I am sorry for the lack of correspondence with you these last few days, but my waggling hand has been bound so tightly that communication has been impossible.
I realise the 6 kind people who have been keeping abreast of my time travelling tale of intrigue and mystery must have feared that I may have fallen afoul of my captors and been killed by the pack of pervy pirates, but dear blog-follower, worry not. After several days of excruciating pain and the best part of large tub of lube, have managed to wrangle my hand from it’s shackles to convey my latest escapades aboard this crazy galleon full of angry seamen.
Right-Hand here, (Hello everyone!), he is lying, don’t believe a bleeding word of it, he has been very lazy and getting drunk with his new pirate friends, hasn’t even worried about any of you the whole time and is only here because he’s either bored or it’s all gone wrong.
The show I mentioned we were performing in my last blog-a-log went rather well, being praised particularly well by a famous critic from The Times "A captivating and spirited production" that we had captured in a skiff off Skull Island (A rather pleasant place despite the name. It’s actually a secluded private beach resort for stressed pirates. I think they call it that to keep the package holiday crowd out).
Everyone involved in the show worked really hard, but most of the praise has to be mine alone, as I have just single handedly invented modern musical theatre, so screw you Gilbert and Sullivan, beat you to it by at least a hundred years, you daft Victorian whimsy-peddlers.
I knew that sooner or later someone would try and steal my innocent and worthless looking pill-box (my IPod, stupidly sent to the 17th Century by my Right-Hand). But you know Pirates, if it’s shiny, they’re having it off you.
I was in the barrel of filth that I had made my home while aboard ship, listening to one of Gloria Hunniford's rather interesting podcasts about stair-lifts and step-in baths. I thought the thing was turned down, but during one segment when Gloria was describing how quiet the stair-lift was during operation, I inadvertently turned it up too high. The chamber created by the barrel I was in created a speaker-box that amplified dear Gloria’s dulcet tones, and broadcast her important information for the over 50’s to everybody on ship.
I don’t know about you, but it’s bad enough trying to turn an IPod off quickly when you think it’s about to get robbed, with it’s big twitchy dial, and vague button. You try it with over 40 freaked out, peculiar pirates holding rusty cutlasses.
I dropped the blinking thing twice (goodbye warranty) before I got it to shut up.
Immediately Blackie (wwsbi) wanted answers.
Why were the pearly white seashells’s making so much noise? where is the pixies that hide within them?, what does the lady mean by not being able to get to the toilet in time?
I’m trying to not mess up the future too much for you guys, and try to avoid telling Past-ies (as I now like to call them) anything too mind-blowing or damned good to be ruined by a few hundred or thousand years of familiarity, unless I can get a laugh out of it then it's game on.
I’m sorry everyone, but we may have lost the Scissor Sisters.
The pirates angrily demanded a demonstration from my Magical Musical Pillbox of Doom.
I switched on the delicate device, explaining that it will explode if anyone but I, Bingo, Wizard of Dixon’s touches it, (and which is capable of many dangerous powers beyond the mere production of bewitching shanties and songs of immeasurable jauntiness).
I rigged each head-pod to a barrel and turned it up as high as the legally set parameters would allow and gave the boys a taste of the finer points in the musical sound-scape in the twenty-first century. We covered the lot, and for a while I was safe, they could rely on me for entertainment again.
Entertainment other than tying me up an letting me dangle out the end of the boat, just above the waterline, and then throwing very dry biscuits and pieces of wood at me.
I am not going to blame Right-Hand (wanker), but the IPod wasn’t fully charged and halfway through the third playing of “Take Your Mama Out” it went and died. It didn’t matter though, they hummed and sang it while I was wrapped in ropes and swung overboard. They are singing it now. I used to love that song, and now it’s going to be a sea shanty. Oh well, glad I bought that neck-strap for the IPod. 2 days and its still hung comfortably round my neck, and we were in a pretty hefty storm last night.
UPDATE: My clothes are gone again, and there is a strange electrical buzzing in my pubic area, I think I’m about to jump through time again! Right-Hand. Pack a bag! Oooooh, Ooooooooh, it’s happening, speak to you all sooooooooooooon ………
