Archive for the 'Parrots' Category

Piracy Triumphs Over Landlubbers

Ahoy Shipmates!

‘Tis a fine day for the Pirating Classes as the Landlubber Great Powers have seen their beloved Treaty, signed in the Port ‘o Lisbon holed below the water by the unconsciously Piratey people of Ireland.

Pirates, as all who have sailed the salty brine know in their bones, hate Great Powers of Landlubberism. They are a threat to all we hold dear, be it the importation of exotic birds to be trained to sit upon a man’s shoulder or the threats to a smuggler’s livelihood brought about by Free Trade.

So, we can but rejoice that their plans to further tighten their grip on the people of Europe have been shot down by a popular vote. But that is not why the Pirate way has proved itself the superior choice, as the inevitable flow of history tells us it always will. It is the foolish notion of asking the lubbering mass to give their opinion which bedivells the graspers of the Great Powers.

The Pirate way is to elect a Captain. But, once elected, a Pirate Captain stands alone upon the deck. I tell the scurvy dogs what they do and if’n they don’t why, I just clap them in arms. If they still won’t do what they’re told, why ’tis just a short walk along the plank.

The Landlubber Powers know that they must have their way. But, not Piratey enough to simply seize power, they try to slide and slip their plans past the their crews.

Why, with the weakness of their democratic method, they can only ever be second best to the Piratey way. And that is why tonight Pirates can once again stand tall. Knowing that the Landlubbers may, just for the moment, hold control of the Land and Air, it is the Swashbucklers of the Waves who will finally have the last laugh.

YO! HO! HO!

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.

Pirate Or Not?

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.

Pirate Joyce

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!

Pirates v Landlubbers; An analysis of class in Ireland

Arr, Me Hearties,

If I tell ‘ee that most chroniclers hold that the Republic be a landlubber economy, you will laugh the joyless, sardonic laugh of the true sea dog. They writes in the ledgers of their counting houses that the citizens is all landlubbers with a pirate rump that exists on the margins. But even with a patch over one eye, true pirates can see better than the landlubbers with their two good ‘uns that the past fifteen years have resulted in a mere pseudo expansion of the landlubber classes.

Aye, the landlubbers claim to ‘ave more treasure. But, mark it well shipmates, they would rather spend their dubloons and pieces of eight on fabergé eggs and the infernal pottery of Josiah Wedgewood than bury it on a sun-kissed Caribbean islet in a good teak chest, 15 paces from the skeleton of a dead shipmate, or fritter it away on rum and wenches in a Barbary tavern. And they calls this “the good times”!? Worst of all, armchair pirates and the landlubbing acolytes of Johnny Depp and the New Piracy have internalised this false analysis. They pander to the delusions of the ‘new landlubbers’ but forget that, in essence, nothing has changed.

Analysis, y\'arr.

Breaking down the population by occupation, we see the following:

PIRATES:

Sea-Dogs – 1,000,000

Ships Cooks – 25,000

Parrots – 1,500,000

Cabin Boys – 10,000

Plank-makers – 80,000

Captains – 10,000

People with Beards – 700,000

Wenches – 1,500,000

Tavern-owners – 20,000

Ships-surgeons – 1,990

Buccaneers – 150,000

Privateers – 65,000

Shanty-singers – 250

Chandlers – 3,000

TOTAL – Way more than the Landlubbers

LANDLUBBERS:

Footmen – 1,450

Innkeepers – 500

Highwaymen – 27

Judges – 136

Horses – 10,000

David McWilliams – 1

The Spanish – 5,000

Farmers – 6,000

Schoolboys – 3,900

Ladies – 357

Potters – 200

TOTAL – Way less than the Pirates.

The analysis of the Irish Pirate Review shows that by any objective yardarm, most of these so-called ‘new landlubbers’ are actually engaged in traditional pirate occupations or in occupations which, though new, align their interests firmly with those of piracy, buccaneering and privateering off the Spanish Main.

While there be talk – y’arr, treacherous talk – of landlubber aspirations, of farming, of sending good lads to school instead of pressing them as cabin boys, ‘tis but a façade of change. P’tooh. True sea dogs know that the tyrant landlubbers will never give up their hold on Spanish gold even as they dupe armchair pirates, Johnny Depp and the so-called ‘new landlubbers’ into slavish obeisance to their land-bound ways.

These so-called ‘new landlubbers’ must ask themselves if, for all their new fangled a-doings and transpirings, they have seen even a single dubloon of Spanish gold! Nay, nay and, thrice, nay! There is only one path to the Spanish Gold and it is through the unabashed embrace of salty piracy.

Our analysis shows that the greater part of this island population is pirates whether they know it or not and whether they like it or not. Soon, we shall be all at sea, and at sea the landlubbers must be made to walk the plank. The ‘new’ landlubbers must choose. Is it to be the plank or women, rum and Spanish Gold on the Barbary Main?!

Shiver me timbers!

Parrots on the Shoulder: Outdated Seafaring Cliché or Proud Symbol of Our Piratey Tradition?

Avast!

The parrot on the shoulder has long been a central item in Pirate symbolism. I can remember a time when no self-respecting attendee would arrive at a branch meeting upstairs from a tavern on the northside to discuss the great Pirate/Buccaneer split, without a brightly coloured talking bird perched beside his head. Well do I remember one heartie, a lifelong and unsung hero of the Piratist cause, who would rarely be seen without at least two if not three birds on each shoulder. He trained them to sing the Pirate anthem “Yo ho ho and a bottle o’ Rum” and they often lead us, all five of us, in a lusty rendition at the end of a long and fruitful discussion. Ah yes, they were great days, and even though we never actually got on our boats and went a-pirating (many of us lived with our mums, and didn’t own pirate ships), we made a difference in a very real sense. True, we never made Ireland even slightly more piratey, but we did manage to refine our positions on many questions, and began some of the very valuable theoretical work which we continue here at the Irish Pirate Review.

All through this long and long-winded struggle, we have had parrots perched atop our shoulders. Some simply said “Pieces of Eight!”, others recited entire annotated chapters of Karl “Greybeard” Marx’s “Das Piratikal”. These tropical birds represent a link to the Piratey tradition of which we are only the latest iteration. That some of the so-called piratey factions of today seek to sweep these colourful fauna under the carpet of history is nothing short of heresy. This “New Piracy” (really just landlubber-ism made over in pseudo-pirate clothing) seeks to abandon all that was noble in the Buccaneer tradition. It falls to us at the Irish Pirate Review, seadogs too stubborn to quit, to fight on for the cause. They may chant “Euros!” now, instead of “Pieces of Eight!”, but our feathered friends are as vital to our cause as ever. So wear your parrots with pride, me hearties! Arr.


Photo Credit

Arrh! The Photo above be available for us to be using though Creative Commons by missy_1074 from Flickr. We thankee!
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