Sunday 21st February '10

 

Well me hearties, we be back on the ocean wave once again.  We was perfectly ‘appy on ye island for a while, but the problem was the grog.  Or rather, ye lack of it.  As our supply of the Old F.J. gradually receded, the crew was forced to drink less, and as a result began to look more alert, seem better tempered, and appear generally more healthy.  As if that weren’t bad enough, the grog shortage ‘ad another even more unpleasant effect – the crew started to regain soberness.  All of a sudden, strange things started to ‘appen - Private Plankwalker knew exactly where he was and wot he was doin’.  Captain Strawberry ceased shoutin’ nonsensical jibberish.  And Backbeard suddenly took an uncharacteristic interest in his own personal hygiene.  This was extremely disconcerting.  In addition, we started to get bored of the same ol’ belly timber: Co-co nuts supplemented by the odd seagull (which ‘as also began to irritate Seagull Sid, who says we have ate a couple of good ‘uns, wot were his favourite to ‘ave a chin wag with).  Notwithstanding, the food on offer were still infinitely preferable to the alternative – the evil scrapings detailed in Del E. Bell-Leigh’s decrepit and woefully inaccurate recipe book.  All of which meant Jack the Dog and I got our ‘eds together, and was led to ye same conclusion – time to go back on the account!

 

We worked day and night to patch up our battered ships, from which the limp sails forlornly drooped, usin’ mainly discarded co –co nut shells.  And now we be back at sea, lookin’ for a likely prize – at the moment even a galleon laiden with riches would be a less welcome sight than a dingy dinghy with shipment of sherry.  We be constantly scannin’ the horizon, and as ever, I shall keep ye posted!

 

Mingo.

 

Monday 31st August '09

Ahoy mates!

Some excitin' news! Just as we 'ad sent our advertisement to ye "Daily Arr", Shorty returned! Fortunately, the carrier seagull wot we had attached the advert to was still in sight, and we was able to expertly coax it down from the sky, usin' a specialist piece of seagull coaxin' equipment - a flintlock pistol. Unfortunately Del E. Bell-Leigh the chef picked it up before we could stop him, and we all fully expect the seagull to reappear anytime in the next eight months or so, cunningly disguised as a rancid pasty, sickenin' soup, or some other not so delicate delicacy. Meanwhile, we was worried that Seagull Sid, who be able to communicate with seagulls telepathically, might not be overly impressed with our accuracy with a musket ball on this occasion. Fortunately, when Sid found out, it emerged that the seagull wot we shot was illiterate, and not much of a telepathic conversationalist anyway. So it were no real loss. Phew!

Anyway, where was I? Of course! Shorty the Short! He returned to ye shore when we thought we 'ad finally got rid - erm I means tragically lost him for good. But ee weren't alone - he was closely followed by Jack the Dog, Fearless Fanny, Cutthroat Annie, and the rest of Jack's crew! By an incredible coincidence, they 'ad also been wrecked on ye same island, on ye other side to us! They had made their way to the cave fer shelter and sleep. Blast me breeches if the snorin' beast we heard weren't them!

Since Shorty returned with Jack and his compnee, we has spent the long evenings beneath the purple sky, gazin' in wonder at the moon, white as the creamy head of a flagon of stout, whilst guzzling gargantuan gulps o' grog. By day we has basked in fiery sunlight, bathed in clear tropical waters, and poured flagons of FJ down our froats, as we 'ave pondered our next move. This be the life! I thinks we might be 'ere for some time!

Piratey regards,

Mingo.

Thursday 23rd April '09 

Jibber me kibber! I be still alive! By a stroke of good fortune we was all shipwrecked. But we was shipwrecked on a luxury island, complete with palm trees n' co-co nuts wot to eat. Although "The Faithful Ass" has suffered a wee bit o' damage, I be delighted to say that the most important part of our vessel remained intact - the hold, which contains our supply o' grog. Arrrr! But how did we come to be here? Well, I'll tell ye.

 

During the ferocious storm there were a massive thud, and that be the last thing I heard. I woke to discover we was beached on an island of tropical paradise, and immediately set about relaxin' and catchin' ye rays. "Turned out nice!" I thought to meself. On explorin' the island, we discovered that we wasn't alone.  From a fanged cave, clothed in spikes of deep green vegetation, we could hear a deep, dastardly rumble. It were somethin' snorin'! Sounded like a humungous monster. Fearlessly, I used the tip o' me cutlass to encourage Shorty the Short, our cabin boy, to go in and investigate, whilst the rest o' us retreated to ye shore. That were three days ago, and Shorty has yet to emerge. What has I done? This could be very serious - we might 'ave to employ a new cabin boy.   Nipper, the deputy cabin boy, will be welcome to apply, but ee will 'ave to go through a rigorous selection and interview process, and won't receive no favour over external candidates. We 'as prepared an advertisement to put in our favourite newspaper ye "Daily Arr", which reads as follows:- "Cabin Boy wanted. Must be willin' to carry out demeanin' tasks fer meagre pay. Candidates from both backgrounds be welcome - dogsbodies and paupers. Application forms only please, we don't accept no Sea Vees, and if ye be related to any seafarer who might be in a position to influence our decision unfairly, please declare this clearly when ye applies". 

 

So, a new cabin boy could be on the horizon. In the meantime, we be enjoyin' our surroundings, not to mention flagons of the Old FJ. As I writes, Gaybeard be givin' Nameless Nigel (who be dressed in a wacky costume of fake specs, a joke cigar, an' a floral dress) a piggy back. It be fair to say they has long since set sail from the shore of soberness, and be squarely steerin' toward a sea of squiffyness. Good lads! Just like ye rest of ye crew!

 

Fare thee well,

 

Mingo.

Monday 2nd March '09

I be writin' these lines in the midst of an 'orrific 'urricane. We cast off several weeks ago in sunny weather, alongside another ship containin' Jack the Dog an' his crew. But after a couple of days a mist descended, and the winds picked up ominously. Intermittent specks of rain were rapidly replaced by a torrent heavy droplets. The sky blackened, and the distant rumble of thunder gradually increased in volume, whilst the sky crackled with flashes of brilliant white electricity. As the "Faithful Ass" rocked dangerously in the violent ocean swell, I manfully hid below decks with the rest o' the crew. A couple of hours later, in the thick of the storm, we thought it were time to find out what were goin' on outside. We knew there were only one candidate for ye task in hand - Shorty the Short, the cabin boy.   Ee looked terrified. Some of us wiser pirates gave 'im some useful advice on overcomin' 'is fear. "Pull yerself together!" we cried in unison, before Tone the Bone tenderly kicked him out o' the hatch, up on to ye deck. Ten minutes later, Shorty returned, looking like a drowned rat, with news - Jack the Dog an' his crew was nowhere to be seen. 

 

At this very moment we still all be hidin' below decks, whilst ye storm continues to rage. I shall write again, if we be fortunate enough to escape. Commodore Craven and Mickey No Legs be holdin' eachother in a tight embrace, weedily wimperin', while One Eyed Tom be in ye corner, bawlin' his good eye out.

 

With fear in me heart, (and possibly for the last time) I say fare thee well.

 

Mingo.

 

Friday 5th December '08

ARRR! What a time we 'as 'ad! On arrivin' at shore we dropped anchor and speedily made our way to the local taverns. We started at the "Foaming

Tankard" then confidently strode to "The Bestial Buccaneer". After this, we hobbled to "Davy Jones' Locker "   before literally crawlin' to "The Barmaid's Chest". After a coupla flagons of grog at "The Barmaid's Chest", through the dense clouds of pipe smoke I suddenly noticed a familiar face glaring wickedly at me in the corner - it were me old shipmate Jack the Dog! I 'adn't seen 'im since we'd parted compnee to seek fortune separately several months earlier. He were sharin' an ale with The Scurvy Mapester and Spanky the Wench, who be, without doubt, two of ye classiest pirate ladies I has ever 'ad the good fortune to clap me eyes upon. I strolled across the cobbled floor, trippin' over me legs, as I was half drunk - the bottom half. 

Anyway, Jack called out to me in his traditional friendly manner. "What the blazes be ye doin' 'ere ye stinkin' scurvy swab?" he cried, to which I replied "I'm very well indeed thank you for enquiring, how the dickens are you?" Ten minutes later the grog were a-flowin', and the yarns were a-spinnin'. Jack had been a rovin' and plunderin' the Norfolk Broads, and between ye and me, had not had the greatest of success. He was spendin' the last o' his loot over one wild weekend, with The Scurvy Mapester, Spanky the Wench, The Hunky Hook and Gavin No Beard. They was in need of huntin' down more prizes pretty quick. Before long we 'ad decided to join forces once again, and to go back on the account together. Unfortunately, (and much to the disgust o' Pirate Lenny) shortly after this Greybones the Grey knocked into a particularly angry lookin' local, a seven foot tall wall of muscle, with black wiry hair, a sinister sneer, and a cavernous mouth housing a single rotten tooth. Greybones sent this hulk's tankard tumblin' to the floor, spillin' beer all over the uni-toothed menace. Safe in the knowledge that at least he couldn't bite us, we did our brave piratey dooty. We fled. And now, we be at sea again, huntin' ever greater prizes!

 

For the time bein', fare the well!

 

Mingo.

Friday 7th November '08 

Arrr! Success! A couple o' days after firin' Del E. Bell Leigh on board our victim's ship, we drew up alongside and boarded her. Fearlessly, I climbed aboard behind seventeen other pirates who I'd sent up afore me to make sure ye coast was clear. The site that met me eyes when I clambered onboard were enough to make me want to dance a hornpipe with joy. So I did. After catchin' me breath an' havin' a slug o' rum we set to work. There on the deck of our enemy's ship, which turned out to be called the "Naughty But Nice", lay their stricken crew, clinging tightly to their bellies, their wincing eyes protruding helplessly from pale screwed up faces. Just one figure was standing proudly in the centre of the fallen, with a recipe book in one hand, an egg whisk in the other, and his ruddy red face decorated with a broad grin - it were Del E. Bell Leigh the chef. We realised that havin' fired him on board their ship we were in a no lose situation. If Del had succeeded in feedin' our victims his fetid food, we knew they would be in no position to defend themselves. If he failed, he'd be captured, and probably killed, but at least we'd never have had to ram his meals down our gullets ever again. However, he had succeeded, which meant we could easily plunder "The Naughty but Nice", although still I had mixed feelin's about the outcome. We had looted plenty of treasure from our hapless victims, but was it worth it? That evening, after forcin' down the last of Del's latest offering - sherry trifle, with sherry substitute but real jellyfish - I had began to have me doubts.

The followin' mornin' Captain Strawberry had turned from his usual bright red to a rancid shade of green, Captain Apple had turned from his normal green to a violent shade of red, whilst Seagull Sid's eyes now both suddenly seem to be pointin' in different directions, and operatin' independent of one another. A terrible smell filled the air, and it weren't just because we ran out o' toilet paper two months ago. However, fear ye not! We have all recovered after another nights rest, and are now headin' to shore to spend our ill gotten gains. ARRR!!

Mingo.

 

Sunday 5th October '08

Well me hearties, things be on the up! Shortly after our last adventure, One Eyed Tom spied another sail. Followin' the debacle of Silva's misdemeanour the last time we tried to take a ship, (when he got carried away with his Big Boy), we decided upon a change of tactics. As we approached our quarry, we had a fair wind behind us, and "The Faithful Ass" glided across the ocean, like a greased kipper sliding across a vinyl kitchen floor. We had decided that rather than firin' a broadside at the ship, we would send one of our fearless crew to board 'em. As we were still some distance from our victims, we fashioned a catapult from the elastic of several pairs of Greybones' red spotted Y fronts. With our catapult ready, we simply needed to place the chosen crew member into position. Despite his heartfelt protestations, we had decided to send the most heinous, dangerous and dreadful member of our crew onto their ship: Del E. Bell-Leigh the chef, armed with his recipe book. We pulled back the elastic to it's very limit, and as it creaked and groaned under the immense strain, we realised that it would never again be man enough to house Greybones' nether regions. With Del E. Bell-Leigh in position, we let the elastic go. A reverberating pinging noise was swiftly followed by a pathetic squealing sound emanating from Del's mouth as we sent him skyward. He took flight, and his legs flailed helplessly as he clung desperately to his chef's hat. I must admit, I felt a smug sense of satisfaction, feeling that we had at least partially repaid Del for the meals he had inflicted upon us over the preceding weeks. 

 

 We are now rapidly closin' in on the ship, and it be all hands to the pump, except for Captain Stealth and Squirrel who be playin' a game of aye spy, and Micky No Legs, who be motivatin' the crew by repeatedly runnin' up to each pirate in turn until his nose nearly be touchin' theirs, and shoutin' "ARRRR!" at the top of his voice. We never tires of that. Next time I writes, I hopes to be able to bring ye good news!

Piratey regards,

 

Mingo.

 

Sunday 7th September '08

Good news! We caught up with the ship! T'were last Thursday. It was a still cool mornin' and after a chase o' several weeks we piled on the sail for one final push. So close we got that I could see the fear in the eyes of their crew, and on the back o' their trousers. The ship's ornate and complex figure head were a great hairy brown beast, peering out from behind a jagged rock. Ye name of ye ship were clearly inscribed on the hull - "The Bear Behind". 

Well, impressive as it were, it weren't long till we left the "Bear Behind" behind. "Let 'em 'ave it, me boys!" cried I, and Silva immediately lit the fuse of our largest, deadliest cannon, affectionately known by the crew as "Big Boy". With a ferocious bang, "Big Boy" let rip with a brutal broadside. Silva's aim were true - too true unfortunately. The cannon ball whacked into their stern, sending a shower of sparks and splinters skyward. When the smoke and debris cleared, we was somewhat dischuffed to see that the ship 'ad sunk without trace. That good for nothin' Silva has never done nothin' by halves! I screamed at him "Silva ye dog, why can't ye never do anythin' subtly?"

Silva did not take too kindly to this; "Subtly?" he cried. "Subtly? Just ye try an' subtly fire me Big Boy at the Bear Behind!"  

I really didn't 'ave no answer to that.

Until next time, fare thee well. 

Mingo.

Friday 1st August 08

Hello mates! 

It 'as been some while since I last put pen to paper, but bein' a pirate it might not surprise ye to learn that I ain't that litrat. No matter! I be 'ere now, and much has happened since last we met. Most excitin' of all, we has spied a sail! Well, I say we, I mean One Eyed Tom spied it. He were on lookout duty, swears blind ee saw a sail through 'is telescope. But we ain't getting' our hopes up too much yet. It wouldn't be the first time old One Eyed Tom has led us up the garden path when he be on lookout duty. Last time we spent days fleein' from the giant sea monster 'e warned us about, which turned out to be no more than a squashed moth on the inside of his eye patch, which ee ad inadvertently put over his good eye. We is all hopin' that he be right this time - we could do with a bit o' plunder to take our minds off what be comin' for dinner. Aye, tis true, the old belly timber still be a first class ticket to a land of gut rot and green puke. Resultantly, we seems to spend many an hour swabbin' ye deck clear of chunks o' bile laden recycled grub.

 

Meanwhile, Petite Pete the Puny Pirate has made the mistake of beatin' Backbeard at a game o' cards. Old Backbeard don't take kindly to bein' beaten, but he do have a softer side. He made sure he put Pete right, if ye catch me drift. He quietly took him to one side, and very gently shot him. Ohh, that Backbeard! What a character eh? 

Anyway, back to the hunt for the ship. Let's hope it be a goodun, loaded with riches! I will keep ye posted with our progress. Fare thee well!

Mingo

Sunday 6th July 08

Awoke this mornin' clingin' to an empty bottle of grog, and as the sun blazed down, the stench of scorched flesh filled me nostrils. I felt the searin' pain of sunburn on me cheeks and in a desperate panic, I knew I needed to cover them to shield them from the sun. Swiftly, I pulled me trousers up. Realising I'd dropped off to sleep on deck of me old ship "The Faithful Ass", I set about findin' the rest of me clothes. That good for nothin' crew had spiked me rum again! I kicked a couple o' the scurvy scallywags as I searched the sails and rummaged through the riggin' for me piratey attire. Havin' found me hat, shirt, and beard, I retired to me hammock for some proper kip.

After a couple of hours I returned to deck, where the crew was a flurry of activity, as you would expect to see on any well oiled pirate vessel ; Silva was snorin', Backbeard was chewin' on a lollypop stick he'd found on ye pavement near a bus stop, whilst Greybones, who was the most active of the lot of 'em, had mustered enough energy to twiddle his thumbs. Meanwhile, the smell of me charred cheeks had receded, to be replaced by a much worse smell - it were comin' from the galley. Me heart sank. I knew it must nearly be lunch time. Now old Mingo here ain't one to grumble, but this new chef of ours, agreeable fellow as ee be, is lackin' in a few areas. Mainly in the areas of sense of smell, personal hygiene, and cookin' skills. He's a well to do chap with a double barrelled surname. Though he be from fine stock he 'as fallen on 'ard times. His full name be Derek Edmond Bell-Leigh, but the crew likes to call him Del E. Bell-Leigh for short. Anyway, Del was chompin' at the bit to unleash on us his latest assault on palatability. It looked disgusting! Nevertheless, I forced it down - "Chef's Special Tripe Delight" he called it. Frankly, I've found greater delight in removin' splinters from me eyeballs after sufferin' a broadside, but that be another story.

As for the rest o' the day, we was far too busy recoverin' from lunch to do any proper piratin'. As the sun set I dejectedly trudged back to me cabin, to get some rest in readiness for a night o' debauchery. Just as I was about to clamber into me hammock, amongst the plunder in the corner, I spotted an old leather bound book. Upon openin' it and flickin' through the leaves of dusty brown parchment, I realised it were empty, and was struck with an idea. So I has decided to keep a log. Lest 'istory don't relate what a fine pirate old Mingo were, this document might show ye that with everythin' I has been through, I ain't done such a bad job after all.

For now, I'll bid ee fare well,

Mingo.