Apparently ownership documents dating back to 1830 count for nothing with those jumped-up Venezuelans; they have confiscated a British-owned ranch. I expect that Vermin rotter is at the back of it.
While I applaud the concept of giving fallow land to poor people, I deplore the concept of government-sanctioned land piracy.
And once again, these people have no fashion sense.
Wednesday, March 23
Saturday, March 19
The Pirating News
It seems the late tragedy of the Asian tsunami cut back on the numbers of pirates in the Malacca Strait.
However, some pirates recently overpowered a... tugboat? and took some hostages.
Well, they have to start somewhere.
However, some pirates recently overpowered a... tugboat? and took some hostages.
Well, they have to start somewhere.
Shipped, Mates!
Such exciting news: the terribly nice and clever people at the publishers have decided to release dear captain Gus' book early from durance vile, or whatever it is they call literary limbo. I have been informed via my rather dim chum that I shall soon receive my copy of Pirates of Pensacola.I suppose we had better get cracking around here and get that Book Club meeting scheduled. I wonder if the author (the true one) will be making any appearances? I suppose not, as Great Britain undoubtedly has extradition treaties with a number of inconveniently friendly former British colonies in the Caribbean.
Drat. However, it appears that my dim chum may be able to get her paws on a signed bookplate for me. We shall have to play spies and arrange a blind drop. It wouldn't do to have Nelson, or those bad hoodies that were after that Keith person know our home addresses. The information could be tortured out of them, and then we could receive many unsolicited pirate software and pharmaceutical emails.
I shouldn't mind so much about the unsolicited pirate emails so long as it was really about pirates and buccaneers and privateers and persons bearing a resemblance to either Johnny Depp or Errol Flynn offering to send one artistically posed photos.
No, that I shouldn't mind at all. But I do think it's a rather large temptation to put Nelson in charge of collecting everyone's addresses. For one thing, he might send out some of those "pix" of which he boasts. Still, I'd prefer Depp or Bloom or Flynn there, and no mistake. And for a n'other thing, he might show up on one's doorstep and expect unlimited drinkies and a free berth. And unless he were chaperoned by Flarq would not...
Well.
If Flarq were along, I suppose he'd keep Nelson in check and keep the very strange Nigerian banking chaps from getting the addresses. And we did wonder of Flarq might be interested in the position of "impressively well-built doorman with oiled muscles" that we've kept open here at the Shoppe for him.
There is not much else to report, my dears, except that things have been very quiet around here since those very loud, rude travelers left. The next batch began arriving a couple of weeks back and they've been quite delightful.
The first to arrive were two American gentlemen from somewhere deep in that part of the country where subtitles are apparently required for their countrymen to understand them. Dead useful, those subtitles. I can't think how it's done but yellow letters float in midair, translating every word and obscure countrified idiom they utter. And they are such nice blokes, and very handy with tools and mechanical things. They keep the McFinsters busy, what with the brothers handing them spanners and all. Pity the McFinsters can't really read a scrap, but they communicate by pantomime. Quite amusing, really; I've taken to sitting on the back terrace of an afternoon with a hot toddy as the mimery is ever so entertaining.
The next to arrive were two rather spectacular looking blonde ladies. They turned out to be surprisingly down to earth and friendly. They keep to themselves and seem to be either pining for absent friends, or contemplating yet another (!) tatoo.
Most recently, two very attractive and smart gels arrived, speaking fluent Spanish. Actually, they got in very late indeed and I had all but given up their rooms, but they called from a transport cafe about 3 hours away and explained they had taken a wrong turning. They seem to be newly-minted vegetarians; they requested meatless entrees but strike me as "newbies" when it comes to eating Green.
The two American gentlemen seem to be very happy for the company but are rather sweet and shy; for all that they seem quite solid and good-hearted souls. I have heard no dire warnings about screaming, blue-haired gentlemen but there has been a lot of talk about one young man whose machinations seem to rival those of the clever revolutionaries that threw out all that perfectly good tea in his home city of Boston many years ago in the late, late, late, late war.
In any case we seem to have a happy company of fellow travelers. And soon enough we shall be adding to the collection of tomes in the Gentlemen's Club Room (which also functions as a Library) with dear Gus' opus.
Tuesday, March 1
A Former Guest Comes Out Against Whale-Killing
My dears, I absolutely couldn't make this up if I used both hands, shut my eyes tightly, crouched down, and made a vigorous "pop-pop! pop-pop!" noise:
There you have it: whale-killing is bad because they are sentient, thinking beings and also because they don't taste that good anyway.
The rest of this most delightful charming interview is on the site via the link thingy. I have a sneaking suspeeeecioun that the rugged New Zealander and his company will soon be sending some new guests our way. They may drop dark hints about "Sequesterville" or "Sequesteristan" but you may be sure that...
Oops. I should like to quote my favourite author (after Gus, of course):
"First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
With the exception of the dear Bard and our other legal friends, of course.
In any case - whale will not be on the menu here at the Shoppe.
Avi: So when we got eliminated, the woman who took care of us - her name is Meredith Rabitzsky - or, actually, she has a new last name because she just got married, but she has a line production credit if you ever get to watch the credits as they flash by - but she took care of us. And I told her, 'There's one thing I want to do before I leave Iceland.' I said, 'I'd like to eat puffin.' And so the next day when we were basically lounging around, Joe and her went into town and they found a restaurant for me to eat puffin. And that gave birth to the sequester event, which is, Will Avi Eat It? And everywhere we went, there was something where the game was, Will Avi Eat It? And I still think the craziest stuff I ate was in Iceland. I did eat puffin, and although I am a true, true animal lover and a true, true environmentalist, I honestly thought there would never be another time I might be able to eat this, so I did try whale meat.
Interviewer: Oh, my.
Avi: And let me just say, and you can put it in print, they shouldn't be killing these creatures because they're sentient and they also really don't taste that good. Don't believe the hype.
Interviewer: [laughs]. It's not good on any level. Right?
Avi: No. It just goes to further show that there's just no reason to be killing these creatures. Really, I don't know what the Japanese are thinking.
There you have it: whale-killing is bad because they are sentient, thinking beings and also because they don't taste that good anyway.
The rest of this most delightful charming interview is on the site via the link thingy. I have a sneaking suspeeeecioun that the rugged New Zealander and his company will soon be sending some new guests our way. They may drop dark hints about "Sequesterville" or "Sequesteristan" but you may be sure that...
Oops. I should like to quote my favourite author (after Gus, of course):
"First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
With the exception of the dear Bard and our other legal friends, of course.
In any case - whale will not be on the menu here at the Shoppe.
Friday, February 25
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.
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.
Thursday, February 24
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 17
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 16
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-knownbusybody 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.
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
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.
Saturday, February 12
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.
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.
Friday, February 4
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.
Wednesday, February 2
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:
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 19
Battlestations
I have just received a communication from the rugged New Zealander's firm that our next guests are due to arrive any moment. Such a to-do. It's ever so wonderful and exciting, although our current guests are not so much excited as appalled by the prospect of being cooped up for several weeks more with the imminent arrivals. On the one hand (deario!) they're happy he's arriving, and on the other hand (alas!) they're apprehensive. So they've requested a sort of wake be held in the Gentlemen's Card Room for the end of the pleasant part of their stay. They're in there now, drinking quietly and telling each other tales of derring-do, great deeds, and fine beverages consumed.
The mask and strait-jacket are all ready for the gentleman, and I've been asked to have the local quack stop by and see to a few minor injuries the lady suffered during the course of her trip.
Some of them are rather troubling.
I shall put her in the rather frou-frou front bedroom... the one with the stout lock on the door. Her companion shall be found a place in one of the old attic rooms, or perhaps I'll claim we're overbooked and send him down to Dirty Dick's Last Resort (it's a rather raffish place run by a complete prat who spends far too much time vacationing in Florida).
As a special favour to some of the employees of said firm, I've been asked to remove all hatracks and mirrors from the premises. They seem to find this request rather amusing, but if it makes them happy, I'm quite willing to comply.
However, this will make putting on a bit of rouge and powder a decidedly approximate activity.
The mask and strait-jacket are all ready for the gentleman, and I've been asked to have the local quack stop by and see to a few minor injuries the lady suffered during the course of her trip.
Some of them are rather troubling.
I shall put her in the rather frou-frou front bedroom... the one with the stout lock on the door. Her companion shall be found a place in one of the old attic rooms, or perhaps I'll claim we're overbooked and send him down to Dirty Dick's Last Resort (it's a rather raffish place run by a complete prat who spends far too much time vacationing in Florida).
As a special favour to some of the employees of said firm, I've been asked to remove all hatracks and mirrors from the premises. They seem to find this request rather amusing, but if it makes them happy, I'm quite willing to comply.
However, this will make putting on a bit of rouge and powder a decidedly approximate activity.
Tuesday, January 18
Monday, January 17
Replicant Rats (Note To Self: Check On Bob)
WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Rat cells grown onto microscopic silicon chips worked as tiny robots, perhaps a first step toward a self-assembling device, researchers working in the United States reported on Sunday.
Oh, dear! I do hope Bob is not a candidate for this program! I shall have to have dear Sir Snuggs (courtesy sex change) to verify that Bob has not been contacted by shadowy persons of sketchy background (not the sketchy scrimshaw sort either) who represent research labs.
Sunday, January 9
Botheration, Bugs, and Book Tours
This can't be a happy situation. I do hope it's temporary.
Drat, just when I was about to find out whether Gus shall be coming to Bristol or London for his book tour. I suppose I'll have to see about making the journey to some wild West, rip roaring 'Merrikan town, such as Toledo perhaps.
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Drat, just when I was about to find out whether Gus shall be coming to Bristol or London for his book tour. I suppose I'll have to see about making the journey to some wild West, rip roaring 'Merrikan town, such as Toledo perhaps.
Friday, January 7
The Inauguration (Not THAT One)
Such THRILLING news! Gus is to be elevated to authority; he has somehow found the time to collaborate with Nelson on a book about his (Nelson's) scandalous relations. Apparently the Cookes aren't dimestore pirates after all. And it is to be published, with actual covers on high quality paper. However, such a shame they can't take a writing credit owing to the unfortunate likelihood that they would be thrown in the pokey for profiting from (alleged, never proven) crime. And it's so heart-warming to see Gus reach out and grab for his future with both hands.
Therefore, the inaugural meeting of the Piratical Ladies' & Auxiliary Book Club shall be 1 April, 2005 at the Grog Shoppe, High Street, Bristol at 4pm. Refreshments will be served. Afterwards, members may like to partake of Harpoon Happy Hour, where in honour of the esteemed author of our little club's first selection, F.O.G. Cutters shall be served.
All ladies are eligible for membership. Gentlemen may join as auxiliary members only and must have a high tolerance for cats, tea, gossip, and ladies who get their knickers in a bunch over a wee rat. Any auxiliary-grade McFinsters will be given probationary status for the nonce until we see how they get on with their Big Book o' Words in grade 4 this term.
Please secure a copy of the book in advance from Amazon before the meeting. We British may purchase our copies here.
Pirates of Pensacola
by Keith Thomson (evidently that stooge person - Moe?)
Publisher: Thomas Dunne Books (April 1, 2005)
ISBN: 0312334990
Shipping Information: View shipping rates and policies
Amazon.com Sales Rank in Books: #46,441
Availability: This item has not yet been released. You may order it now and we will ship it to you when it arrives from Amazon.com
Therefore, the inaugural meeting of the Piratical Ladies' & Auxiliary Book Club shall be 1 April, 2005 at the Grog Shoppe, High Street, Bristol at 4pm. Refreshments will be served. Afterwards, members may like to partake of Harpoon Happy Hour, where in honour of the esteemed author of our little club's first selection, F.O.G. Cutters shall be served.
All ladies are eligible for membership. Gentlemen may join as auxiliary members only and must have a high tolerance for cats, tea, gossip, and ladies who get their knickers in a bunch over a wee rat. Any auxiliary-grade McFinsters will be given probationary status for the nonce until we see how they get on with their Big Book o' Words in grade 4 this term.
Please secure a copy of the book in advance from Amazon before the meeting. We British may purchase our copies here.
Pirates of Pensacola
by Keith Thomson (evidently that stooge person - Moe?)
Publisher: Thomas Dunne Books (April 1, 2005)
ISBN: 0312334990
Shipping Information: View shipping rates and policies
Amazon.com Sales Rank in Books: #46,441
| List Price: | $23.95 |
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*(I do hope this isn't one of dear Gus' little pranks.)
**(Sadly, this is nothing to do with boats. Ships. Drat.)
***(Surely this can be improved upon, ladies.)
****(Rubbish. It took ever so long to add the scrimshop!)
Wheeeeaugh. Good job I don't do this web thingy wheeze for a living. In any case, well done Gus!
Editorial Reviews
Review
"Lubbers beware, thar be a thrilling new comic voice asea. The wind at his back, Keith Thomson has created a powerfully funny novel. Stocked to the quarterdeck with characters at once hilariously inconceivable and sweetly heartwarming, Pirates of Pensacola simultaneously thrills and endears itself with every explosively charged page. A delight to set sail with."
- Richard Rushfield, author of On Spec
"Set in modern times, Pirates of Pensacola follows our poor, nebbishy accountant hero into a life of waterlogged crime on the high seas. Best emerging comic novelist for a good long while, with touches of classic Rafael Sabatini and the most imaginative Hiaasen."
- Jeff Danziger, political cartoonist and author of Rising Like the Tucson
"A swashbuckling parody, Pirates of Pensacola is a fine breezy read, filled with laugh-out-loud scenes and some high seas drama. Who wouldn't crave the pirate lifestyle? You get to rob, cheat, carouse, brawl, drink, chase wenches and then rob some more, carouse some more...what a life! How about cutting these rogues some slack instead of a noose? To this book, I give my favorite mock-pirate toast: 'Bottoms up, shot glasses and lasses!'"
- Richard Zacks, best-selling author of The Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd
*(I do hope this isn't one of dear Gus' little pranks.)
**(Sadly, this is nothing to do with boats. Ships. Drat.)
***(Surely this can be improved upon, ladies.)
****(Rubbish. It took ever so long to add the scrimshop!)
Wheeeeaugh. Good job I don't do this web thingy wheeze for a living. In any case, well done Gus!
Thursday, January 6
Guests Doing The Limbo
More slightly distressed guests finally arrived the other night. Yes, yes, yes, they also warned me of the blue-haired man, who is apparently of questionable parentage as well as having dubious style sense.
But these people are lovely; the nicest pair yet. They're a father and daughter. She has the most striking eyes I've ever seen, and he seems to be an expert at games of skill and accuracy (not so on chancy games, though).
He is also something of aconnoseur gourmand when it comes to spicy foods and fine brews and the conversations in the residents' saloon bar have been highly edifying.
But it all comes back to blood-thirsty tales of their erstwhile boon companions and the outrages committed by the mysterious loud person that was also traveling with them. For some reason, they all desperately hope this "git" (pardon) actually does arrive here very soon rather than ruin everything for the remainder that are still on the trip.
Fortunately, that Silent Lamb moving-pictures prop mask arrived, and one of the McFinsters dragged in a slightly used strait-jacket and left it as an apology-offering (which is the opposite of a thank-offering, as you might suspect). He had ever such a sheepish grin, so I suspect there's more to the story of that jacket than was made quite clear. He is such a wooly-pated simpleton, there's no getting a straight story out of him (or a strait one, for that matter).
Of course! that's what we shall have for Sunday dinner! Mutton!
I'd best make sure that it's acceptable to the one New Yorker. He and his friend have cut quite a dash singing at impromptu Karaoke nights - he puts that horrid old pub crooner we had in last month to shame. They also organized a limbo contest with the Tortolan pan orchestra, who are yet to finalize the date of the Big Booze-Up (which may be called on account of reign, if Queen Sybil decides on an earlier wedding date).
But these people are lovely; the nicest pair yet. They're a father and daughter. She has the most striking eyes I've ever seen, and he seems to be an expert at games of skill and accuracy (not so on chancy games, though).
He is also something of a
But it all comes back to blood-thirsty tales of their erstwhile boon companions and the outrages committed by the mysterious loud person that was also traveling with them. For some reason, they all desperately hope this "git" (pardon) actually does arrive here very soon rather than ruin everything for the remainder that are still on the trip.
Fortunately, that Silent Lamb moving-pictures prop mask arrived, and one of the McFinsters dragged in a slightly used strait-jacket and left it as an apology-offering (which is the opposite of a thank-offering, as you might suspect). He had ever such a sheepish grin, so I suspect there's more to the story of that jacket than was made quite clear. He is such a wooly-pated simpleton, there's no getting a straight story out of him (or a strait one, for that matter).
Of course! that's what we shall have for Sunday dinner! Mutton!
I'd best make sure that it's acceptable to the one New Yorker. He and his friend have cut quite a dash singing at impromptu Karaoke nights - he puts that horrid old pub crooner we had in last month to shame. They also organized a limbo contest with the Tortolan pan orchestra, who are yet to finalize the date of the Big Booze-Up (which may be called on account of reign, if Queen Sybil decides on an earlier wedding date).
Wednesday, January 5
Sybil Comes Out Of Her S(h)ell
Our gallant captain Gus feared he was about to get a "Dear Gus" speech delivered in person as he was speaking with Queen Sybil about their future together:
SIR (courtesy gender) SNUGGS! We're going to need a lot of white French lace hankies, and we'd best convene a n'emergency executive planning session of the Ladies' Embroidery Circle & Terrorist Society. A wedding is in the offing.
If dear practical Gus is able to get his Queen (17 master bedrooms) to the altar and properly married, they really shall be in need of the rest of their lives, as putting on a royal wedding is an exhaustive process. And a royal Conchan (beachfront access) wedding, even one immediately prior to a very large "For Sale" sign going up across the island, will be the social event of the season. I expect the palace will be entirely swathed in white tulle, as Her Majesty the Queen (all modern cons.)'s previous marital adventure was such a rushed affair at sea. And now she's going from a somewhat morganatic marriage to a common rogue, to a Gus-omatic one with a rogueish commoner. So very romantic.
I wonder if that daft artist chap Christo is available to do the bannery, signage and swathing? Perhaps he'd give them a discount rate.
And then, of course, it's that old problem of a mixed marriage, but it's been established that dear Queen Sybil, Protector of the Fluke (ballroom, State banqueting hall, 3 dining rooms, 3 reception rooms, private Whalish chapel) is quite Reform-minded.
Fortunately, all the sprucing up, refurbishing, remodeling, and clearing out that must be done for the wedding will make getting Conch (professionally landscaped grounds and public garden fete space available for day rental) a marketable property that much easier, once Sybil (location, location location) becomes Mrs. Overshaw (FSBO). Or perhaps they should consider signing the entire island up for that new home-makeover show, "Curb Your Appeal."
I should like to offer my modest establishment for a shower and act as hostess, with dear snuggs acting as my second - I know that's more properly a duelling term, but this means war (in the matrimonial sense). We must batten down the hatches and woman the gun ports to ensure a nice time is had by all and sundry. And invite everybody that we are reasonably certain is female, or presents an acceptable approximation of same.
If the dear Bride-elect is agreeable then it shall be an affair to remember.
I'm afraid that means no McFinsters, snuggs. Their attendance would be simply disastrous. However, a select allsorts of our dear male chums might be amusing company, and is terribly modern, and Leibniz might like to wear his old wig for giggles.
I wonder how Dead-Sexy Leibniz, Sexy Ken, and Adult Ed R will feel about wearing drag to the hen party? It's either that or the Subservient Chicken again for entertainment.
Note to self: must do something about that leaky faucet in the first floor gents'.
She grinned. She’d been playing with me. The little bastard.
“How are the bars in Oakland?” she asked.
“I’ll take you to every one of them. But you have to promise me you’ll do something for Stupid George first.”
She bristled. “What?”
“Marry his captain.”
I detached a washer from the elbow joint of the new arm and offered it to her.
SIR (courtesy gender) SNUGGS! We're going to need a lot of white French lace hankies, and we'd best convene a n'emergency executive planning session of the Ladies' Embroidery Circle & Terrorist Society. A wedding is in the offing.
If dear practical Gus is able to get his Queen (17 master bedrooms) to the altar and properly married, they really shall be in need of the rest of their lives, as putting on a royal wedding is an exhaustive process. And a royal Conchan (beachfront access) wedding, even one immediately prior to a very large "For Sale" sign going up across the island, will be the social event of the season. I expect the palace will be entirely swathed in white tulle, as Her Majesty the Queen (all modern cons.)'s previous marital adventure was such a rushed affair at sea. And now she's going from a somewhat morganatic marriage to a common rogue, to a Gus-omatic one with a rogueish commoner. So very romantic.
I wonder if that daft artist chap Christo is available to do the bannery, signage and swathing? Perhaps he'd give them a discount rate.
And then, of course, it's that old problem of a mixed marriage, but it's been established that dear Queen Sybil, Protector of the Fluke (ballroom, State banqueting hall, 3 dining rooms, 3 reception rooms, private Whalish chapel) is quite Reform-minded.
Fortunately, all the sprucing up, refurbishing, remodeling, and clearing out that must be done for the wedding will make getting Conch (professionally landscaped grounds and public garden fete space available for day rental) a marketable property that much easier, once Sybil (location, location location) becomes Mrs. Overshaw (FSBO). Or perhaps they should consider signing the entire island up for that new home-makeover show, "Curb Your Appeal."
I should like to offer my modest establishment for a shower and act as hostess, with dear snuggs acting as my second - I know that's more properly a duelling term, but this means war (in the matrimonial sense). We must batten down the hatches and woman the gun ports to ensure a nice time is had by all and sundry. And invite everybody that we are reasonably certain is female, or presents an acceptable approximation of same.
If the dear Bride-elect is agreeable then it shall be an affair to remember.
I'm afraid that means no McFinsters, snuggs. Their attendance would be simply disastrous. However, a select allsorts of our dear male chums might be amusing company, and is terribly modern, and Leibniz might like to wear his old wig for giggles.
I wonder how Dead-Sexy Leibniz, Sexy Ken, and Adult Ed R will feel about wearing drag to the hen party? It's either that or the Subservient Chicken again for entertainment.
Note to self: must do something about that leaky faucet in the first floor gents'.
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