What Kind of Pyrate Be Ye?

It's about ruddy time we got on board with yet another time-wasting Interweb thingy, the "psychological" poll.

In this case, it's spot-on as far as topic:


Yarr. Ye won't be taking no liberties with the female buccaneer. Truly a bastion of feminism, ye woman pirate will seize ye gold, cut off ye genitals and wear them as a necklace, all before her morning grog. Empowering. Yarrr.

You see, my dears? It even mentions grog. I couldn't be chuffier. Yarrr.

I liberated this excellent (and refreshingly short) poll off Rum and Monkey, but I originally read of it at the Cornjob Memorial Library, whilst wearing a clever disguise.

A most Nauticall Cove is Bilgemunky

Drat.

I suppose I shall have to be grateful to that raffish Nelson person for putting us all on to the delights of the clever pyrate-prymate Bilgemunky.

Such cheek. However, needs must. Ahem.

Thank you, Nelson.

And now that shall simply have to come off.

Original "Flay Otters" Inn Bought by Bristol Pub Owners

What wonderful news! Some lovely competitors of mine in the Bristol pub-owning wheeze have purchased the hotel in Torquay that was the inspiration for the postively brilliant
comedy "Fawlty Towers."

It's rather touchingly awful that there was a real-life equivalent of the reptilian and outrageously snobby Basil Fawlty. However, I'm quite terrified of the thought that the "nest of vipers" (his terrifying wife, Sybil) is or was running around on the loose. She was actually interviewed once, and defended her husband's memory vigorously. Reportedly, he was not "the neurotic eccentric that John Cleese made him out to be." It's really very amusing in its own right; one imagines a sharp-tongued Scottish tartar rising up and batting the interviewer with a tartan tea-cozy for his impertinence and correcting his pronunciation of "liqueur."

As per usual for legendary British comedies, there were a surprisingly small number of episodes - only 12. Each one of them opened with scenes of the hotel and the denizens, therein, ending with the sign in front of the property. For some reason, the letters on the sign were always askew, and always re-arranged in an anagram... as if some unlettered person had encountered them fallen in the grass and had stuck them back up on the sign in a tearing hurry. In at least one episode, a Horrible Childe of some sort is seen adjusting it, so it may have been meant to be a schoolboy prank aimed at a most incredibly easy and satisfying target.

Believe me, "Flay Otters" is one of the more inoffensive and least rude of the bunch. Just you consider the alternatives and you shall quickly come to the same conclusion.

In other news, as you may have noticed Mr. B and I have returned to dear old Bristol from our South Seas adventures. He has returned to his secret lair in the cellar and I am re-installed behind the bar, ready to serve patrons (and patronesses) their favorite tipple.

The mind boggles rather at the changes seen in the back garden - fortunately, the neighboring property is sadly neglected, but fortunately vacant and so there is plenty of room for expansion. I've just been down to the estate agents' to finalize matters.

My dear dim Merrikan friend has threatened to visit in future; must remember to book that month's holiday in Torremolinos as soon as I know the dates.

It's About Flippin' Time

It's a hard life in Paradise, my dears - my dim but well-meaning Merrrikan friend is futzing around (really most annoying of her) preparing to make something called "Mac Pancakes." This has something to do with a gentleman named Macadam or somesuch, but what a maker of road building materials hs to do with cooking I don't know.

The previous evening's meal was even more dubious - the gentlemen in the party eventually produced all the necessary combustibles to produce fire (after some discussion and fingerpointing about just who was responsible for reemembering to tell the men that the grille thingy required charcoal bricks and not a "whoosh" of natural gas} ((yes, it was my dear dim friend who forgot to mention this important fact at the time we were all at the local chandler's shoppe)). After triumphantly producing fire, and drinking some wine, eventually some rather delicious onion burgers were created, but all the participants absolutely refused to wash dishes aferwards owing to the fact that they had suffered mightily in standing around on rough ground getting choked by smoke and cooking by flashlight. So my dim friend did penance - and the dishes.

We are currently in a small village that follows the old Hawaii ways, but with some new twists - for example, on our first night here, we went to one of two (2) eateries that were reliably supposed to be open for business - one of them being an extremely pricy and exclusive hotel, and one of them a simple take-away window attached to a not-very-good second restaurant that's only fully open 4 days a week. This take-away window offered our best option, if we didn't want to get all smarted up to go to the toff spot. So there was a certain amount of whipping-in done at about 6:30pm, as the proprietor of our inn had mentioned that the take-away window closed at 7pm sharp.

After some dithering, we all made our way to the take-away place at a few minutes to 7 o'clock. We placed orders, but there was some confusion about just what we were getting, so my dear Mr Blubridge got back in line after realizing that he had just ordered a very small bowl of soup (he was expecting something more like the locals eat, a "plate lunch" which includes extra scoops of exotic foods such as rice and macarone en salade (I find it most intriguing that many foods in the States, or at least in old Mowee, are served by the scoop).

Alas, poor Mr Blubridge was denied - he was second in line when the tutu (an august personage approximately like an auntie, but with more personal mana, closed up the shutters with a "slap-bang and away you go!" leaving several hungry people in line and several more just arriving with desperate hope in their eyes that they had made it to the take-away in time. Many were sent away unfed, very much NOT like the multitudes after the miracle of the loaves and fishes, as we heard in the lovely island service I attended last Sunday.

Fortunately, the rest of us had ordered a bit more food than we could eat, so there was plenty to share around. Unfortunately, the soup was vile, the chicken was a leathery little beast, the rice was quite, quite gummy, and the macarone en salade was chalky. The soup was much improved with the addition of a little hot water (really, I've tasted seawater - quite recently - that was less salty ).

It appears that my dim friend is actually about to start cooking brekkers (about flippin' time - pardon! A most apropos commentary on the tardiness of pancakery, however) so I shall sign off for now, my dears, and supervise the flippantry.

Hunting Treasure in Heaven

It certainly appears to be heaven here. Our whale friends are not much in evidence today but we have found other pursuits; namely, the pursuit of buried treasure!

Treasure! Yes, we have found a few troves, following clews left by other treasure hunters. Sadly, our "find" rate is about 50%, but we were successful in finding one little hoard that contained a small traveling bear who wishes to be taken to new and exotic places. So far we've taken him out to dinner and photographed him in situ, as it were. At some point we shall find a suitable place to drop him off to continue his journeys.

Speaking of journeys, our traveling guests have all checked out of the Shoppe. I was not present for the denouement, but I'm reliably told that there were screams of horror and frustration right across the globe. With one glaring exception, all of the couples who arrived for a stay at the Grog Shoppe were lovely, lovely people, and even the exceptionals are getting professional counseling from a well-known busybody Agony Uncle who goes on telly to advise people that they're utter failures and don't they feel better about themselves now they know?

In any case, Mr. B and myself continue to be "on vaca" in Paradise for yet a few days more. We have not been successful in finding any more troves, but hope to find a few more today. We have taken the traveling bear to a few new locations but have not found any suitable treasure trove-places in which to leave him, as he is quite large and requires rather roomy accomodations, so we shall continue to look for a place for him. Our dim friends put us on to this hobby - lovely people, if a little slow to get moving in the mornings - so Mr. B and I shall probably embrace it enthusiastically on our return to Bristol.

It's ever so amusing to pretend one is a pyrate whilst hunting treasure - no wonder it's about to become so fashionable what with books coming out and movie sequels and games and whatnot.

The Whaling News

Having left the keys to the Shoppe in Sir (courtesy title) snugg's capable hands, I have decided to go on a fact-finding mission to learn more about whales in general and blubbery B. whales (Reformed) in particular.

It is a long and arduous journey from the environs of jolly old Bristol to the former whaling capital of old Mowee, but someone has to do it.

Mr Blubridge (who has not previously come into these chronicles) and I have joined some dear but rather dim friends in the Islands. We have observed whales in their watery ocean home and although they are not the same species as our dear somewhat new friend the blubbery B. whale of Gus' acquaintance, they exhibit some of the same behaviours.

I have also had the opportunity to observe a sub-species of Homo sapiens that might be taxonomically known as Homo sapiens australopacificanthus or "Southern Pacific Dude" and also Homo sapiens digme-babeliciencsis or "Dig Me Beach Babe." Regrettably, we Blubridges and our dim friends belong to the subspecies Homo sapiens prandialis tourodon, or " 'Where shall we have lunch?' Man."

I shall have to catch up to that rascal Nelson's doings, but of more pressing moment: where to have lunch?

However, be assured that nearly every day we see our new whale friends, though sadly not at very close counters. However, they are out there to be found and if possible I shall attempt to show images of them doing such things as whales are wont to do in these waters.

Tomorrow we shall be in the old whaling town of Lahaina, where many scurvy dogs and faux-piratical types make their living attempting to sell activities and condominiums (condominia?) to unsuspecting Tourodons (however they rarely succeed as the Tourodons are always in search of things like lunch and sunscreen). It's my belief that Nelson once sailed out of these waters, so I shall be looking for evidence and interviewing such wharf-rats that may be found down by the harbor.

Laugh An' Be Thankfu'

It seems as good a time as any to take the advice of an excellent drinking song:

LAUGH AN' BE THANKFU'.

COME sit down, my cronies, and gie us your crack,
Let the win' tak the care o' this worl' on its back;
The langer we sit here and drink, the merrier will we get-.
We've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.

Then bring us a tankard o' nappy guid ale,
To cheer up our hearts, and enliven our tale;
Till the house be rinnin' roun' about, its time enough to flit-
We've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet.

May the taxes come aff, that the drink may be cheap,
And the yill be as plentiful as 'gin it were a spate;
May the enemies o' liberty ere lang get a kick
They've aye gott'nt hitherto, and sae shall they yet.

Now, God bless the Queen, an' aye prosper her days,
For I'm sure that Her Majesty has baith meat an' claes;
And lang on the throne o' her faithers may she sit-
They've aye been provided for, and sae will they yet.

Then push round the jorum, an' tak aff your dram,
An' laugh an' be thankfu' as lang as ye can-
For seed-time and harvest ye ever shall get,
When ye fell ye aye got up again, and sae will ye yet.

Nelson's Blathering in his own BLARG

MY DEARS!

I could not apologize more profusely than if I fell to the floor and commenced to perform the Wiggly Worm dance. As in:

I sir, am a wiggly worm, sir. A wiggly worm, sir, is the most utterly utterly lowest form of life, sir.

The dance is performed by wriggling about on the floor in an abased and ingratiating manner, with much helpless flailing about and waving of limbs in the air.

I have been remiss. So now I must again be reMrs., and offer such opinions as may occur to me from time to time on matters piratical (meaning Gus, the book wot he wrote, and now Nelson's blarg) and parenthetical (meaning absolutely everything else).

And now I really must ask dear Q. Sybill if she may give us a date for the bridal shower. I do hope she doesn't mind if a Jackoozie is substituted for the usual waterworks.