AFTER A fairly intensive morning from the girls of chopping fruit, scraping ice from inside the boats abattoir deep freeze, a move that delighted our captors we set up the speakers and prepared for an afternoon I had quaintly nicknamed Cocktail-Apocalypse, which was designed to see us clear the sip of pirates, with a heavy salvo of cocktails.
El Patron had donned some particularly stylish Orlebar Brown Bulldog Spiral shorts, and Ray Ban Outdoorsman and joined us until his fourth or fifth shotgunned Old Fashioned, chased by several mescal golds, saw him fall face first overboard.
The Flaming Headfucker seemed a particular favourite among our sozzled audience who were imbibing a plentiful supply of booze, mixed with some extra spice.
It consists mainly of 100% proof bourbon, engine diesel and some fruit, with a healthy sprinkling of speed, gamely handed to me in a large bag by El Patron moments before his exit.
The Headfucker seemed to have a ceremonial aspect to it, with the pirates attempting to consume the tasty beverage as my old friend Samuel L Jackson famously once said, while performing a head spin and setting light to their Dockers, a nice variety of colours and styles were set ablaze I noticed.
The only issue with this particular firecracker of a cocktail was the pools of vomit it produced from those on their heads, but continual hosing down made the deck almost impossible to stand on and only added to the crews exit.
Now captain-less and with the girl’s topless, your old chum Skylon cranked up the tunes and began encouraging the other crew members to put on tedious acts of masculinity to impress Bingo and Bubbles, ranging from shot-gunning several near fatal cocktails before swan diving off the deck.
Their brief exits would not be followed by a return, once down they were definitely out.
Some tried to ignite their hair and jump off, ‘showboating’ I named it, while any passed out pirates were slyly rolled off the edge to join their splashing colleagues.
A porridge of bodies greeted anyone looking down and between mixing in Stuka by Primal Scream with Kick Out The Jams, Bingo, who then announced that all the lifeboats should be manned over the ships’ Tannoy for a fabulously simple coup de grace.
Within minutes an obedient, if completely paralytic crew, filled the boats and gamely hurled themselves overboard … Idiots.
A stream of trainers bobbed about as the pirates splashed and sank, including I noticed a few pairs of the storming new Nike Air 90s and Air Max 1 PRMs.
And so it was that the newly named HMS Prendre de la Hauteur pour Toujours was finally taken charge by the good guys, although we quickly changed the name to HMS Hunter Stockton Thompson in memory of the fallen literary general.
Now as the newly appointed captain the first task was obviously to organise full on comms and inform my old mucker The Colonel of my current predicament and of course capture of a vessel of the high seas, with little or no experience of sailing, despite my fabulously colourful maritime lineage.
I have of course made good use of my outgoing counterpart’s wardrobe and before returning to the quarterdeck donning a sublime Fred Perry 45s Brace gingham shirt, a Stetson Madison herringbone titfer, the delicious New Balance 996 in green, which has a nice higher ankle and heel in this suede running dynamo of shoes , plus a totally styled pair of Orlebar’s.
Unlike El-Patron I have gone for the navy Bulldog swims, and even though I know it’s chilly in Blighty, you can always head for the sun, which is roughly my plotting point on this good ship Venus.
Now it has been larks and japes a plenty, and with the news that my old friend Shaun William Ryder, with whom I wrote some of the greatest baggy dance tunes of that drug-fuelled musical period, has now started chasing UFOs’ I spent the night watching Bubbles and Bingo making crop tops out of the latest Paul Smith Red Ear T-shirts and firing off flares into the sky, hoping the Twisted Melon man may think they are travellers from another galaxy.
I WILL DRINK TO THAT