disturbin’ dreams. We’d been swiggin’ vodka for a change, since takin’ it off Danish merchants just after dawn. Me final memory o’ that night were haulin’ Billy aboard after ‘e leapt from the bow to catch a shootin’ star. Yarr, all night the sky’d been full o’ light streakin’ down as if aimin’ for the giant crabs crawlin’ across ye sea-bed. ‘Twere pretty, like a rainbow on fire, though technically it boded ill for us all.

Yarr, ‘twere worse awake than a-snooze, for me wakin’ were pierced a piteous wailin’, “I be blind, me eyes be not workin’.” A-fearful for me own senses I opened me eyes - to blackness! Me heart raced till I realised I’d moved me eye patch to keep out ye pesky sun – thank God, I were still only half blind. ‘Twere just Manky Eye Joe, ‘is peepers robbed by a surprisin’ly agile flying fish whilst mannin’ ye crow’s nest. Joe’s memory’d been nicked too, makin’ his blindness a daily surprise for us all.

The sounds o’ bangin’ on me hull drew me hangover away from Joe. The encirclin’ seas were dotted with steamin’ lumps o’ furry rock, bobbin’ malignantly on ye waves. I’d not seen their like before an’ summoned Kanagawa, for ‘is oriental eyes be witness to the marvels o’ the East. ‘Is speciality be fish, though he’s a smatterin’ o’ whelk-lore to boot. Yarr, ‘is best suggestion were some kind o’ coconut in need of a trim; so we hooked one aboard for further investigoratin’.

On deck ‘twere as if some Biblical whale’d finally retched up the rancid head o’ Jonah. Yaarr, with me strong botanicorological instincts I knew it for plant-life, though from where I knew not. ‘Tis a love of plants what keeps the pansies alive in me cabin, an’ ye scurvy at bay. I planned to pot it an’ flog ye rare blooms to the King o’ Tarsus. I’d already some namin’ in mind t’establish me immortality ‘orchidae-oceanicus-ignatius’ or ‘floricus-pighearticus’; Latin be rollin’ off me tongue like a native.

Gaaargh, mid-pottin’ the sea cabbage grew feisty, swiftly unravellin’ kelpy tentacles. It gave a vigorous spankin’ to poor Manky Eye Joe, drawin’ blood with its salty roughness. Its frenzy grew, an’ before I could tamp ‘er down, the photosynthesisin’ freak dashed up the mast. We’d not time to warn ye lookout. He wisely chose the relative safety of ye deck. Yarr, that be not the softest o’ landin’s. Once ‘is legs were splinted we pondered ye sea spud further.

The pernicious plant spread its leaves at the ship’s summit. The cheeky sod were wormin’ its roots down me mast an’ through me hull. We cut short that intent, to much thrashin’ and leakin’ o’ sap. At first we thought our ploy successful, but the ornery orchid soon found a new source o’ water, plungin’ its roots into poor Joe’s noggin an’ liftin’ ‘im into the air. We hung on ‘is ankles and tugged back, ignorin’ the scratchy sea vines hamperin’ our efforts. Yaharr! We uprooted it and it crashed down on deck, on top o’ Joe.

Gaargh, me sea-orchid’d flowered already. ‘Er broad fleshy petals had the unhealthy hue o’ a dead shaven mammal (‘tis one lighter than ‘bruised cuttlefish’), an’ run through with a violet criss-crossin’ o’ veins what wrapped around its poutin’ stamen, curiously aflicker with a dozen tiny tongues.

No sooner’d we regained our footin’ than the bloomin’ thing were off again – Joe’d unravelled ‘imself and run aft blindly (‘tis not like he has a choice), with the lethal leaves flappin’ in hot pursuit. Joe got cornered when ‘e ran into a wall. We ringed it in turn, cutlasses drawn for prunin’. It rattled menacingly and pounced at us.

Gaaargh! We made two further laps of ye Lollipop afore it went for Joe once more. I pinned a stalk with me peg an’ hacked it with me blade. The savage sprout were undaunted and seized Joe by ‘is ankles. It tenderised the lad by bangin’ ‘im on the deck then stuffed ‘im headfirst ‘twixt its petals. The plant bit Joe’s head clean off and sucked ‘is body dry. Gaargh, ‘twere not the flower for makin’ amends to a loved one.

Despite me hopes o’ rivallin’ ye tulip trade, it seemed unwise to cultivate ‘em given their demandin’ diet. I set Kanagawa the task o’ distractin’ the bloodthirsty blossom while we gathered herbicidal tools. Me Japanese mate soothed the plant by ‘is foldin’ o’ intricate paper figures what rustled in a leafy manner. ‘E were on ‘is thirtieth petal fold o’ ye origamic sea-urchin when we sprang into action.

The Dane’s we’d “met” yesterday’d been so thoughtful as to leave us their weapons, women an’ assorted vittles. In particular, a gleamin’ double-headed axe with which I cleaved the vicious vegetable in two. Both halves fought back, oozin’ sap an’ stickiness. We doused it with pitch an’ a pinch o’ gunpowder, and garnished it with a point-blank pistol blast.

The explosion took ye eyebrows from us all. The orchid crackled and popped, twitchin’ feebly in ye flames. Billy noted the smell were like that o’ fried tomatoes, and though the taste were marred by the aftertaste o’ tar it were fine with our liberated bacon.

‘Twere then we heard the bumpin’ of the other plant pods ‘gainst the Lollipop an’ the rasp o’ fronds coilin’ over the railin’s, ‘tis a sound to make a grown man hide below-decks. We reached land safe again, but gaargh, me fingers be green with the blood o’ them sky flowers; I can scarce look me pansies in ye eye.

Yarn Finder

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Tue, 29 May 2007 18:50:00 +0000

Ahoy me hearties and welcome to me nautical reminiscences, these be me tales o' woe and occasional victory. Click on ye links below to share me happy times.

Tragedy Strikes the Good Ship Lollipop:
Captain Pigheart Lost at Sea - I knows ye weeps with me
Captain Pigheart All Washed Up - merkins

Captain Pigheart's Heroical Rescue - I gets me lads back

The Beastly Tales:
Captain Pigheart's Mermaid's Tale - this one be a mite salty, an' a tad fishy
Captain Pigheart's Chelonian Adventure - turtles!
Captain Pigheart and the Scary Lady - me most terrifyin' journey yet

Captain Pigheart's Triffic Adventure - man-eatin' plants!
Captain Pigheart's Polar Adventure - gaargh, penguins

Captain Pigheart in the Valley of Seth - scarecrows and cider

Lost and Endangered - fine times on the Good Ship Lollipop and the Grim Bastard:

Captain Pigheart's Theological Adventure - fear of ye cloth
Captain Pigheart's String Along Adventure - I hates Punch and Judy
Captain Pigheart's Birthday Party - I be fond o' gifts should ye be inspired...

Captain Pigheart's Romantical Adventure - how I met the love of me life

Captain Pigheart and the Wenchly Lad - Sharon/Barry gets 'is own tale

Seasonal Adventures:

Captain Pigheart's Accursed Christmas - be ye likin' the undead?

Captain Pigheart's Little Christmas Tale - 'tis a time for peace and so forth

Comin' Soon:

Captain Pigheart's Floatin' Beasties Adventure! Or another excitin' tale!

Wannabe Pirates

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Tue, 22 May 2007 22:02:00 +0000

Gaaargh me hearties, how the devil be ye? Arrr, 'that be a shame...

Be not afeard, for I have entertainin's for ye!

With me ship in dry dock for the time bein' I've filled me wasted hours with a scourin' o' the televisual devices what litter me shack. Have ye spotted the forthcomin' American show 'Pirate Master' - yaarrr they be havin' the usual mob o' over-educated landlubbers loaded onto ye pirate ship and cast off. It be some reality nonsense or other, but should prove most amusin'. 'Tis unclear as yet whether they'll be facin' sea beasties or any form o' genuine danger - we can but hope. Most amusin' be the Wiki stuff they be promotin', so ye can point ye sarcasm-cannon at them as be desperate for fame and deflate 'em somewhat.

Yarrr - the problem be whether ye cap'n'll be able to see the series what with it bein' some CBS type affair - where can ye download such things? Be ye knowin'? Then ye must be sharin' so we can all be havin' a fine chuckle over a mug o' grog. If ye know - please to be emailin' - captain.pigheart@btinternet.com.

Gaaarrrgh!

21st Century Pirate

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Mon, 30 Apr 2007 17:18:00 +0000

Gaaargh, this be an advertisin' for me lad Sean O'Reilly an' 'is piratical scribin's what ye can be findin' an' buyin' by clickin' ye electronical cursor here.

This be a tale o’ real-life piracy on ye open seas. ‘Tis a trove o’ the excitin’ adventures of Sean and his buccaneer crew as they evade ye police and cruise blithely-like into illegal waters. Scribed with a snap in ‘is pen, the absurdity o’ drug-runnin’ turns into a fast-paced account, like Carl Hiaasen in Howard Marks’ body. A pirate’s sailin’ be rarely smooth, and this lad recounts the hot water he finds ‘imself in as openly as the victories. There be splashes o’ socio-political commentary to spice up the feast what’ll have ye ravin’ against the insanity of it all and more than enough personal feelin’ to have ye rootin’ for the heroes. What with sea-beasties, suitably odd crewmen, runnin’ from the law and the joys o’ sailin’, yarr, this be a book to read on any pirate’s deck. Support the ganja-pirates, fight the man, cry ‘Yarrr!’ and buy this book!

More Live Pigheart

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 18:22:00 +0000

Gaaargh me hearties. It be somewhat in short notice, but ye captain's been invited to read one o' me adventures for the lovely folk in Birmingham (UK). Yarr, I be not ye star attraction - that be a feller named Mick Scully (that state o' 'is limbs be unknown) readin' of 'is fine noirish stuff, with meself an' others providin' interludes. If ye be interested, here be a link to MacArts who be runnin' ye show. Gaargh, 'tis most excitin'!

Captain Pigheart and the Scary Lady

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Fri, 26 Jan 2007 18:02:00 +0000

Night met us at the island, and even the moon turned a blind eye on our questin’. Gaargh, there be atmosphere enough around a dark mysterious cave without ye weather conspirin’ against ye. Not content with ye gloomy shroud, the clouds also tipped their chamber-pots upon us. ‘Tis just as well, for we’d been practisin’ ye noble art of piratical prevaricatin’ and the downpour thrust us within.

We’d found this sodden land through the usual drink, idiocy and greed. We’d been visitin’ our old pal the King o’ Tarsus and found his daughter gravely ill. Me sawbones were rather too keen to wet ‘is blades on the poor innocent but ye King were in dire need. Gaargh, I were glad Gunther’s last patient’d fallen overboard earlier. We spent an anxious night a-waitin’, with the anchor ready for liftin’.

To me great relief ye princess lived, despite Gunther’s ministratin’s. The king granted Mick’n me the pick of his famed Hall o’ Bullion in reward. We came by a familiar lookin’ statue propped in a corner. Mick recognised the flinty gaze o’ his old master, Captain Smiley, the Grinnin’ Idiot. Twere an engravin’ so fine ye could see his bloodshot eyes stretched wide in fear and the bejewelled plate o’ gold clasped to his chest.

To give Mick a giggle, I laid me bottle o’ Old Scrotes Midnight Brew at Smiley’s lips. As the first drop touched ‘is lips, the figure began to rock violent-like, showerin’ me with grit. There were a great groan and Smiley’s jaw creaked open, and spoke like a volcano blowin’ chunks: “I knows ye, Mick the Dextrous, but I knows not ye quailin’ cap’n”.

I boldly made meself known an’ accounted for Mick’s present No-Handedness. The stone cap’n rumbled on endlessly of ‘is exploits and the lasses ‘e’d loved, though he finally turned to the details o’ ‘is statuary and the plate he held. “Ye must seek the isle of Gorgon. Treasure lies within, but turn ye eyes not upon the lady o’ the isle for she be most bashful…” an’ with that Smiley laughed so vigorously that he were soon naught but a heap o’ dust under a golden dish. Gaargh, ‘twere a mite disappointin’ for ‘e’d revealed little of use.

The King o’ Tarsus pointed out the sign over the Hall’s entrance: ‘ye breaks it, ye buys it’. Gaargh, a shiny platter paid for savin’ ‘is heir’s life (or at least ‘er virtue). ‘Twere not till I were scrapin’ me breakfast o’ bubble and squid surprise from it that I espied the map handily embossed upon it.

And so we came to be standin’, damper’n usual, in the murky cave. Havin’ some bad experiences o’ pokin’ into mysterious holes, I sent forth old Sam Knacker, the sail patcher. ‘E’d scarce tottered off when we ‘eard a strangled scream, o’ the sort ye’d not wish to foller. Gaargh, ‘twere not encouragin’ but I picked another o’ me expendable crew an’ we ventured inwards.

Sam were round the next bend, bearin’ his torch aloft frozen in lamp-like terror. At least we’d truly found Gorgon. Sam brightened a broad chamber awash with untold plunder, tauntin’ us magpies with its glitter. ‘Twere then I laid me eye upon a frightful vision - one o’ Jelly McFish’s more tentacular pals crawled onto land. Its face were reptilian, an’ its hair writhed wildly as if eels’d infested its skull. It seemed womanly, though in the rough. Though I fancied a good shriek an’ some girly runnin’, I were mindful o’ me reputation, so I nudged Scurvy McMurphy towards ‘er. Gaargh, their eyes met across the crowded cavern petrifyin’ the lad mid-gurn; I could not help but chuckle. Notin’ that the cave were lined with such figures, it seemed a fittin’ time to be fleein’.

Me crew were intrigued by the stonificatin’ an' there were much disputin’. 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’, me monocular vision granted me grace ‘gainst this demon. The plan were simple: I’d be distractin’ the crone whilst the lads robbed ‘er blind – lest they be stoned blind themselves.

I returned bearin’ rum and a bucket o’ charm. In me most allurin’ tones I called ‘er forth. Gaaargh, she were grimmer than Barry in the ship’s panto, but a swig o’ liquor softened ‘er hiss. ‘Twere not long afore we were pleasantly conversin’ on matters from the military uses o’ whelks to the tragic loss of ‘er sisters to some Greek feller. She’d been alone with just ‘er 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. ‘Er skin, though scaly, were warm to the touch, though 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 ‘er silken sheets hissin’ softly to one another, when ‘er 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 thrust it in ‘er face. She had time enough to whisper “Ignatius” before turnin’ ‘erself to stone. Gaargh, I’d only wanted to show ‘er the rainbows cast on ‘er cheek by Sam's torch. I lingered for a mo’, 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, ye curse were not lifted so we flogged ‘em as to Polyorchid Paul’s Garden Chintz Boutique for a tidy sum. ‘Twere all grand until we found a map directin’ us to the island o’ Minos with its tantalizin’ labyrinth. Gaargh, the temptation were too great, an’ the ball o’ wool too short; if only I’d worn me bigger jumper.

Merry Christmas

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Sat, 23 Dec 2006 18:05:00 +0000

Gaaargh, an' a merry Christmas to ye all. It be the end o' a grand year for us all I be certain. There be a brand new (if short) Christmas tale for ye all 'pon the blog, and some pics o' me Nativity. Have ye a grand time and I'll be seein' ye in the New Year.

Gaaargh,

Ignatius

Captain Pigheart's Little Christmas Tale

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Sat, 23 Dec 2006 14:34:00 +0000

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!

A Pirate Nativity

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Wed, 20 Dec 2006 16:59:00 +0000

Gaargh, pirates love Christmas just like all ye landlubbers, and t' mark ye festivities the good ship Lollipop'n 'er crew brings yer a pirativity:

Ye wise piratical folk come t'offer the lad treasure from across the seas:

Ye angel Gabriel be a-watchin' from ye sky with 'is twin blades o' cheer and merrity:
The proud parents wi' their beautiful baby boy, garrgh, ain't 'e cute?

Captain Pigheart's Heroical Adventure

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 22:53:00 +0000

Yaharr me hearties!

Though I be not speakin' to most of ye other than by these occasional emails from an email address ye'll most likely think be that of a lunatic, ye may be assured to be knowin' that I be havin' the knowin' o' ye. An' that be not by some frightful modern computerin' way, it be from the seein', chattin' an' possibly pokin' that we be acquainted. For that I apologise as a gentleman and dastard. Except from them of ye as be known only from said techno-beast, to ye I says 'ahoy' for I be knowin; ye no other way.

'Tis possible that I be speakin' with ye soon. If not, 'tis of no consequence; bein' oft of sea it be hard to be keepin' in touch with ye shore-bound pals. Be assured that ye be thought of aplenty an' with fondess, an' with more so if ye be likin' o' me tales, an' to better yeself further ye might be sharin' such recountin's with them as ye think might enjoy such gibble-gabble.

In short, there be me latest drunken' ramblin's for the readin', 'Captain Pigheart's Heroical Adventure' which be of me finest hour. Please, enjoy!

Ye captain,

Ignatius Pigheart

Captain Pigheart’s Heroical Rescue

captain.pigheart@btinternet.com (Captain Ignatius Pigheart) — Tue, 14 Nov 2006 19:50:00 +0000

Gaargh, I awokes half black, half red, and all hurtin’ with the sun’s malicious glare in me eye. It took a moment to detach me face from the tarry deck; ‘twould be a long day o’ rippin’ pitch from me beard. ‘Twere a fine night’s revellin’ in our latest victory, which I’ll be re-tellin’ to ye now in hopes o’ me hangover subsidin’.

Some days before, meself, Umberto an’ me new crew o’ poppy-perplexed puffers had heroically fled the isle o’ Merkin aboard the Sirrup o’ the Sea. Arr, ‘twere an ill name for a pirate ship, but it’d serve till I’d rescued me erstwhile crewmates from the clutches of ye dastardly Kneehorn. I feared for me band o’ cutthroats an’ deviants in the hands o’ the British navy. However, I were mainly hopin’ to toot on me poppy-pipe an’ spend a blissfully delirious day in Mistress Squidlington’s all-singin’ all-dancin’ Cockle Club.

Yarr, me plans were disturbed by Umberto’s bellowin’ about catchin’ some mutatered turtle. I were suddenly overcome by a frightful flashback o’ o’ the stench within’ such a beast’s belly as I staggered t’ Umberto’s aid. Bless ‘is ‘eart, Umberto’d hooked a weird ‘un and no mistake. ‘Twere only as we hoisted it up that its crusty shell were revealed to be me own Monty McBuboe clingin’ on for dear life, ‘is pustulent flesh raw from ye brine and vigorous floggin’. I were delighted to have me leprous pal back in the galley once more. The rest o’ me crew were not so keen, but bein’ in the throes o’ detoxificatin’ they’d little appetite anyways.

Monty’d been booted overboard by Kneehorn for fear o’ pestilence. ‘Twere entirely justified - Monty’d been voted Top Plague Vector o’ the Year for five years runnin’. Nonetheless, he’d news o’ me lads: Kneehorn’d sequestered ‘em on his notorious prison island where hangin’ be ye only respite.

This were the spur I were needin’ to kick me habit and Captain me ship once more. Umberto proposed a two step programme to get me back on me peg. Step one – be drinkin’ herbal yoghurt drinks to purify ye body. Gaargh, I’d rather suckle on Monty’s buboes. Step two – be talkin’ through ye issues, so we started a support group named ‘Poppycock’. We’d meet amidships to shiver an’ retch to pass the time. Monty an’ Umberto whisked away our supplies in the night for dopin’ ye fishies, so they’d bob eager-like to the surface. Aarr, ‘twere a source o’ no little contention an’ sadly led to some o’ the lads desperately gnawin’ the fishy spines for a taste o’ poppy an’ chokin’ t’death on them tiny bones.

Me cravin’s faded, as did me dreams o’ one day singin’ baritone alongside Murray Eel and the Planktones. I were heart-broke when Umberto ‘em as drug-fuelled delusion. Yaarr, me lethargy were gone an’ me naturally irritable nature resurfaced like a poorly-weighted corpse. I seized the wheel once more, an’ spun ‘er portwise for Kneehorn and me lads. As we neared the Inhospitable Atoll me crew were but little recovered. In truth their whinin’ an’ poor bowel-mastery’d caused me t’evict a number of the droolin’ wasters already; perhaps they’d make it back to their crotch-cochetin’ isle, should the fishin’ lines they were tied to somehow snap.

I’d a plan to re-take me crew, a darin’ rescue requirin’ swashbucklin’ and valour. This plan I put to me finest: Umberto, Monty an’ the least scabrous o’ me wretches, Johnny Scuttle. Given me resources, I were forced to re-evaluate me plan. An alternate stratagem arose, takin’ more account o’ the excess cannon-fodder we carried. Accordin’ly I directed Monty to brew up some war-juice. He mixed up the rum, brine and rottin’ fish with a sprinklin’ of ye opium to tweak the layabouts’ interest.

We crept up under cover o’ night – there be little honour in spotted an’ bein’ spotted an’ slain by light. ‘Tis far nobler, an’ may I say more fun, to come upon ye enemy from the shadows. We dosed up the crew and despite it’s foulness they gulped it down like gourmets. Clearly, the time spent chewin’ on me hempen ropes’d paid off. They were a-twitchin’ with the lethal juices and when one bit off ‘is own hand we knew it were time to unleash ‘em.

Me scurvy and psychotic crew swarmed up the walls and fell upon the soldiers with a savagery unknown to the sober, belying their formerly kittenish weakness. I bade Umberto an’ McBuboe to wait a mo’, lest we be mistook. I spied me moment when Kneehorn isself appeared, lashin’ at me beserkers with ‘is riflemen. Twere an excellent diversion an’ I cast a small prayer o’ longevity upon ‘em before slippin’ into the jail.

It felt grand to have a blade in me good hand and an extra-sharp hook in place o’ t’other. The guards were losin’ at dice when we ran ‘em through. Perhaps the ill-luck’d run out the holes an’ grant ‘em a fine afterlife; in truth I cared little, but ‘tis the thought what counts. ‘Twere a simple matter to free me lads. They was in a sorry state, but we pressed arms into their hands and shoved ‘em down the drains.

The roar o’ battle echoed through the tunnels as me crazed minions threw ‘emselves at Kneehorn’s soldiery. Herr Doktor Gunther Garment were waxin’ lyrical on the restorative properties o’ Monty’s brew, whilst poor Barry muttered darkly of ‘is lost wardrobe (aar, it’d taken promise o’ new shoes t’extract ‘im from ‘is cell).They were hardly spoilin’ for a fight, but it seemed Kneehorn were not quite the cretin I liked to take ‘im for. Our eyes met as we dashed across the pier. By the torchlight I saw ‘is noggin were blistered still from our rude treatment and ‘ad to stifle a laugh. Tis hard enough shinnin’ up a rope without a fit o’ the giggles. Though to be fair, the gun shot were not simplifyin’ ye challenge.

Thankfully Johnny were manning the deck still. All we heard were a ‘sprang’, a startled scream an’ the mighty ‘thwack’ o’ the cabin-boy slammin’ into the Admiral. Gaargh, bless that catapult, though god only knows what purpose its maker’d intended. We let out a ragged cheer and loaded the next comatose crewman into the net.

From our safer vantage, there looked to be but few o’ me ravin’ troops left, so I let Billy an’ Johnny pick ‘em off with crossbows. Arr, ye may think me callous but I were sparin’ ‘em the agonisin’ death than Monty’s concoction promised. We plucked Mick from a crow’s cage on the way out, leavin’ the port and jail in a fine conflagratin’. Gaargh, Monty’d even found time to t’acquire some grog an’ a few chests o’ the bounty what’d been on our skulls, it seemed only right that they be in our clammy mitts instead.

We talked over the namin’ o’ our vessel, mindful of its cost in both blood and booty. An’ so it came to pass that the Grim Bastard sailed forth for further piratical adventurin’. Gaargh, they be happy times in me mind, I’d granted me wig-makin’ pals a heroes death and no longer suffered their sickliness and lackadaisical ship-sense. Me satisfaction were only slightly o’ershadowed by the new prices laid upon our heads by our beloved King. That, an’ that the course we plotted were not quite as accurate as we might be hopin’ for.

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