The Scrimshaw Connection

This story makes me wonder how Flarq comes by the ivory he uses for his scrimshaw.

It's Just Like A Story By That Poe Chap

People who are supposed to be dead keep popping up quite alive and a little irked that their funerals are are so ill-attended. Fortunately, UNlike a common theme in the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe's, no one was actually buried alive, or to be accurate, buried at sea alive. Even without Stupid George sewed to the deadcaul, it's a positive development.

In other words, it's time to loose the cats of joy again, for Thesaurus was only mostly dead. Huzzah!

Of course, the really interesting thing is that all of the crew (and a valiant and fully recovered Bob) are sitting on a rented schooner a few hundred yards offshore, ostensibly performing the traditional "sailor's last rites." But in actuality, they're gossiping about Sybil, theoretical Conchan virgins,* and whether the palace chef might meet with a convenient work-related fatal injury. So now Gus has the old whaler's problem to consider: follow the dangerous whale-road, or opt for the cushy berth ashore.

In Owyhee, in old Mowee to be exact, the old-time whalers used to raise hell and generally be rips and tearaways with the local girls. Eventually, each man (and indeed, each skipper) would have to decide whether to follow the whales back to the frozen, icy North to their feeding grounds each season, or stay in the warm, seductive tropical climes and eat coconuts and breadfruit all winter. In the local lingo, mauka means "toward the mountains" and makai means "toward the sea." To this day if you ask for directions in the charming dear Islands, instead of "turn right" or "go east" you might hear "At the junction go makai, then turn right and go mauka at the big church."
So we wait with bated breath (I'm not falling for that one again, dear Bard) to see which way he'll go. Mauka, or makai?

*Nelson - ever the eternal optimist - is obviously still in recruitment mode.

Statistics: Piracy and Armed Robbery at Sea, 1996-2002

I expect there will be a very large uptick when the raw data from Gus' expedition are considered.

My Brilliant Career As An Agony Aunt

My Brilliant Career (with the Navy) began rather like this. Here is one of my earliest patrons - as you can see I have dispensed rather a tot more joy than was strictly necessary. I gave him some career advice, and it appears that he followed it to the letter.

The rest of his manoeuvres that evening are chronicled via the link thingy. Since then I've always had a very great affection for all things Naval, as its' Members always wanted the same advice; they spent a great deal of their pay whilst on liberty receiving counseling from me in the form of endless measures of grog and Imperial pints of fine cask-conditioned ales. Generally, my advice went like this: "Have another, and then I believe there are some very nice but rather lonely girls that wait around for someone to take them to the moving pictures down Christmas Steps."

I should like to mention that my email thingy will now accept missives from all and sundry, although I reserve the right to refuse all proposals of marriage, and also all propositions of marital aid from suspiciously handsome former surf persons. I shall also not accept delivery of advertisements of divers pharmaceuticals of a highly personal nature and solicitations of funds from putative scions of Nigerian royalty. I will entertain all reasonable queries and endeavour to return them (however I make no promises about promptitude).

I will stare aghast at all unreasonable queries and will mock spelling and grammatical errors, so be warned, be polite and be neat.

However, if I receive too much of what Messers Monty and Python sang of so mournfully - that is, "Wonderful Spam, Beautiful Spam" I shall turn off the interweb mail thingy and it will go back to accepting missives only from within the (Ruddy) Americans On Line thingy.

Therefore I may be contacted at mrsblubridge (at) ruddyamericansonline dot com and so forth - yes, it is in disguise; you must work it out for yourselves. I expect that cheeky monkey Smart Ken will get in first.

Anything truly odd, frightful or disturbing shall be reported to the appropriate persons at the originating Interweb thingy.

I must tell you, most of my advice to the lovelorn consists of "Get a hobby, or get a little dog, or preferably get a dog-related hobby." So unless you are really desperate or allergic to dogs you should probably not ask that one as it's an old wheeze we Publicanatrices hear all too often.

I should just like to note for the record that Publicanatrices certainly do not vote Tory or its' nearest equivalent in the former Colonies.

We Are Truly At A Loss For Words

In Loving Memory of Thesaurus, 199?-2004

Such a sad loss. But let us not weep for he is with his Maker and Connection.

De-Bone, or De Boner? A Matrimonial Conundrum

That's as puzzled a phiz as ever a phiz I've seen - Gus is absolutely gobsmacked - but is that love, terror, or an intoxicating cocktail of both? Shall he marry again and lay down his revenger's tale for a more conventionally scripted happily ever after? Can he cope with the stress of a mixed marriage, especially as a Gentile in the land of the Conchubim (alternatively, as a stranger in a very strange land indeed)? Or will he find it convenient to move on, encouraged by the raving mob of royal celebrity-bedazzled islanders, who'd like nothing more than to Conch him in the head?

Meanwhile, there will probably be some scores to settle once Nelson regains what passes for consciousness on that sweet but not too bright phiz of his own. However, I am happy to report that at least Bob is reaping the benefits of a decent socialized medicine system:



He now has a pillow, and that is real cheese affixed to the bedclothes so that a wee nibble is never far away. Apparently Their Majesties' Royal Conchan Postal Service were overwhelmed with gifts sent from far and away for Gus, along with an autographed cricket bat for Nelson signed "Dude, this one's for you - Shaun."

There is some speculation that Martha Stewart may be coming out with little rat/cheese duvets, but not before she comes up with some attractive striped Bunkroll in a Bag sets in jailhouse orange.

The Truth Behind Nelson's Recruitment Drive!

AMSTERDAM (Reuters) - Foreign prostitutes in the Netherlands are to be excluded from new rules that allow foreigners who are specialists in their fields to work in the country without a permit, the government says."

This little item explains a lot about Nelson's recent pix-obsessed wig-out. I suspect it's suddenly become a lot harder to convince certain of his Caribbean staff to emigrate to Holland when it comes time to "recycle and refresh" his stock in trade.

Situation Normal...

Gus heroically blogs from his hospital bed, in spite of broken ribs making it difficult to hold his arms in the proper Mavis Beacon typing position. Flarq sharing the same cot probably doesn't help, either. Mind the harpoon.

Yes, that's another boat gone to Davy, and everyone surviving is in hospital. I'm quite concerned about Thesaurus. Without him, Gus will be at quite a loss for words.

I think Sybil has joined the Conchian Resistance. Fortunately, she simply smoulders in a little red beret and a tight trenchcoat - I do hope figuratively and not literally.

Poor little Bob with his tiny wee spleef! For that is what the Conchians use to splint injured whiskers with. snuggs will be bitterly disappointed that his auction has been mysteriously withdrawn from eBay. Oh, well, I think Nelson had a very bad seller's rating anyway, we probably would never have received delivery.

Nelson who? Cooke what? Oh, a little thing like a head injury is nothing to him. Really.

Poor boy - that second scrimshaw was obviously a forgery - the scratches are too even, and were clearly produced by a machine and not the wavering tip of a harpoon. And of course the automatic correction of Nelson's unlovely features to "toothpaste-ad gorgeous" is a dead giveaway that it was produced with a Microsoft-based etching tool.

So a modified and somewhat muffled "Huzzah!1!" while we all wait to see what happens next in the saga of Gus and the whale that et his wife, kid, and arm.

Whale Hos!

No, it's not the pod of the blubbery Bass, Tod; it's just Nelson and his current diversionary tactic: the thinly disguised sporting house recruitment drive. I will admit that his retouched scrimshaw is quite fetching, but only in an abstract, expressionless way.

Meanwhile, back at the castle, I am sure that Gus and Sybill are not having fun storming it. By themselves. With no tactical support and precious little tactful support from the erstwhile crew of the Lucky Sue.

My dear nikola has been made a rather intriguing offer of dinner and box seats at the sub races (well, that is what they used to call that sort of thing back in that day. Which was mine at the time. E'rm). I shan't blame her for taking Nelson up on it, since she's clearly loaded for bear in all ways that count: devastating looks, and a very well-stocked chest.

Of deadly pharmaceuticals, I mean to say. Rather. I wonder if she'd also like to borrow that clever little wrist-catapult I inherited? Uncle Charles hasn't had much use for it since his brilliant career as an international jewel thief came to a sad but rather amusing end.

And how dare he put Bob up on eBay as a mere plaything for unholy desires:

Wednesday, 22 September 2004 - 12:48 AM ADT
Name: Nelson

I'm listing this fucking rat on eBay.

There! You see? It's an outrage! It's a scandal! Oh, the bestiality! My word! Oh, the -- piffle.

Dear me, I've done it again. Pater would be ever so amused.

It's just like the time Pater's best old crony Snuffy Malone had such a devil of a time getting the banns published for his wedding, which had to take place in some haste owing to the war being on and he only had 3 days' leave. He rushed around arranging everything and his bride did the same, and then at the last possible moment he realized he had not gotten the license and the ceremony the next morning would be invalid. So he tore off across Town to get a n'extra special license from the Bishop, dodging piles of rubble through places the Tube wasn't running, and then tore back again, for the rehearsal was that night at the parish hall. No one ever forgot the dramatic moment when he burst through the doors, waving an official-looking piece of paper in triumph and shouting loudly "I've got it! I've got the fookin' License, the wedding is on!"

His bride fainted dead away, and the parson looked as if he'd rather be in his study flagellating himself like a Roman, but the wedding went all right on the day. Pater took his friend round to the pub after the rehearsal and told him "Snuffles, you never said a truer thing. Here's luck, may it never run out for a pack of smokes and take your bride with it." And he was right - it was a good marriage and not marred by fainting at the altar, since they'd already rehearsed that bit.

I beg your pardon most abjectly, but the story depends on a certain raffish delivery. Pater was quite a character.

In any case, perhaps we might have a flutter on old Bob and see if we can bring him safe home.

I decided I had to have one of the new Flarq T-shirts... it's not terribly successful over muttonchop sleeves, but it'll do to go on with.  

Nelson Rises To The Occasion

I'm beginning to smell a notBob. This is a far more accurate picture of Nelson - note the missing arm is the right, not the left, and though blind in one eye, there was no disfigurement, and thus no need for an eyepatch (and again, it was not the left, but the right eye). Of course, this image is a bit out of date... by almost exactly 199 years.

There is a sort of family resemblance - I admit there may be connection on the distaff side. The very distant, wrong side of the blanket distaff side. Also, if the heavily Scrimshopped (TM our own nikola) image at Gus' site is to be believed, Nelson has somehow become rather fetching in a rakehelly piratical sort of way. And he is certainly gladius to see us. Note a somewhat more historically accurate and appropriate sword in the above image. I shall have the new scrimshaw framed in any case, and shall supervise the process personally. You may all take assurance that it shall be well hung. And labeled *Nelson (Annotated). E'rm. Perhaps it's just Nelson's costume for tomorrow's bash. And that takes us to the next item of business.

As the annual TLAPD takes place on a Sunday, I did just wonder if our usual morning service would be conducted out of the Booke of Common Pirates' Prayers. Complete with "Y'aaaaar-men, vicar, that t'were a proper sarmon. Now p'int me in the direction of the rum-butt and some o' these saucy church-hen wenches."

However, at least one man of the cloth is undecided on the matter.

In any case, I shall be putting in a good word in for Gus and those of his crew (and Sybill and Bob) who are prepared to stand and fight like men. And women. And a rat.

Good Lord It's Nearly Here: Talk Like A Pirate Day Is Sunday

The extra barrels of rum will be delivered tomorrow morning. However, there's a mild disaster in the making: the eyepatches are stuck in New Orleans awaiting the first available FedEx flight out post-Ivan. We may have to improvise; fortunately real pirates would have used a simple torn strip of silk, so they can be made up very quickly from old remainders if necessary. The same strips can be used to make pigtails - very versatile, pirate fashion!

I expect some of the deeply puzzled sort of pirates may put in for grog and supplies of... woad or indigo or suchlike. If they wish to trade, I've got some garlands of dried hops from last years' Brewfest Binge decorations we can try to fob off on them.

In the meantime, we had best practice our piratical talk:

"Garrrrrn."

"Blooooow me doooown, mateys, she be listin' faaaar to staaaarbard."

"Yaaaar, me y'earin' ain't wot it used ter be these many years as gunner, ye'd best send yer yarn down me other y'ear-hooooole."

And of course, the classic: "Arrrrrs" and "yo-ho-hos" will always do in a pinch.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (It Will, However, Be Blogged)

Good God! It seems that Sybil has an Agenda. Also, she bears a close resemblance to Wonder Woman. The scrimshaw does not show her wrists... much watch for that.

I was about to post a notice for the Friday staff meeting, but needs must, tits up and all that - it looks like things are about to get rather sketchy for Gus and Co. They may soon be enveloped in the Fog of War.

One does hope they remain free and clear of the Mists of Dirty Little Illegal Police Actions, of course.

Dea Ex Machina! Princess Sybil To The Rescue

You must admit, she IS rather like a goddess, now don't you? She certainly knows how to fill out a T-shirt. Pity, she would have made a rather spectacular barmaid.

I award her bonus points for not being one of those annoyingly fluffy pink-taffeta faux-princesses such as they have in another sub-tropical realm, the Kingdom of Magic. I can't see Sybill hosting any teas at the Palace for little girls when the word gets out that she's the Princess of Blowing Things Up.

Huzzah! The necktie party has been cancelled. Joy unrestrained, et cetera. Now, I wonder how long it'll take for Gus, crew, and Sybil to get the S-1 headed in a blubbery B. whaleward direction? I'm sure Princess Sybil is anxious to put her remote controlled exploding squid into action against the foe. I wonder if this makes her an apostate in the state religion, or is it simply a rebellious phase?

Free Crown Royal for all persons able to prove that they are subjects of the Kingdom of Conch (passports only, no shells please). I take back what I said previously about the Conchians, I now see that the subterfuge was a matter of national security (for Conch, anyway). I did just wonder at the incredibly swift wheels of justice that took Gus straight from the dock to the gallows without benefit of judiciary.

Gus had best step carefully unless he's willing to stick his neck in another type of noose altogether - a matrimonial one.

Right, Who Is It?? Who's The King Of Conch?

The crowd so pleased we'd arrived cause at the far end of the palace square, workmen were hammering the last nails in place on a big gallows made of fresh pine. From it dangled seven nooses—six regular ones for me and my crew, and a tiny one for Bob our rat. The delegation who’d met us at the beach marched us onto the thing. The crowd roared.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way we can negotiate?” I asked the leader as he fitted a noose over my head. His comrades were doing the same to mine.

“Your lives can only be spared by Royal Decree,” he replied. “However, our King reads your blog and you’re on his Top Five list of worst humans in the history of the planet.” The he turned to the guy at the base of the gallows and asked, “You ready, Philip?”

“Aye,” said Philip, a big guy wearing, of note, one of those black hangman hoods. Then he stepped up to a oar-sized lever and cracked his knuckles. The crowd went bananas.

Right, who is it? Who's the blackguard Monarch who reads Gus's thrilling yarns and thinks he's one of the "Top Five list of worst humans in the history of the planet?" Because whoever you are, Royalty or not, you shall never darken the door of this establishment. My tipple, Sir, shall ne'er slake Your tyrannical and highly extrajudicial thirst.

As a follower of the cult of Bulbus, surely you can recognize when someone is being unjustly accused and persecuted, let alone mercilessly hunted for their blubber and baleen (I speak metaphorically). If you had taken the time to examine the facts, you might have realized that the whale that et the family and arm of Gus was some kind of rogue vegetarian-turned-carnivore - perhaps even The Anti-Whale!

I pray that you put your ceti-ecclesiastical experts on the case - in the meantime, no quiet drinks with the hoi-polloi for you!

It has been rather a trying week what with things blowing up and romantic heartstrings plucked and left to fall silent, not to mention hopes repeatedly dashed on the rocks of the Sea Witch's Claws. In the meantime, we have been inundated with some rather colorful resume' thingys. I think I shall put nikola on that project; it's right up her alley... perhaps I should say it's more in her line of... er, it's her department.

I shall light yet another candle in church for Gus and his men; I expect the altar guild ladies will be hitting me up for a little extra dosh for the expense, so I'm taking a bit out of the till before I lock up for the night. This is in addition to other candles lit for other causes.

And I shall light a tiny, wee candle for Bob, the rat. I could not find a suitable verse for him (I pray it may not yet be his epitaph) but here is something about a mouse. It ends:

But, mousie, thou art not alane,
In proving foresight may be in vain,
The best laid schemes of mice and men,
Go oft astray,
And leave us nought but grief and pain,
To rend our day.

Still thou art blessed,
compared with me!
The present only touches thee,
But, oh, I backward cast my eye
On prospects drear,
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.

Rather apt, that.

One more quote, from a rather famous diarist before the days of web-thingy diaries:

"And so to bed."

A Sailor's Prayer

My dears, I'm feeling very low. Perhaps a little music - drat, the gramophone is on the fritz again. Here is what I would play if only I could.

Though my sails be torn and tattered, and the mast be turned about
let the night wind chill me to my very soul
though the spray might sting my eyes, and the stars no light provide
give me just another morning light to hold

(chorus):
[For] I will not lie me down, this rain a-ragin'
[No] I will not lie me down, in such a storm
and if this night be unblessed, I shall not take my rest
[Until] I reach another shore

Though the only water left, is but salt to wound my thirst
I will drink the rain that falls so steady down
. . . though night's blindness be my gift, and there be thieves upon my drift
I will [thank the] fog that shelters me along
(chorus)

Though my mates by drained and weary, and [it seems] their hopes are lost
there's no need for their bones on that blackened bottom
and though death waits just off the bow, we will not answer to him now
he shall stand to face the morning without us
(chorus)

::sniff:: Such a lot of interesting old adventuring junk we decorated the Gentlemen's Club Room with; I fear it shall never welcome those weary seafarers... excuse me, must dash off and deal with a matter in the scullery...::sniff:: 

Never Mind The Flippin' T-Shirt, Make Mine A Mae West!

Gus and his hardy adventurers are in dire straits indeed (never mind about that rock band jape, we've all done that one to death already). Gus thoughtfully provides a link to a source of commemorative T-shirts just as it seems the Lucky Sue and her plucky crew are about to meet their Maker. One would hope that there would be a titch more floatation in the garments on offer than there appears at first glance.

I looked to see if they had a "Mae West" model but was disappointed to find it's merely Beefy-T and not even a "girly." It seems a shame, because the addition of one of those little yellow inflatable vests (often given away as souveniers on certain aircraft unlucky enough to experience a "water landing") would be a handy selling point.

My dear snuggs has put in a good word with a bewildering array of deities; I'm sure that Chad the cabana boy and all the rest of the staff will also join me in offering up whatever hopes or good thoughts they think fit for the survival of "our" band of sea-rovers.

And now, we must await further developments. I do hope that there are no carnivorous whales or sharks still in the area of the Sea Witch's Claws; we don't need that complication (though surely that wouldn't stop them if they decided to barge in and mess up a perfectly dignified and tragic denouement).

I do hope Gus has one more sly trick up his sleeve; pity he's just got the one to work with.

Thirteen Days

I should hope it won't take that long to resolve the Tortolan Missile Crisis. In the meantime, the hardy crew of the (is it still the Lucky Sue, or are we on yet another brig now?) have lost their steering gear to a "hail-mary" shot from that dratted surplus rust-bucket of a Tortolan battleship.

If I weren't stuck being a British subject in Bristol, I should certainly write my congressperson and complain about the dumping of old Navy iron on dubious "allies" in the Caribbean.

The immediate problem is steering, since the engines are undamaged but the rudder has been transformed into flotsam. There is some chance that they could steer by increasing or decreasing power to the port and starboard engines... or they could simply duct-tape Stupid George to the stern with a pair of snorkel fins and steer that way with verbal commands.

Therein lies the problem.

It's quite likely that confusion between "my starboard" and "the boat's starboard..." will arise in what passes for Rockhead's noggin. Not to mention the very real possibility that S.G. has no clew about the actual meanings of the words "port" and "starboard." Most people know that "port" and "left" each have 4 letters and remember that way, but I'm quite certain Stupid George would have trouble with even that simple mathematical concept.

I have an easier method of remembering which is which; when I drink port, I generally list to the left when tacking between the bar and the cellar.

Perhaps I had better bespeak dear snuggs to stock up on the port. We'll probably need it.

Invasion Of Ruddy Pirates Expected, Grog Shortage Soon After

We'd best stock up on the grog and parrot feed, as I'm certain there shall be an influx of rakehelly piratical types on September the 19th.

The Hunter Is The Prey

Action! Sightings! Harpoons! Even Stupid George does 2 useful and not terribly stupid things: he spotted the pod of whales and gave thrilling cry, and he also spotted a Tortolan battleship, and gave a somewhat more pragmatic warning shout.

Tortolans. We detest their navy (the people are quite nice, actually).

Glorious Feets Of Victory

My darlings! All and sundry! People in the street who've never darkened the door! He's alive, I tell you, Moses is alive! Open up all the kegs, tuns, bottles, cans, and barrels in the place, the Deluge of the Drunken Apocalypse is upon us! Moses has survived to win Employee of the Week unposthumously! And he owes it all (or much of it) to his "thinking feet," which somehow aided him in grasping the rudiments of F-15 armaments and survival procedures. Not with his feet, the grasping I mean. Unless there's monkey business in his family tree.

But I digress.

Fortunately for we ladies, he is a good looking EOTW. Rather a strange cross between Kris Kristofferson (I agree completely, Tina Bug) and a certain flightsuited leader of the free world. I shall be hunting up a suitable frame in order to add his picture to the gallery.

Cry huzzah! and loose the cats of joy (my apologies to W. Shakespeare, for whom I have the deepest respect).

And for those of you who skipped out on Lit. 103, "Bottoms up, half-price Kamikazes!"