The Irish Pirate Review

Avast maties, ’tis the time o’ the week again where we enquire “Pirate or Not” as we seek to seperate the brethern o’ the sail from the ranks of landlubber pretenders.

This week we look at the wandering minsterel Keith Richards o’ the Rolling Stones. He is an intriguing choice and one that requires serious deliberatin’, not least as the Dread Pirate Johnny Depp did claim to model his New Pirating personae on the antics of this rogue o’ the music industry.

So, is Keith Richards a dread pirate or a dreadful lan’lubber?

Not Pirate

· Falls from coconut trees on to his head.

· Stones don’t float well.

· Is friendly with the evil Johnny Depp

· Lacks eye patch or parrot.

Pirate

· Likes his rum.

· Probably knows loads o’ shanties, including the rude verses

· His facebook page lists his interests as wenches, shanties, rum and mischief.

· Really really really likes his rum.

· Sails ’round the Caribbean and has his own island fortress in Pirate (or Parrot) Cay

· Did we mention that he REALLY likes his rum.

· Successfully avoids death when falling from coconut trees on to his head.

All things considered, and even allowing for his ties to the Johnny Depp and New Piracy, it is clear that Keith Richards is most definitely a pirate in the proudest sense of our traditions.

Y’arr!

Ye join me as I run ahead of a brisk sou’ wester from Maracaibo Bay to Santa Marta. The sky is clear blue, the sails are full, and above me and me crew of lusty seamen flies the Jolly Roger, proud emblem of all that is piratey. Long has this flag flown o’er the ships of buccaneer and pirate alike, the skull symbolising the death’s head that is the fate of all who cross us, and the bones symbolising bones or something.

But news has reached me that in England, the skull and cross’d bones has lost the power it once had to strike fear into the heart of lanlubbers and lily-livered merchant seafarers alike. I’ve learned that that a buccaneer in Surrey has incurred the ferocious wrath of the Royal Navy, or Mole Valley County Council or some other such lanlubbin’ scum, for his flyin’ of the dread black jack. It seems the navy sent this pirate comrade an ultimatum to strike his colours or suffer the consequences, and he, a proud man, insisted on flying the Jolly Roger from his “house”, which I take to be some class of land-based boat. I shiver to think that even now he is most likely being keel-hauled for his offence.

Distressin’ as this news is, it is sadly typical of the low esteem in which pirates are now held. In the glory days of piratin’, the 1970’s, we felt that lanlubbin’ as a political system was on it’s last legs, and that the people would any moment come to see the rightness of the pirate analysis and flock to the true buccaneer alternative. In those days, you’d fly a false flag from your ship, the flag of a nation perchance, and trick into your rogueish crew honest men (pthooh!) who thought they were signin’ on for king and country (two things no pirate has any time for). By the time they learned we were pirates, t’was too late, they were one of us. Y’arr, but we did it for their own good. T’were nought but false consciousness we were riddin’ them of, much as you’d careen a hull to rid it of barnacles.

Still flying the false flag, we’d lure in other craft a’seas, then when prey drifted too close, run up the true pirate colours and chase after the HMS Mole Valley Council or whatever it’s name might be. Usually the sight alone of the Jolly Roger would be enough to strike fear into the hearts of the civil servants aboard, and the sloop, brigantine, or local government administrative body would be taken without a shot fired. You’d pillage all they had a’board, and by nightfall be in Cartagena to sell a’market the treasury tags and staples thereby obtain’d. Nowadays though, the power of the flag has waned, through years of dilution by Johnny Depp and his new piracy. But the day will come when the pirate flag will again bring terror to all who behold it. History demands it. We at the IPR will be to the fore of the project that makes sure of’t. And if we can’t manage that, we’ll write at great length about it, for there’s little else for an old pirate to be a-doin’.

All together now me hearties, “We’ll keep the black jack flying here!”

Avast!
A cruel hand we have had of it here at t’Irish Pirate Review betimes. We were becalmed in the Doldrums, a foul part of the ocean where the fell wind abandoned its loyalist adherants. We drifted for days in the most feared latitudes upon the waves. So desperate for progress that we had to throw overboard all our booty, every scrap of weight, to give a chance of picking up the slightest breeze.

T’were a dark moment, but we even had to force our horses, fine Arabian Stallions all, to meet a watery grave in Davy Jones’ Locker.

We lost three crew before getting into port- two to the scurvy when the lime juice ran out and one who we keelhauled when he was found drunk on another man’s rum ration.

But even a voyage like that was as nothing to the shock I recieved when I first perused the news-sheets back in port. Sipping a lime juice and rum (through a straw due to the scurvy taking all me teeth) I see that the Treaty, signed by the Great Landlubber Powers in the Port o’Lisbon has drawn out of the rotton wood planking as foul a bunch o’Landlubbers as ever has been gathered.

While the full Pirate analysis of this Treaty must wait for a deeper treatment, ’tis important to say early on that the threat posed by these self-styled Libertasians to the Pirateist project should not be underestimated. While others may argue that it is the major elected factions of the Landlubber classes we ought to focus upon, and not worry too much about the vanity projects of merchants and financiers, I call NAY!

For alone amongst the Landlubbers, the Libertasians recognise that their true enemy is the Pirate. While we sail on, forgotten and ignored by the larger factions, Libertasians recognise the challenge we pose to their beliefs, ideas and way of life.

To defeat us, they have stolen our garments. They speak of free-trade (something every smuggler is wedded to). They wish to see Ireland placed above all the Landlubber Powers. Well, is that not the great goal of the Irish Pirating Project?

But be warned, Libertasians are Landlubbers through and true. They have all their own teeth and shun the smack of the salty brine in their beards. Indeed, many of them don’t even have beards.

Libertasians may look to the unwary eye like a combination of buffoons and scamps unfit to be pressganged as cabin boys. But ’tis behind that facade of absurdity that their great plan hides. What that plan may be we can but speculate pointlessly and at great length.

We shall return to the Treaty of Lisbon at a later moon. For now, we just urge all Pirates to be ‘ware!

Yo Ho Ho!

Y’arr!

Ye join me in me cabin, a few leagues nor’west o’ the Yucatan. As the sun goes down ‘neath the yardarm I ponder once again the difference ‘twixt a true pirate and a feller as has only the bagatelle of a bucaneer, but none o’ the essence. Now, as I showed ye last week, it takes more than an eye-patch to show yourself a brother o’ the sail.

Still, an eye-patch is a start, as can be seen in the case of this here wench, Heidi Klum (pictured, yesterday). To be sure, anyone who’s seen her dish it out on America’s Next Top Model knows that this is a lass as has some steel in her, and a tongue sharper than any barbary corsair’s cutlass. But is she pirate or no?

Not Pirate

* German.

* Has all own teeth.

* Favours couture wrap dresses over long coats, linen shirts and sashes.

* A model.

Pirate

* Accepts payment for modelling work only in doubloons.

* Once sacked the town of Petit-Goave, Haiti.

* Eschews backstage cocaine, preferring rum.

* Chest.

Conclusion: Pirate

This were a tough decision to make, and one requirin’ much thought and ponderin’. But I have ponder’d on Heidi Klum many’s the long lonely night a’seas, and I say that only a damn fool who hasn’t had his lime ration would call her anythin’ but a true buccaneer. An’ I’ll strike down any man who says otherwise, damn their eyes!

This time seven nights, even I knows not where I’ll be, for that is the life of the pirate. But wheree’er I am, anchored or a’seas, you can be sure that I’ll be askin’ once again, “Pirate Or Not?”

Avastsies!!

It was one o’them weekends that just wouldn’t end, and it’s only now that I’m feeling the better of it, to tell you of me exploits since Friday eventide.

Me and a fine gaggle of me brothers o’ the sail, Black Bart Roberts, L’Ollonais, and their men sailed into Port Morne at sunset and there was ne’er a wink o’ sleep to he had till dawn, as we drank and wenched the night through, for our life is much more interestin’ than yours.

Shiver me timbersies!

On Saturday we hauled anchor and made our way to Trinidad where me old pal Stede Bonnett was to have revels at a new tavern and sea-shanty venue which you haven’t been to because it hasn’t even opened yet. On the way we nearly came a cropper courtesy of the pirate hunter Captain Kidd. He pursued us for half the day, and fired many’s the volley o’ shot at us, but we eluded his scurvey grasp in the end, although I did catch some grape-shot on the left side o’me face. Owsies!! Piratin’ is a dangerous life, and a more excitin’ one than yours.

We arrived safely in Trinidad and had tots o’rum with me dread pirate rivals and BPFF’s (Best Pirate Friends Forever) Jean Lafitte and Henry Morgan before going to Stede’s place for jugs of ale with lime (for the avoidin’ o’ the scurvey). The sea-shanties were intense, maties!

On Sunday we went west to Santa Marta, and spent the day eatin’ far too much hard tack an turtle soup in an eatin’ house near the harbour. Then me ol’ pal Edward Teach and his men arrived, and we had an all-night parrot party on the beach, for we do be such notoriously crazy pirates that we have our revels even on a Sunday night.

Splice the mainsailsies!

Since then I’ve been becalmed here just north o’ the Sargasso, staring at the stars and ponderin’ how much more dangerous and edgy the life o’ the pirate is compared to that o’ the landlubbers. But be assured maties, if you can’t be as great a reveller as me, ye can at least hear me tell you o’ me own roisterings. For I do know that ye dearly want to hear o’ them.

Y’arrsies!

Listening to: Sea Shanties

Reading: Sea Charts

Drinking: Salt water, for our canteens ran dry yesterday

Ahoy, shipmates!

As the tidings of the world which we call news are becalmed, I thought to tell ‘ee of a matter that I have been musing upon as I gaze upon my charts and maps o’ the stars.

On my last lengthy stay in port in New Amsterdam, to have the hull scraped clean of barnacles and the rips torn by wild Carribean winds in me sails stiched, I did hear tell of a terrible machine the Landlubbers of the stinking land-locked town of Geneva have built.

At first, I did assume that anything that was being assembled by the Landlubbers most opposed to Pirates in all the world was intended as a new kind of cannon for use ‘pon the waves.

Sure enough, I was told that they had created a cannon which could smash atoms apart, which from the description I read in the news-sheet are a kind of grapeshot. I was mighty relieved to find that the fool Landlubbers had built the cannon underground. However, what concerned me was that the report did not consider the Pirate perspective.

This machine, they did tell, has some islanders in the pleasant archipelago of Hawaii concerned that they may create a ‘Black Hole’ which will destroy all of the earth. I have spent many the good night with the women of Hawaii, who appreciate the virtues of a man with a peg-leg like few others. But I say that for all true Buccaneers, the destruction of all earth cannot come too soon.

If all the land be served with a Black Spot and departs, only the sea shall remain. It would be a grand look-out indeed if the rule of the Pirate and the total destruction of the Landlubbers would be brought about by the cheese-stinking Burghers of Geneva.

To Davy Jones’ Locker with them!

Ship Ahoy!

‘Tis often said the life o’ a pirate cap’n is a lonely and perplexin’ calling. Sure as saltwater and shiver’d timbers there’s the joy of the treasure-lust and the pleasure of pillaging dubloons from the broken hulls of the boats of the land lubbin’ merchants. The antics of the Dread Pirate Johnny Depp *pthooh* have tainted those pleasures for me however. Recently, when the wind was howlin’ in the yard arm, and the seas are high and whippin’ around the gun’al, l’il Tim our plucky cabin boy looked up at me with his hopeful eyes and asks “Cap’n, we’ll ride this storm out won’t we? We’ll make the shelter of Tortuga ‘fore long?”

I felt as gutted as a catfish a landlubber’s sea legs, for ’twas looking dicey for me ship, the Gangrenous Gull, as the crew were a scurvy lot but short handed with it. Even the tall pirates were short handed. ‘Twas difficult to steer a straight course while trying to compell boarders and get our pirate booty from the hold of the merchant ships. ‘Twas harder still for ship’s cook to fire cannon shot from our 12 pounders on the starb’d side while cooking the grub up in the galley. In me heart I sensed mutiny was not far off.

When we reached the locality of Tortuga and dropped anchor, I gave thought to forming a confederation with the other piratical bucanneers in these here parts. Sure as cuttlefish and canaries it seemed that an alliance under a shared flag was the only way we could properly counter the evil of New Pirates and the various Landlubbin’ confederacies that New Piracy was dipping its wick in. Some form of alliance where we could bring the most vicious and cut throat and skillful of our respective crews together on one boat to wreak havoc on the Main, while the less skilled spent time a-practicin’ their pirating on smaller ships. Yes indeed, this was what I thought was needed. The Confederation of Unified Pirates, Pillagers And Traitrous Evaders of Authority… CUPPATEA.

But then me parrot, Malvolio, piped up that I’d clear forgot that a ship can only have one cap’n and that in an alliance like that I’d soon have to be watching astern for devious malcontents eager to have away with me. As sure as herring and heartbreak such scurvy knaves a-plenty can be found in the company of Pirate Cap’ns. ‘Tis a minimum requirement for the job.

Malvolio reminded me of the great upheaval that occured in years past when the Cap’n and crew of the Yellow Rose persuaded the proud pirateers of the Red Flower to sail under common flag. That was in the days when the Dread Pirate BarbdeRossa was at the helm of the Yellow Rose (long before he decided to become all mercantile and respectable as a landlubber). Indeed Malvolio was right, for ’twas with the ruthlessness and cunning of BarbdeRossa and his firstmate, the Bald Architect (the blacksheep son of a proud merchant family was he) that the crew of the Yellow Rose eventually seized control of the Red Flower and began to sail it on a new course and the evil creed of New Piracy.

He was right o’ course was me parrot. Such a plan would result in in-fightin’ and backstabbin’ as each Cap’n tried to be the Cap’n del tutti Cap’ns as they say in Mediterranian parts. Either that or such an enterprise would inevitably drift towards the scurvy horror of New Piracy and abandon all our traditions of Teak chests buried 10 paces south of a crewman’s body and general piratical pillaging and nautical naughtiness.

So I shot Malvolio and swore off the run ration for a day to banish the humors from me that cause me to think crazy; Timmy the Cabin Boy enjoyed the ‘chicken’ dinner that our scurvy Cook made him.

arrrrh… ’tis a ruthless life as a Pirate Cap’n. But Malvolio knew too much.

Full Sail Ahead!

Avast ye!

Word reaches me here in me stronghold a few leagues east o’ Port Royale that the piratin’ influence in Ireland wanes further, after the merchants and gentleman’s alliance that styles itself The “Pirate Destroyers” invested in a new Cannon. Any of us who have sailed the Seven Seas will know that the acquisition of new cannon is the first step a merchant takes before setting out to best pirates like ourselves, who do live only to sail alongsides him and pillage his precious cargo afore it reaches the New World.

It’s only a few months ago that this tiny clique o’ lanlubbers was routed in open sea battle. A few of their number were washed up on a remote and desolate Island, and it were the fond hope of all a’seas that they’d expire of hunger, if the scurvey didn’t get’em first. It do bring a tear to me eye to learn that this same cabal o’ well-to-do merchants, upstart barristers and aspirin’ nobles have got their hands ‘pon a cannon. Whether it fires round shot or grape shot, I know not, but in dispatches from the port o’ Dublin I do hear that ‘twas in action today and won a defeat over Fiona O’Malley. Now, I know naught o’ this O’Malley lass, but I do hear that she’s part of an illustrious family. I surmise then that she’s the latest o’ the female pirates to follow in line from the great Grace O’Malley, as fearsome a pirate as ever stood ‘pon a burnin’ deck. So It’s with the sadness that only a seadog that’s lost a brother or sister o’ the sail can feel, that I ponder the future of these Pirate Destroyers with their new cannon. I console meself that the cannon, from a foundry in Galway, is new and untested, and that its owners have not the men aboard, nor the wit, to make use of it.

Make fast the jigger!

As any true Pirate will tell’ ee, there’s more to piratin’ than accessories. You have to give yourself over entirely to the Buccaneerin’ Life, an there’s nothing that gets me temper up more than seeing some class o’poltroon swaggerin’ about telling all and sundry he’s a pirate, when I know in me heart he’s never taken a cannon volley athwartships, nor steered a ship through the Sargasso Sea, that treacherous graveyard of sea-craft. But that’s me – I be a true sea-dog, and won’t be fooled by trifles. But what of ye, me readers, young folk sympathetic to the Pirate cause, but lacking in sea-farin’ expertise? Never fear, for each week, I’ll be teaching ye how to look beyond the number of parrots a feller may have on his shoulder, and determine, using in-depth pirate analysis, if he be a true Pirate or merely a follower o’ the accursed Johnny Depp.

Now, at first glance, this feller seems as Piratey as “Calico” Jack Rackham ever was. But there’s more to it than the eye-patch. Let’s look closer, and soon X will mark the spot where we’ll dig up a chest full o’truth.

Pirate

• Kicked out of home country in disgrace
• Trouble with the law
• Travelled around Europe
• Has many a rowdy tavern named after him.

Not Pirate

• Pirates hate literary modernism. We be romantics, aye.
• Mean to his mother. Pirates love our mothers, usually have their names tattooed on us.
• Beard far too small.
• Buried in Switzerland, a filthy stinkin’ landlocked country.

Conclusion: Not A Pirate

This feller may have occasionally donned the raiments of a pirate, but he had no true salt in his blood.

Join me each week as I ask “Pirate Or Not?” Next Week, Heidi Klum!

Yearr, Shipmates!

I tell ‘ee now a tale which cuts to the my very core. I trust you will treat a Salty Dog’s old heart gently as I spill, like the guts of a Navy Midshipman sliced open in a duel, the tale of the love I found and lost.

This tale be many a moon back, when my beard was pure red and my blade was shining clean. The crow’s nest had spied a schooner on the horizon and we had given chase under full sail. We soon caught them and put the crew to the sword. When we rolled our last body overboard, we found a cabin locked fo’ward. Blasting it open with my musket, I found a lady, dressed all in finery, with a thick worsted travelling cloak ‘pon her standing in the middle of the floor.

Well, we soon had her back aboards ship. We knew that with quality the likes of her, whoever she may be, we would make a fine haul of dubloons when ransomed.

Though she ne’re spoke a word, we learned from papers she carried that she was a messenger for a great Landlubber Lord. He’d sent her about his business, hiding behind her skirts. We put into port in Normandy, and sent word to his representative in the town (he had one in every harbour, making much of his gold in breeding the birds landlubbers use to send each other messages, instead of flying flags like good pirates) that we had his Lady.

A bird came back within the day. She held too many of his secrets for him to risk that his great rival, the Baron of Bein, might try to out-bid him for our ransom.

A pirate crew needs to know its Captain will bring it many’s the Piece of Eight. Also, though it pains me to say so, the crewmen I set to guard our treasure before she was swapped for the fine gold threatened to mutiny if they were forced to listen to her voice for more than an hour. For, though she said naught of consequence, saving her secrets, she could prattle on unaided for as long as she drew breath. But I cared not, being both smitten by her mysteries and also above decks, out of earshot of her noise.

So I sent her away, and we buried the Spanish Gold we got in return upon a Sun-drenched isle in a goodly chest of Teak.

Arrh, but it do bring a tear to me eye. Though my beard now be gray, and my cutlass will ne’er be so sharp again, I still make sure, when away from the scornful gaze of my rum-sodden scurvy crew, to seek out a copy of the Times o’ London to read her words. The many secrets she carried have ensured that she was owed much by the Landlubber Lords and Ladies. She sits now, ennobled as Lady Meath, Holder of the Order of Blue Cashmere, pronouncing upon the doin’s and transpirin’s of the Landlubbers.

And a Hoary Old Sea Dog sails upon the waves, a buccaneer with only one secret in his crusty heart.

Yo! Ho! Ho!