I braved a circuit around the city centre on the 22nd of December. On the 22nd of December! “Braved” is definitely the operative word; in truth, though, it was neither bravery nor folly which prompted my walk, but mundane necessity (I was getting something rubbish like a bus pass). At the beginning of my pilgrimage, travelling through Glasgow Central Station, I saw some arsing student who strongly resembled Russell Howard. Of course, I couldn’t be sure that it really was Russell Howard, but I snarled at him just in case. On I went. The city streets, at this time of the afternoon, had been transformed into a heaving, pulsating throng of genetically-unfortunate bastards, all hell-bent on… well, on being bastards, I suppose. For a moment’s respite I ran into a book store, thinking (correctly) that it would be the least busy store in town. Inside a gentleman who resembled a melting Dennis Hopper appeared to be trying to do an impression of a prawn from his position on the staircase. I did not relate to this fellow or his motives, and I fled the store (but not before I bought three books, all for myself, and thus singled myself out as a Right Proper Posh Cunt What Can Read And Fings And Speak In Sentences).

My journey took me through the Christmas market, which has cropped up this year braying despicable music from a few of the stalls, and has brought along another stall which appeared to exist for the sole purpose of generating ‘bin smell’; at last, they’ve decided to try and fit in with the locals. I was amused by the sight of some grown adults sounding out words on the signs they saw in the market: “Wuh- wuh- world meats? That’s ra WUH-RULD MEATS stall, Jean!”
You could have been forgiven for not believing that these intelligentsia were in fact reading monosyllabic words in their native language. One of them turned round and at least one of her eyes was looking at me. Her jaw was hairy and half open, and it was shiny with spittle. Her face looked oddly incomplete, like it was missing a pair of tusks. I pictured her with tusks then, frightened, I hurried onwards.

A little further into the voyage I heard a bizarre, high-pitched, and inhuman noise. It was emanating from a group of teenage girls. Ah, I thought sagely, they are communing with bats. The girls were oddly dressed: the style was reminiscent of what you’d get if you could travel back through time and buy an item of clothing from a charity shop every decade, starting in the 60′s. Then wear all the clothes at once. Then stand in a busy street, in a near-shamanistic trance, and emit bizarre noise in place of speech. Perhaps the vile ‘text-speak’ has infected spoken language now, too, and all speech from anybody under the age of 18 will be completely incoherent. Given the average conversational topics of persons under the age of 18 (also known as “youths”), I am not sure we are losing much here: it was all basically white noise to me to begin with. I was distracted from the girl-childs by the sudden dissolution of my nasal cavity; I must be near Lush, I realised, but after last year’s adventure in the store I wasn’t quite ready to repeat the experience. I peeked inside, quickly; before my eyes filled with tears, rendering vision impossible, I felt sure I saw a chap in a cravat. Nothing changes in Lush, it seems, and given the chemical assault that they seem to have mistaken for air within the premises this does not come as much of a surprise.

Onwards.

On a street corner, looking shifty and devious, I encountered some Christmas vagrants. These are almost exactly like the normal, everyday vagabonds one happens across in Glasgow, but one of them seems to have decided at one point that rasping “FANK YOO GOD BLESS MERRY CHRISSMUSS” every few minutes will make them less susceptible to attention and their inevitable arrest. Imagine a foghorn haunted by a petty criminal, and imagine that all the foghorn wants for Christmas is a bag of skag and some even filthier sportswear. You got that image clear in your head? That’s the Glasgow Christmas vagrant. And at the time when I saw them, I had no spare change to placate them, so strode past them with haste.

So it was that before my nerves failed me and I found myself flattened up against a wall, hissing at passers-by, I began my exit from the infested city centre. Then the thought struck me: I still had to sit on a bus filled with plebs to get home. And I went on that bus. And it was filled with plebs. And it smelled of damp, and old sweat, and cheap beer, and sour things, and ancient chips, and urine, and stale socks, and worse than that. I looked around, wondered briefly how Terry Pratchett’s Ankh-Morporkians would handle bona-fide Glaswegians, and tried not to stick to any surfaces in the bus.

’tis the season, indeed.

Tuesday 8th March
We docked today near the port of Tesco. New crewmates are needed! I staggered on to land in a handsome manner. “Whurrrghhhh!” I told some passers-by, before being sick.

Wednesday 9th March
When my senses and consciousness returned to me today, I found myself in some browning nest of filth. I cared not, for there were women aplenty nearby. I thought I would like to romance some of these women, so I struck them over the backs of their heads with my peg-leg, seductively. At this they swooned into an unconscious state, which is a good start to any date.
By the gods, I am dashing.

Thursday 10th March
I acquired several kegs of rum by thoroughly legal and legitimate means which I can’t go into right now. Anyway, it were a lot of rum, and as I had several wenches to carry back to the ship (some of them were even still alive!), I shouted at some local men: “You yar bastarrds!”
I offered them gold bullion if they would be kind enough to help me carry rum back on to the ship. Seemingly, they were pleased to take me up on this offer, but a bit less pleased when we got back on board and I informed them all at cutlass-point that they were part of me crew, now. As such, all of their belongings were technically now mine, and they now owed me money. They did protest to some degree that I was being unreasonable, but I agreed to let them keep most of their limbs and simply work off the rest of their debt. It’s fine leadership like this that makes me the handsome, rugged, dashing, beautiful, muscular and much-beloved captain that I am, indeed.

Friday 11th March
Some of the new crew were muttering amongst themselves. Well, I won’t abide that sort of behaviour! I ate one of them alive in front of the others, biting bits off and occasionally spitting them back into the dying fellow’s face. I ate him with a bag of cashew nuts as a side serving and washed him down with a cup of tea. I did offer to share my meal with the remaining new crewmates but they just looked slightly sick, and declined.

Saturday 12th March
I have taken the most promising of the new recruits under me hook, so to speak, as some form of protégé. “Yer name, lad?” I asked him. He had some silly landlubbing name which I didn’t like the sound of.
“Yer known as Pants von Weeble now, m’boy,” I told him, “Come on now, let’s have a look at yer.”
A few minor adjustments to his appearance will have him fitting in well on board; I have therefore banned him from shaving. I spat into one of his eyes, causing it to dissolve. Although this caused him some degree of pain I managed to allay this by presenting him with his very own eye-patch. I’m sure those tears were tears of gratitude.

Sunday 13th March
Having allowed the boy 24 hours to settle in, I was ill at ease this morn (4pm) when I got up out of me midden and discovered that Pants von Weeble still had no beard. I looked at him suspiciously. “I hope yer not a poof, lad, and I hope for your sake that you’re not a woman.”
I ripped out some of my chest hair and have punched it into his jaw. It’s a bit patchy, and his jaw is now mildly misshapen, but it will have to do him for now. I spent the rest of the night with Killian, who in spite of being dead, and a shark, and somewhat reticent, really is excellent company.

Surely there’s some kind of law in place to protect innocent bystanders from glancing up, their eyes resting for one brief but ill-fated moment upon the pallid, hairy arse-crack poking out from above the waistband? Something along the lines of the Geneva convention, one would assume. And I’m not talking about a small amount of arse-crack here, either. I’m talking about a gent who seemed to have wilfully belted his woefully undersized trousers halfway down his posterior.
HALFWAY DOWN. THIS IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION.
Did you know that when skinny jeans are belted around your body in such a manner, they act as a sort of corset for your bottom? It’s truly, truly hideous. It does not look good; not by any measure known to man. Yes, I know you’re a hipster, but you could have just used your tartan “neckerchief” and obscure band T-shirt to clue me in and left it at that. Fucking hell.

I mean…
WHAT IS THIS

THIS IS A TRAVESTY THAT IS WHAT IT IS

I’m not exactly cutting edge of fashion myself, you know? In fact, if you took up the entire sum of everything I’ve ever known about fashion throughout my entire life, multiplied it by the number of times I’ve ever looked presentable, added to that the number of minutes I’ve spent in clothes stores throughout my life and took the resulting figure to represent my knowledge of fashion, then I’d know precisely dick about fashion. So perhaps I’m not best placed to criticise here, but really, Glasgow? Really. When I go out looking like a scruffy tramp I might draw some pitying glances, or perhaps have the occasional 20p coin chucked at me, or perhaps be “moved along” by police. But you know what? At least my pale Glaswegian arsecheeks aren’t being grotesquely squeezed out of the top of a pair of fucking skinny jeans, like horrid dough being squeezed out of… well, being squeezed out of a pair of trousers far too small to accommodate it, I guess.

Here’s an idea: the next time you’re thinking about leaving the house wearing skinny jeans, look in the mirror. Do you look good? How good? Would you take yourself for dinner and even offer to pay? Cocktails at your place afterwards? Would you serve said cocktails in your fanciest glasses? Or can you gaze at your own reflection for only the briefest of seconds, before turning tearfully away? Be honest.
In fact, Glasgow: being Glasgow, are your skinny jeans afforded extra character with the stains of Frosty Jack’s cider, or – I don’t know – a chip supper? Yes, a chip supper. I said that deliberately, you condescending pricks. Are your skinny jeans themselves now craving heroin?

What I’m trying to say here is – I don’t know. I forgot. My point got lost in its own insanity. But if it hadn’t, I’d maybe finish by asserting that Glaswegians and skinny jeans are a terrible mix, so just stop it already.

I have to finish writing now; the police are asking me to move along.

Tuesday 15th February
The winner of yesterday’s tournament did not win in a sufficiently manly fashion. I passed my fair judgement upon him: “Avast, yeh briney bitch! For today, yer the Cabin Boy’s plaything!”
Then I left, for there are things I do not want to see. As the man’s screams and gibberings echo through the night, I look at the card he has scrawled ‘pon for his now dead mate, and wonder if the punishment fit the crime in this case.
Bah har har! Course it did!

Wednesday 16th February
Found the Cabin Boy sitting outside his room this morn- sitting on a stool with his legs crossed, he was. He was preening ridiculously and sucking on his fingertips. I asked no questions about the whereabouts of the pirate I gave to him yesterday.

Thursday 17th February
After this week’s events it occurs to me that the crew are becoming soft. Garrr! Not on my watch. I will recruit some new blood, for numbers are dwindling, and then lead the men on an adventure. I have set a course for The Cavern O’ Ladyfolks. I… have my own reasons for this. It has been a long and trying week.

Friday 18th February
I emerged from The Cavern O’ Ladyfolks today, soaking, and made my way back to the ship. Ship’s Wizard appeared to be jealous, though I know not if this is because s/he did not get to visit the Cavern, or because s/he was not allowed to go to the Cavern to lie in wait for me. I have appeased the dirty mage poof with a bottle o’ me sweat and some rum.

Saturday 19th February
One of the men asked today why I keep calling Ship’s Wizard a poof when I am not even sure what gender it is (or if wizards even have genders). I looked across the ship at Ship’s Wizard, who waved at me coquettishly. “Never doubt yer Captain, boy,” I suggested, as I dropkicked the questioning fellow to death.

Sunday 20th February
I paid Ship’s Wizard a visit today. I was curious about its activities, locked away in that cabin for hours on end. The dirty poof had something warm in a bowl-like container in front of it. “What’s that yer drinkin?” I asked.
It turned out to be hot chocolate; nothing magical at all, and certainly something that a grizzled manly sea captain could enjoy while flexing his muscles furiously at the sunset. Ship’s Wizard wasn’t in a sharing mood though, and hissed at me: “It isssss for meeeee!”
“Shut yer trap, ye flimsy whore!” I shouted politely, and hit its magey face with the back of my hand. Well, I should know by now what effect physical contact with me has on mine simpering wizard, but at least I made it out of the cabin before it had removed all of its clothes. As I write now, I can hear unnatural noises emitting from that cabin, and although I refuse to speculate on it I know that the simpering freak is doing something absolutely vile in there.

Bastarrrds.

Love,
the Captain
xxx

Tuesday 11th January
There is a dead woman in my cabin. I am not sure how long she has been there. Based on her condition, I’d say… long.

Wednesday 12th January
I reminded the crew that it is mine birthday tomorrow. Several of them are preparing gifts and tribute, and some of them have thrown themselves into the sea. I did joke “For my birthday, I would like to be extra handsome!!” which is obviously ridiculous because if I got any more handsome the sea would evaporate. All of the crew just looked terrified and nobody laughed until I fired one of them out of the cannon and bellowed “HAR HAR HAR!”
Then everybody laughed.

Thursday 13th January
Arr harrrr, what a day! I got up very early this morning, about 3pm by my estimation, and proceeded with my birthday. First the crew rallied around Killian while we waited for him to sing me ‘Happy birthday’, but bless his poor shark physiology – he was unable to sing anything. What he lacked in appropriate vocal chords he made up for in enthusiasm, so he got an extra helping of jelly with his cake.

Friday 14th January
Another successful birthday was had, this time with minimum of casualties among the crew. Some of them had been clamouring for a game they were calling “Greased Raccoon”, but after seeing what they did to that fox I had to put my peg-leg down and say no. I kicked no more than 4 of the men to death to back up my decision. Since more than 3 times that amount perished last year, I think I did well, and rewarded myself by drinking until I was sick into someone’s bed (not mine).

Saturday 15th January
I asked Zombie Chef for soup today. I don’t know what he served me in that bowl, but it could not be deemed as “soup”. It could not even be deemed as “edible”; not by any measure known to man. Instead I emptied one of the cannons, and am eating the delicious powder I found within.

Sunday 16th January
I realised only today that I haven’t indulged in any birthday disembowellings! The crew were doubtless anxious to see the tradition continued but were probably too dumbstruck by my flexing muscles to say anything. To make it fair, this year I killed only the temperate and reasonable crewmates. Not only do they make poor pirates, but they seldom complain when I kill them off in their droves.

A few weeks ago I enjoyed a pleasant dinner with a friend. In Malta, in fact. At the same time and sadly in the same place, a salesman or consultant of some sort was also out for dinner, presumably with some kind of client. In fact, it wouldn’t have mattered where he or I had chosen to dine; presumably he could have sat in an adjacent street, or perhaps island, and I’d still have heard all of the braying obnoxious strains of his conversation. I don’t think I’ve ever nurtured such an irrational hatred of somebody I couldn’t even see.

His advice to his client (and I’m not a sales consultant or vile spawn of the devil myself- perhaps it’s good advice; I couldn’t claim to know) seemed to run along the basis that said client’s hopes, dreams, passions and determination are all entirely irrelevant. The only thing that matters is money. Perhaps, as I said, this is good advice. It’s still repulsive. And advice wasn’t the only repulsive thing our salesman was selling: he was selling his act.

His act was no less reprehensible than the advice he was giving, but to give him some credit he’d at least thoroughly researched all the clichés he was expected to play up to. He exuded arrogance in cloying waves; he was brash and self-assured; he absolutely would not back down from any of his arguments. Yes, he had it all, right down to the loathsome ‘business speak’. There is something about hearing a grown man in a suit loudly and proudly referring to his need to “touch base” (perhaps while “going forward”?) that makes me grind my teeth and pray for airstrikes. Hunter S. Thompson’s character Paul Kemp wrote of a secret urge to whack a salesman in the face. I’m far less subtle.

I can’t be the only one who thinks they’re awful; the only one who ranks them somewhere between cockroaches and some stuff I found on my shoe once. How often have you observed people being stopped by sales reps on the street and greeting them with anything other than dismay? I myself could count the number of such instances on my fingers after losing both my hands. And it’s because you already know, before this grinning idiot with its haircut and its tan and its colossal ego has ever spoken, that all they see when they look at you is the potential for another couple of bucks. Every sincere-sounding word that issues from their mouth is about as meaningful as a vow of integrity from News of the World. You know, you probably get more honesty from beggars on the street. You often have the chance of a splendid nasal experience when talking to beggars, too. Other ‘street’ experiences I’d rate above interacting with a salesman include stepping in dog shit and being mugged.

Salesmen. You high-fiving bastards.

Saturday 25th December
Here ’tis! For all thine ladyfolks and whorey strumpets, the gift that keeps giving (like scurvy): Mine piratical dictionary (page 1 of 1)

yarrr (adverb; interjection; noun)

1. assent indicator
Indicates assent or agreement
“Do you like treasure, captain?”, “Yarrr, I do.”
2. indicates contradiction
Indicates contradiction in response to a proposition
“I’ll have some rum, captain”, “YARRRn’t.”
3. mark of attention
verbal; indicates that somebody is ready to give their attention:
– “Captain?”, “Yarrr?”
4. affirmative response
means “yes”; used to accept an offer or request
“Would you like more rum, captain?”, “YARRR!”
5. negative response
means “no”; used to decline an offer or request
“Could you pay for those whores?”, “Yarrr.”
6. greeting
used to greet somebody you meet or to address mutinous crewmates
“YARRR yar barrstarrds!”
7. word expressing surprise
“Yarrr! What’s the meaning of this?!”
8. farewell
used when people part or end a conversation
“Yarrr, away with ye!”
9. expressing emotion
used to express surprise, irritation, pride, or rum
“Yarrr! Look at all this rum!”
10. indicates the drinking of rum
used when you crack open a fresh keg or bottle
“Yarrr, I loves ye, rum!”

Sunday 26th December
Whurrrrrr hur hur… Yarrrr all bastarrrrds

Monday 27th December
I emerged from my midden this morning, a stronger man for it. My crew had each presented me with a measure of rum for Christmas, bless their beards. Of course, they didn’t go so far as to say they were giving me the rum, and I did have to hunt about a bit through each man’s belongings to find it, but I knew instinctively that it was meant for me and none of them argued after I shot the first three men I came across.

Tuesday 28th December
In an effort to thank the crew for their kind gifts at Christmas, I took it upon myself to dispose of the bodies of the three men I shot. Myself! Kicked them overboard myself, and looked for only the bare minimum of praise and adulation! Garr, I am a fine specimen of a man, indeed. And so handsome!

Wednesday 29th December
I paid the ships wizard a visit today. I found it looking at something it called a “book”. I ate this “book” in four bites, but it didn’t taste very good, and now I feel ill. A flogging for the wizard, says I.

Thursday 30th December
I still feel a bit unwell. The ships wizard is trying to say this is because I begin drinking when I wake up every morning when clearly it is because I was fed an unripe book! Gah, it’s just as well I’m a man of medicine, and also god-like physical condition. I ordered another flogging for me ships wizard. I now get Cabin Boy Spud to carry out all floggings, because after his recent clothes-less squatting incident, the sight of him with a whip can make even the most grizzled pirate… uncomfortable. Avast! It’s just as well I can distract myself with mine very own stubbled handsomeness.

So far, so banal.

What really got under my skin was when she tried out a bit of melodrama. I can’t remember any quotes, and deliberately so, but I know she was moaning that music was her LIFE! Her DREAM! Her DESTINY!
This is a vaccuous waste of oxygen, who has never written a song, claiming that ‘music is her life’.
Wait, what? Can somebody explain or justify that statement?
No. Nobody can.
Mercifully, I couldn’t see the rest of the show through my own red mist of fury. Firstly, that she would make a statement like that, when clearly her relationship with music is about as vibrant and healthy as Jeffrey Dahmer’s was with boys. Secondly, that she feels she is OWED recognition without having to work or earn it. That attitude is not only disrespectful to every real musician out there; it is quite frankly unacceptable.
She has never written a song. She does not play an instrument, meaning either that she has had no inclination to or that she has tried and failed. It seems safe to assume, therefore, that she’s never put in hours in at a studio, working on music. What gigs will she have played? Is this a woman to whom idea of putting time, energy and passion into music is – what? no different than owning a lot of CDs? Music, her life? How dare she?
But it’s just this kind of lazy arrogance that shows like the fucking X fucking Factor perpetuates. And the viewers at home, they just lap it up, like the gazpacho of mediocrity that it is.

When Rage Against The Machine won the oh! so coveted Christmas number 1 spot in the charts, the people who weren’t leaning back smugly in their chairs were lamenting the fate of the young pug-faced twat who’d won the X-Factor that year.
I read a quote from cultural antichrist Simon Cowell actually condemning this coup because it wasn’t fair on said Pug Faced Twat. Oh, the humanity! He also accused the fans who’d helped Rage get to the number 1 position of ruining Pug Faced Twat’s christmas. Oh, fuck off! The boy – again – has never written a song, cannot play an instrument, has all the charisma of a damp paper bag, and the attitude was that he’d been CHEATED out of something because a lot of people decided that, just for one year, the ‘christmas number 1′ wasn’t going to be soulless plastic tripe. Hmm. Well let’s try out this little piece of logic, shall we? If the boy wasn’t shit, all the people who bought the RATM single that year would have bought his instead. But, sadly, he sucked balls, like so many of his X-Factor brethren.

So finally, on behalf of musicians everywhere, I’d like to clarify the point a bit further: the world owes you nothing, you talentless hollow cretins. This applies not only to music, but to all walks of life. Now fuck off and get a job in McDonalds.

Tuesday 23rd November
I have made a necklace out of my face barnacles. I will present it to Cabin Boy Spud, whose birthday it is soon. What a thoughtful gift, yar! Actually, I might give it to a wench instead, as I’m sure such a present entitles me to sexual gratification.

Wednesday 24th November
I have presented Killian with my gift of face barnacles. The thought of giving a present to a woman apart from that of mine own presence made me vomit profusely into somebody’s shoes.
On an unrelated note, I started drinking at sunrise this day! I know my dedication makes Killian proud.

Thursday 25th November
There were some kind of fight on deck today. Somehow the blame for the shoe-vomiting incident might have fallen on the Cabin Boy, and as his punishment was to be viciously raped, the men were all fighting amongst themselves over who got to go first. When the Cabin Boy simpered and started saying things like “Take me NOW, you brutes!”, the men started fighting amongst themselves over who had to go first.
Garr… but it is lonely out at sea, sometimes.

Friday 26th November
I have seen peg-legs crafted from all manner of materials, but before this day, never had I seen one made into a meal before. I have taken Zombie Chef aside for a Conversation; I have explained that although the meal really was splendid, leaving peg-legs and personal effects and beards and the such in the pot when cooking dead crew-mates can be disturbing for some of the men.

Saturday 27th November
It were the Cabin Boy’s birthday on this day. He… decided to spend the day naked. When he began his first series of lunges, the crew voted to keelhaul him. The problem is that none of them wanted to touch his sweaty, slippery naked horrid body, and whenever anyone got close enough to him… Garrrr, there are some things that I did not ever want to see. There are things, even after all my time as Captain, that made me want to pluck out my remaining eye and throw myself overboard. And almost all of those things took place on my ship this afternoon.

Most of the crew are still lying as though paralysed on deck. They are largely unresponsive to all the normal stimuli; touch, temperature, and eviscerations.

Sunday 28th November
Cabin Boy Spud, although fully clothed, has spent the day with a smug Cheshire Cat grin on his face. I would suggest that his horribly satisfied expression is worse than what he did to a few of the crew yesterday but… that… would be a lie.