Thursday, 24 October 2013

Sly old Skylon

SLEEP DEPRIVATION may be a form on mental cruelty for some, but having survived in the dark for what seemed like well over two days, with only the comfort of my new staff to keep my dander up. I was of course delighted, if not blinded, when the below deck safety door was finally opened.
Now our captors may have been sporting the latest in trainer wear, along with Adidas sports bags full of ammo, but their madness for action may well be our escape opportunity and once the girls wowed them with their charms, I was able to deduce this and arrange a meeting with the groups leader, gamely known as El Patron.

Now I am never a man to pass up meetings of the mind with any leader, or head of a party, if only because they always tend to have an interesting cellar, in this case a pirate ship, crammed with clothing booty, and whatever prizes they have nabbed from their ocean sojourns.

The girls were left sun bathing on the top desk, with a throng of onlookers more like a football crowd cheering and bawling their every turn to capture some more sun.

I, guns by my side and my final two esplendidos firmly clutched in my mitts, was escorted to El Patron's quarters and what a palatial palace it was, at least compared to the shit pit that was the rest of the boat.

A fine wood panelled room, with a few garish gold trinkets, greeted me plus a gold front toothed Christopher Lee type character, who spoke in a soft Russian tone.
Was it Beckman again?
As my attempt at a blow up doll joke falls flat, I presume it wasn’t my one time KGB friend and I begin asking his views on clothes.

With an obvious liking for higher end garments, El Patron mentioned his liking for Gloverall, CP Company and Barbour, of which there are some superb offerings available including the X Royal Enfield Northpass jacket and the delicious Anniversary check classic from Gloverall.

The now cigar chugging captain talked through the fineries of these labels, but your friend Old Skylon deduced why my host is a bandit of the seaways and nothing better, when he used his Zippo lighter to light his cigar.
There really is no excuse for that.

Flopping a pair of well-healed Trickers on his desk, El Patron then began to spill his heart out about the loneliness of being at sea with a boat full of men etcetera rocking backwards in his captain’s chair and looking balefully to the ceiling, before Clouseau style falling backwards to the floor.

I began to fear the once hardened sea dog was about to break into tears or worse song, before I cut in and suggested a way of lifting team morale, having spied the extensive ‘globe’ drinks bar sitting half opened in the corner.

A cocktail making day was arranged with the girls showing their now well-honed drink making skills.
I had sprung our escape plan without any hassle and our captors would unwittingly be providing the poison, which would become our ticket to freedom.

I’ll drink to that …