Rough Night in Ron’s

Y’earr, tis a right ol’ state I’m in, as you join me in me Sloop a few leagues south o’ Villahermosa. Though I consider meself as tough an old sea dog as ever went a’sail, I were lucky to escape with me life from a run-in in Ron’s tavern in Tortuga, home port of the dread pirate Major Twenty.

It all started well, mind. I arrived into Ron’s with me lusty crew in tow, and encountered the dread Major Twenty a-suppin’ at a pot of that filthy black Irish beer he insists on drinkin’. I bade a hello to him and his first mate Stinking Pete. I ordered a tot o’ rum and settled in to listen to the Major tell one o’ his interminable tales. “What class o’ shaggy dog story is this?” asked one o’ me crew. “Whisht”, I bade him, “The Major’s tales are hit and miss, but you never know when he might come up with a funny one”

Alas, it seems this was one of his off-days. “Oh noes”, I groaned, “he’s a-holdin’ forth about the ills of society” I usually don’t bother listenin’ when he’s in this kind o’ mood, but so full was the tavern with reprobates o’ the seas, that it seemed as if the whole o’ the piratesphere was in there listenin to ‘im. Hangin’ on his every word they were too, and remarking “Legend”, even when the old dog wasn’t being all that funny. T’is the same in piracy; if you get a reputation for fearsomeness, the lubbers will be afear’t of ye, even when you’re not being very scary.

“Padophiles are scum. Someone should just come out and say that. I fucking hate them” he said, to a great roar of approval from the hearties o’ the piratesphere. “arr Twenty, you legend”, said one o’ his cronies, “tis a true thing you say, and a brave one. T’is the terribly edgy and controversial buccaneer you are”. “I don’t give a fuck, I’ll say anything, for I am the dread pirate, Major Twenty”, he replied. “I also hate people who murder their wives” “Bad parents are also not good!” said another, to a huge roar of approval, and another, “that feller who locked his kids in the basement in Austria is a bad sort too, an’ I don’t care if it’s not Piratically Correct to say so.”

I groaned, for it seemed that there would be no entertainment in Ron’s for us tonight. This went on for some time, with the company each denouncing bad things, then slappin’ each other on the back for havin the balls to point out the bleedin’ obvious. I was about to head out to a wenchin’ house when I heard a sharp few words from Buck the ‘lubber that stuck in me craw. Buck is one o’ Twenty’s cronies, though there are many who say he’s more like an imitator, but with a smaller crew and no doubloons. Certainly, ’tis true that he lacks any o’ the wit of the Major. Maybe t’was the rum, but me blood was up from a hearin‘ some o’ what Buck had to say. I stopped an turned on me heel, for the true pirate crew is open to all races and creeds. We care not from where you hail, or to whom you pray, so long as you are the scum of the earth and devoid of any scruple or shame. “Aye Buck, if that is your real name” I said, “t’is the fearless pirate y’are when me dozen romany crewmen aren’t in the place. But they’re stout men and true, damn me if I don’t swear ‘pon’t.”

Then, as suddenly as he’d come bravely forth from the crowed, the ‘lubber was back amongst them, and never have I seen such a pitiful sight. “Freedom o’ speech! Freedom o’ speech!” he kept a-parroting, like a, er, parrot. “Aye” said I “the laws of the sea guarantees us both that we can say what we like. So stop squealing like a such a blasted child, just because a True Pirate doesn’t like what ye say!”. But I don’t think he was listenin’, for he kep a sayin’ “Freedom o’ speech, I’ll a-say what I like, you can’t stop me!” even though I never tried to stop him. “What’s wrong with giving offense?” he finally said, and I honestly think he didn’t know the answer, for as I’ve said, his cargo bay isn’t exactly overstuffed with wits.

I’d had about enough, and reached for me sword sayin’ “I’m as free as you Buck – free to call you a whey-faced poltroon and a cabin-boy in pirates clothin’!” I was sure I had the crowd on me side, for ‘tis bad form in pirate circles to be seen whingin’ like a baby the way Buck was. You take your licks and get on with it, here in the Piratesphere. I was wrong. The mob were turnin’ nasty, and they chased me out the door o’ Ron’s and down to the harbour, where I was lucky to get away with me hide. Back in the Tavern, the Major was the only one not to have joined the mob. He was behind the bar, stealin’ as many bottles of rum as he could carry back to his boat.

Keith Richards: Pirate Or Not?

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.

The Pirates’ Flag Is Deepest Black

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!”

Heidi Klum: Pirate Or Not?

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?”

Pirates dot ie – Insane in the Mainsail

Splice the Mizzen ye scurvy dogs!

All true buccaneers of the Main will know that the good ship Pirates dot ie, which sails under the terrible black flag of Capatin Cochranebeard, lately came under withering fire from the cannon of a landlubber Mano’war. Cochranebeard is as salty a dog as any man-jack of the Main and ’twas perhaps no great shame that he put out as much sail as his masts would hold and made for the New World like a wench for a dubloon of Spanish Gold. No great shame, aya, but no show of master seamanship neither.

Perhaps, It is not for us to fight another pirate’s private war against the landlubbers. Well, perhaps… And some villainous landlubbers might even hold that pirates knows next to nothing about maritime tactics and the subtle doctrines of Naval combat. They might point to pirates being somewhat intemperate in their engagements. They might speak of a tendency to go in with all guns blazing, the wheel on the foc’sle spinning wildly in the hands of a 13 year-old cabin boy. Well, what of’t? Do we not often carry the day? After a fashion? In our own minds? And what is more important to a pirate than the life of the mind, the imagination running free; the great adventure on the high seas of the brain?!

So, I feel perfectly at liberty to hold that by first engaging with the enemy on the enemy’s terms and then by erratically cutting out for the New World, Captain Cochranebeard has ruined piracy for all pirates forever. It is to be doubted that piracy in Ireland will ever recover from this blow. Piracy was only starting to recover from the baleful effects of Johnny Depp and the New Piracy, only just beginning to shake off the deadening hand of the armchair pirates. But look at it now. It is as tattered as the grapeshot-blasted Jolly Rodger on Cochranebeard’s mast.

I mean, would you argue for the self-regulation of piracy after this?!

I didn’t think so.

Glug, glug, ye one-eyed, parrot-loving bastards!