Long Winded Stories of the Ocean

[Griffin NoName]

Not sure even Fishe-Heaad Stewe be fit for Simon Cowell. I prefer Simon Callow but sometimes get them mixed up.

[pieces o nine]

That were a arrrght-warrrghmin tayle hindeede!



Cood ye mebbe orfer a elf-traynin helektiv at thee PPHS over thee Ollydaye breake?

[Black Bart]

Arrgh...there still be time ta keel haul Simon Cowell.

[Sibling DavidH]

Greetings, Bart!  Good to see ye back here!   Do the dread deed, shipmate, and keelhaul the beggar!

[Black Bart]

Ahoy matey.  There be some fine tales o the ocean on these pages...every word true o course.  I'll ave ta try an think up...er, remember some new ones.

[Sibling DavidH]

Tell us the one about Moby Duck and Jehozabub the harpooneer. 

[Black Bart]

Ye gotta be prepared ta take harsh criticism on these threads tho matey...I nearly turned ta drink after this one by one o thee local Portsmouth Critics: Black Jake McGriffin:

Pride and Predjewdice and Halloween at thee Benbow.

Chapter One: it was a Dark and Stormy Night

This be a cock-eyed rehash of a major novel which leaves much to be desired; mainly Elizabeth Bennett. Readers will note the attempt to cast it in a roughshod manner by a multiple use of mispellings, dropped haithches and so on. Notice also the unlikely name of the author. It is suspected that the true writer wishes to hide their identity which implies a need to distance themselves from the material. The references to money and alcohol appear gratuitous and ill-founded and are far from satisactory pastiche on the original. We cannot reccomend this book.

Cap'n Black Jake McGriffin Portsmouth Guaaaarghdian.

I mean I nivver even heard o Jane Austin Texas.

[Black Bart]

...and now mateys, with thee snow fallin and thee wind howlin, pour yerself a grog, sit down at thee fireside and lend an ear to me new Long Winded Ghostly Xmas tale:

The Ghosts of Xmas Spirit

Arrr it was thee night afore Xmas aboard thee Jolly Futtock and all thee Pirates had hung out their socks fer Santa...thee stench was enuff ta kill an Albatross at four paces!

Down in thee galley the cook had put thee finishin touches to his Weevil surprise Xmas puddin and had tucked himself in fer thee night.

Thee Captain looked out thee window at thee snowy landscape...they'd sailed to Lapland speshul like just fer thee effect. With a frisson of excitement thee Captain thought about what likely presents he'd get from his crew...last year thee highlight had been a three month holiday on Skull island (lovely weather but it had been hard work keepin thee Cannibals away from his camp).

Thee midnight Twelve bells sounded and an unearthly silence descended on the ship, thee only thing movin were thee bilge rats in the bilge and thee weevils in thee bread. Soon the sound of snoring drifted up into the falling snow.

Suddenly thee Captain was awakened by the clankin o chains and a kockin on his cabin door...nervously he got out of his hammock and, approaching the door, he called out: "Who goes there?"

At that a ghostly figure drifted into the room.

"Whoooooooo...it be thee ghost o Peg Leg Jack yer olde matey"

"PPPPPeg Leg JJJJAAACK," stuttered the terrified Captain, "Ye've been dead these past five years ever since ye fell over board an got eaten by a shark...there was a rumour that ye was pushed but nothin was ever proved!" Ye be nothin but the heffect o two bottles o rum and a piece o wenslydale.

"Whooooooooo," said the ghost, "I've come ta give ye a warnin Cap'n...this night ye'll be a visited by three ghosts"

The Captain went white: "Three ghosts...not Black Fingered Harry, One Eyed Brian and Big Ugly Bastard McNish?"

"Noooooooooo," said the ghost, never heard of em, "The first ghost will call at thee hour o one...I can say no mooooooooore," and with that Peg Leg Jack disappeared in a puff of ectoplasm.

The Captain lurched over to his table and counted the empty rum bottles...three...it had been a heavy night. No wonder I be seein things he thought and went back to bed.

Hardly had the Captain's head hit the pillow it seemed but there was a groaning and a moaning coming from somewhere in the bowels of the ship...at that the hour o one struck and the cabin door burst open...and there stood the terrifying sight of the ghost o Captain Cronan!!!!

He was ghastly grey, with a livid scar running from ere to ere (from the time he's slipped whilst tryin to open a bottle o grog wiv his teeth). He was drippin wet and partly covered in stinking seaweed from thee very depths. A stench of rotting flesh was partially disguised by a strong wiff of Laphroag whisky.

"Whooooooooo...I am the ghost of Captain Cronan" said the ghost, "Give me your grog or twill be thee worse fer ye!"

The terrified Captain fetched four bottles of rum immediately and watched in horror as Cronan drank the lot.

Gulping down his fear the Pirate Captain asked: "Has ye got a message for me Captain Cronan?"

"Whooooooooo...hic...ooooooo...thee next ghost will come when thee hour strikes twoooooooo!!!!!"

With a huge belch, the ghost of Cronan was gone!

The poor Captain staggered back to his hammock....what could be worse than the ghost of Captain Cronan? Not me X wife he thought with a shiver...or Filthy Crab Pants Jones!!!! The poor Captain crouched down in his hammock too terrifed to sleep until, with a sound that seemed to come from Davy Jones's locker itself the hour of two was struck...

The cabin door flew open again (lucky he'd got the hinges oiled recently thought the Captain) and there stood...

Captain Cronan again!!!!

"Whooooooooo...I am the ghost of Captain Cronan" said the ghost, "Give me your grog or twill be thee worse fer ye!"

The Captain went and got the last four bottles of rum and laid them out before the hideous apparition. The fiend drained every last drop, saying before he left:

"Whooooooooo...hic...ooooooo...thee next ghost, hic will come, do you have any nice thnacks by the way...I could murder a few sausages or a bag o thnuts, when, hic, thee hour strikes thix...sorry, thfife...no I mean thhhreeeeeeeeeee!!!!!"

The ghost disappeared leaving a huge belch hanging in the air.

"I can't take much more of this" said the Captain to himself, "I wont be able to eat me Xmas dinner at this rate."

"Still" he thought "only one more ghost to go...I just ope it's Cutthroat Jake or Scurvy Nosed Pete...anything but...

there was a crash as the cabin door flew open yet again, it was three of the clock and there stood...

Cronan yet again...the ghost was leaning against the frame of the door this time, looking a bit unsteady, but in a terrifying voice from the grave he cried:

"Whoooooooooth...I tham the goat of Thaptain thronan" said the ghost, "Your grog or yer life ye blaggarth!"

"Oh crikey", thought the poor terrified Captain "I haven't got any rum left...what am I goin to do?" Then he remembered the little bottles of grog he's slipped into the crews socks...it would have to be sacrificed for thee good of the ship.

That fiend Cronan drank every last drop o grog on the ship and before he disappeared he cried "I'll be back nexth year...try an remember thee snacks, hic."

Next mornin it was xmas mornin! The crew awoke and rummaged excitedly in their socks only to find nothin but a weevily biscuit wrapped in a very sticky page from last months Wobbly Wenches.

And what of our poor long sufferin Captain? Wel...this year he got six months on Skull island.

[Griffin NoName]

ee! me mayne complaynte abowt that tale is it be not very beleevable!  Oi don't reckken Capn Cronan culd find 'is way ter the same playce three times.

[Sibling DavidH]

Ar, me dearios, 'tis a spine-chilling tale that will make the bogles on your possets stand on end.

[Griffin NoName]

Ar, me dearios, 'tis a spine-chilling tale that will make the bogles on your possets stand on end.

Aargh! That be an ancient quote !

[Sibling DavidH]

Another Rambling Syd lyric for pirate types:

What shall we do with the drunken nurker,
What shall we do with the drunken nurker,
What shall we do with the drunken nurker,
He's bending his cordwangle.

Hit him in the nadgers with the bosun's plunger,
Slap him on the grummitt with a wrought iron lunger,
Cuff him in the moolies with the Captain's grungerrrrr....
Till his bodgers dangle.

[Black Bart]

ee! me mayne complaynte abowt that tale is it be not very beleevable!  Oi don't reckken Capn Cronan culd find 'is way ter the same playce three times.

aaargh that be a fair point maytey, Cronan can ardlee find his way ta thee quiz!

We still aint found his treasure.

I has ta get me xmas tale orf me chest tho...utherwise it just aint xmas.

[Sibling DavidH]

We want more!
We want more!
We want more!
We want more!
We want more!
We want more!
We want more!
We want more!
We want more!

[Black Bart]

Aye matey but it takes a lot outta me writin them true tales...thee memories can be quite vexin.

I've been fillin me head with loads o nonsense written by Algernon Blackwood so gawd knows wot I'll come up wiv next.

I just read his terrifying tale 'The Windigo" a terrible crittur wot runs around in the Canadian wilderness farting on hinocent travelers an hunters.