Two days after whatever that first day was. At Sea.
It was clear and calm today with a fresh breeze from the north-east and a periodic warm wind blustering abaft me breeches. We're sailin' upon the sunny Carribee bound for Jamaica where Fat Fat Sally's fat half sister Pat resides. That's if we ever reaches there. This old barnacle bucket - the Haughty Harlot has some serious structural weaknesses below the waterline and is a danger to human life, marine life and international shipping what with it bein' be-riddled with rot worm, slime wort, plague, phlange, ague and a particularly virulent sea borne venereal wart disease what you can catch simply by sitting on a warm seat. Still, it was a freebie so could I expect? I won in a mammoth all-night game of Dead Men Don't Argue in which I emerged victorious with this ship, a brace of pistols, somebody's coat and all the bags of gold I could carry off at a brisk trot. But it seems like the dead men is having the last laugh.

Aye and worse still, there's doings afoot. There's unrest aboard. Last night, a terrible, terrible fight broke out and four of me crew now lay stone dead: Dastardy Dan Dagget (Sprit'sl slack jammer's mate), Jack 'Jack' O'Tipperary (Mizzen top jack foremast hand lad), Wild-eyed Peg Leg McGrew (bottle washer's assistant and PR) and Norman Simpkins (not quite sure what he was doing here to be honest, he never seemed quite 'one of us')

It all started after the grog ration had been passed around on the lower decks and the conversation turned to women, loose women - and also the other sort too, but mainly the loose type. Soon an argument broke out, voices were raised, delicate sensibilities were offended and finally, daggers and dirks drawn. I tried to add my two penn'orth to the argument but this only seemed to fan the flames.

The bone of contention was this: What is the difference between a Strumpet and a Trollop?

I says a Strumpet will happily let you ******* her ****** without so much as a bat of her painted eyelid, whilst a Trollop would ***** your ********s if you so much as ********ed her ********s.

You gotta watch them godamned Trollops.

But there's them amongst the crew who, shall we say, begs to differ with my definition. I've tried flogging the mutinous dogs to within an inch of their lives to try and sooth the troubled waters but there's still a-rumblings and a-stiirings atween the decks. It was all the more tragic because earlier in the day we'd reached a broad concensus on the age old Hussy/Slattern argument.

I even tried mollifying the crew with the wise words of me old uncle 'Soft Hands' O'Houlighan:

Remember, he used to say, There's them as'd never do nought to no-one that'd be hornswoggled if ye were to go flouncing around with yer doozy out on the bulwarks but then ye can always hoist up your own petard. And no mistake.

This left them thoughtful but restive. I can little afford to be tipping any more of me crew over the side, worthless, pox-ridden, malodorous slack-a-muffins though they may be. Tomorrow I shall flog them all again and lash them into submission 'til they agrees with me. I know my trollops.

A deserted isle, somewhere in the Caribbean.
That didn't work - since me last entry me ungrateful rabble of a scurvy crew have mutinied. They marooned me on a deserted isle with only a barrel of rum, the ship's goat, yesterdays paper, me old sea chest and a few faithful followers who have remained loyal to their old captain. Luckily not a one of 'em knows about Sleazy's treasure map. That is currently secreted, not in me breeches - as nothing that has been down Sleazebag O'Houlighan's breeches is going down mine - but tucked securely in me sea boot.

So off the mutinous dogs sailed without us, at last united in their conception of a Trollop but doomed to pay an imminent call on Davy Jones as I neglected to tell 'em that Daft Mick the ship's simpleton had been a-sitting with his finger plugging a leak in the hull these last forty leagues. Unfortunately I am now left on this desolate beach with only the very dregs of the barrel-scrapings of the scrofulous, worthless and misbegotten:

'Undesirable' Corky Hawkins - One-handed Deckhand and chronic onanist,
'Salty' wee Joe Macgillykelly - Ship's Peanut Vendor (who sadly brought no peanuts with him),
Fancy Frank Filigree - Ship's Lace maker and big girl's blouse
Dubious "John" - Assistant Cook - and curiously curvaceous for a bloke if you ask me,
Poxy Pete - the pungent Purser - never, ever shake his hand, or any other bit of him.
Wheezy Morgan - Knock-kneed drain on resources, Porky Popplewell - Spigot Fettler's mate and fat lad
. A goat,
Daft Mick - Ship's simpleton and great, great grandson of Dennis the Rapscallion.*

Nary a one them any use to man nor beast.

So it appears I'm going to have me work cut out to prevent me poor old bones from bein' picked clean by the buzzards. Although I've already drawn up a shortlist of those to be eaten if times get tough. Curiously, by some odd quirk of fate, a mad fella turned up soon after we landed - a poor deranged shipwrecked matelot name of Archibald Fido McDing Dong (an alias I suspect) who claimed he had been shipwrecked there in a terrible bad storm back in the year 01 along with his crew of 43 but he was now the lone survivor due to some terrible calamity which he was a bit vague about and didn't really want to go into he said. He looked suspiciously well fed though for a castaway. He introduced us to his special pirate 'friend' Gerald what he had made out of knotted seaweed, rope, bones and skin. Although I believe he wants for nothing and presents no immediate danger to passing shipping, I suspect its best if he is kept at arms length from me crew, stringy, fatty, pox-beriddled, unappetising bilge rats though they may be.

footnote:
*Dennis the Rapscallion - a disgraced privateer whose galleon was wrested from him in the English Channel by a boatful of girl guides out to earn a badge. Ever after earning him the nickname Dennis The Rapscallion Whose Galleon Was Wrested From Him By A Boatful Of Girl Guides - The Big Jesse. He died in agony in 1721 after slipping on a yam.

Lost track of the days. Still marooned. Havin' a fine old time on the desert isle considerin'. Whilst the crew were foraging for food and fighting amongst themselves I pass me days swinging in a beach hammock, sipping a coconut and rum-based beverage of me own concoction and reading a fascinating book called How to make Lovely Doilies and Decorate Nice Cakes Ahharr - only jokin' - it was actually called How to slit people from gizzard to navel without so much as a twinge of conscience - then laugh about it afterwards by Captain Jake 'No Friends' Dunwoody. A fascinating study of the workings of a deranged and psychotic mind but with some fresh and innovative tips on disembowelment. Spotted a sail on the horizon though, so maybe me luck has changed.

Bad news for Porky Popplewell though, his time has come. It looks like the mad fella got him. We found his bones and a few other inedible bits this mornin' Ironically enough he was also first on my list for eating if things got tough. We needs to get off this accursed isle.

Another Day on the beach.
I've had much time for reflection whilst I've been a-lounging in me hammock, a taking stock. Its fair to say I've witnessed many odd things in my life - death, disfigurement, bloodshed, dismemberment and disembowelment. Not to mention hanging, drawing and quartering (which is pretty much the same thing but legal) and then some more hangin' as well as some sights that would make a man's stomach turn.

I've made fortunes, lost fortunes, stolen someone else's fortune, buried it, thought about it, dug it up again and then blown the whole kaboodle on wine, wenches, waywardness and expensive but essential ship maintenance.

I've sailed around the world, explored dense jungles, discovered rare and exotic species of parakeet and toucan, named 'em after me then shot and eaten 'em.

I've seen sharks ravenously gobble up men whose cries went unheeded after they accidentally fell overboard after slipping on some carelessly discarded tropical fruit. (though haven't touched a mango since).

I've seen old buccaneers, so shot to bits that they are composed of more wood and metal than man, who suffer more from rust and wet rot than pox and scurvy, but can still roger, roister and rollick with the best of 'em. Albeit very slowly and noisily.

I once met a talking horse.

I've seen some nice sunsets in me time too, if ye like that sort of thing.

I know a high-born lady who can tie her legs in a reef knot behind her head.

And, do ye know, there's this fella in Saucy Trollop Tavern (I'm a whisperin' behind me hand now) who can manipulate his boarding tackle so that it looks like a Spanish galleon in full sail on the larboard tack. Brings tears to yer eyes. Clever though.

Aye, and I've rogered me way through bawdy houses, convents, girl's finishing schools, retreats for frustrated and lonely gentlewomen and the qualifying rounds of the Miss Wanton Wench competition.

But I has to ask: What's it all about, eh? What does it all mean? Why are we here?

Tuesday. Who cares about all that high-falutin' nonsense anyway? Because using all the skulduggery and underhandedness at me disposal I've captured meself another ship today! Me and me crew was out a-frolicking in the waves this forenoon (I know its unpiratical to frolic, especially in water, but we've been trying to cope with our predicament by thinking of it as more of a beach holiday than a marooning) when along comes a dainty little galleon - the Scourge of the Seas, captained by a lady buccaneer unknown to me but going by the name of Saucy Sheila the Tasty Temptress. She spots me manly torso a-sporting in the briny, gives me a wink and invites me aboard for 'flagon or two.' Out of politeness she also asked the crew too, even though we was all larking about as nature intended (all except Dubious 'John' who said he was too shy).

Well, to cut a long story short, at a signal from me we overpowered her crew - they was terrified of us when we went at 'em with tackle akimbo - and took over the ship. I take back all I said about 'em, they fought like dogs. Battle over, I heaved that Saucy Sheila hussy over the side meself. The little tease wasn't nearly as saucy as she purported to be in any case. I suspect she made that name up herself. I've a good mind to report her to the Pirate Trade Descriptions Board, if there is such a thing.

....to be continued...