19 August 2007
What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?
July, 1856
And so, having taken complete and utter control of the Hairy Clam, we continued to sail onwards to America, to answer the call from my brother, Ludlow.
I say ‘we’, but of course Botter did most of the actual sailing, while I decided to relieve the ship of it’s supplies of rum, of which there was a plentiful and abundant supply. Suffice to say, after a day and a half of non-stop drinking, I did become quite, quite drunk, and thus the remainder of our voyage remains quite an indistinct blur.
I do remember swinging from the masts of the ship, totally naked, yelling, “I am a jolly rogerer!” before falling onto the deck with an almighty thud, bending my cutlass as I did. No-one should have to endure the agony of a bent cutlass, let me tell you.
Later on, I am told I tried to engage a shark in a bout of fisticuffs, as the hungry creature swam alongside our vessel. Allegedly, I called the shark, “a fang-faced, fin-backed bastard” and then I began wildly swinging my fists in it’s direction, apparently succeeding in laying a blow on the animal’s nose as it lunged up out of the water. At this point, I am told Botter tried to drag me away before I was devoured by the furious shark, but instead I declared the creature to be a “big, aquatic poofter” and then I vomited into the shark’s open mouth, as it rose up out of the sea to take a snap at me. This did not seem to please the animal much, and I am told it swam away in disgust.
As we continued onwards, my alcohol-induced antics increased; I apparently bore my naked buttocks to any other ship we passed, and one time I am informed that I stuck a telescope up my arse, and claimed I was keeping look out with my “brown eye”. On another instance, I wrestled control of the Clam from my man-servant, and attempted to steer us to the end of the world, so I could take a piss off of it. It was only by offering me more rum that Botter managed to pry me from the wheel, which is just as well as I was seemingly very close to sailing the ship right into some rocks, which would have been rather unfortunate.
I do faintly recall hanging my Lord Palmerston over the side of the boat at one point, thinking, in my drunken state, that I could use it as a rod to reel in any nearby mermaids, and then take them back to their mermaid castle and paste their fishy behinds with my own man-batter.
After hours ands hours of such inebriated tomfoolery, I finally went to sleep, my trousers around my ankles, apparently clutching a fish I had caught earlier, believing it to be a ravishing mermaid princess. I am fairly certain I did not try and penetrate the fish, although Botter always goes rather quiet when I try and discuss the matter with him.
Anyway, I was roused from my soused slumber later by Botter, who was positively brimming with excitement.
“Land ho!” he cried out.
“Did you just call me a whore?” I slurred, as I picked myself up off the ground, discarding my piscine partner in the sea as I did so.
“No, milord. Look – I can see land!”
I tried to focus through my alcoholic haze, gave up, and employed the use of the nearby telescope.
“Well slap my dick on the Pope!” I exclaimed, lowering the telescope, apparently leaving an awful brown ring around my eye, as I had quite forgotten where that telescope had been earlier.
“Could it be America?” asked Botter, hopefully.
“Wherever the cock we are,” I said, rubbing my increasingly sore head. “I hope they have got some fucking coffee.”
- Lord Likely.
