The Voyage Of The Buggered Pig

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“You mean to tell Black Jake, Cap'n of the Buggered Pig, that you've buried the treasure 'e's worked 'is fingers to the bone gatherin' by means of piracy an' cunnilingus an' dis'onesty an' you've lost the only map in existence? I'll 'ang you from the yard arm, woman, I'll 'ave yer guts for garters, I'll make you walk the plank over yonder stickleback and bike frame infested canal. Haa-haar – you see if I won't!”

“Oh come on!” Annette said. “I borrowed a fiver out of your wallet, that's all. Look, this pirate lark of yours is beginning to get on my tits. Just because you refuse to wear the perfectly adequate false leg you were given on the NHS in favour of that ridiculous peg doesn't mean that you're a real pirate. Just because you have a huge black beard and wear a spotted scarf tied around your head doesn't mean that you're a real pirate. Just because you spend bloody hours practising your haa-haa-haaring in the bathroom mirror doesn't mean that you're a real pirate. And your name isn't Black sodding Jake – it's Bill Wood, and you're a bloody bus driver. Oh, I nearly forgot, I think you mean 'cunning' rather than 'cunnilingus', unless you've gotten yourself a part-time job on the sly that you don't want me to know about.

“You 'as to spoil Jake's fun, doesn't you, woman? You 'as to bring 'im down to Earth with all the other scum-suckers on this rotten estate an' crush 'is excitin, thoroughly rejuvenatin' fantasies underfoot. I'll make you pay for this, you scarlet woman - I'll sell you to the white slave traders on the Ivory Coast for fifty guineas or whatever they're willing' to pay. Actually they 'ave an office down the road now be'ind A-to-Zee taxis, so I won't 'ave to bother settin' sail for the Ivory Coast.”

“Ooh, shut up and eat your toast. Do you want another cup of coffee?”

“Aaar, Netty, yes please.”

*************************

A couple of hours later the Buggered Pig set off from the makeshift jetty at the bottom of Black Jake's garden and chugged along the canal. The Cap'n switched on the CD player, and as usual it played Adam and the Ants' Jolly Roger over and over again. “Raise the Skull and Crossbones, Jim lad!” he said, overflowing with of enthusiasm as per usual.

“Yes dad,” Jim sighed. His real name was Simon, but he was prepared to put up with more or less anything for the sake of his daft old dad.

“An' don't call me dad when we're on board the Buggered Pig, it's Cap'n to you, Jim lad.”

“All right dad. I mean Cap'n.”

“Get the plastic beakers out, son - I mean Jim lad, I reckons its about time the Cap'n an' 'is cabin boy shared a bar of Old Jamaica an' 'as their daily rum rations.”

“No! Mum will smell it on my breath like she did last time, then we're both history – she said if you let me drink rum again she'll ground me for a month and bloody well kill you.”

“I'm the Cap'n of this vessel, Simon – I mean Jim lad, an' I say what goes when we're at sea, OK? An' no cussin, son.”

“Yeah, I suppose so, but I'll have to eat my chocolate last so there's less chance of her suspecting what's happened. And you said as a crew member I could cuss as much as I want when we're at sea, within reason, of course.”

“Fair enough. Take the wheel, Jim lad, the Cap'n needs to check 'is charts an' get out 'is spyglass to see if there are any fancy lookin' ships manned with cowards an' pussies on the 'orizon that we might want to board.”

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Some time later Black Jake lay on the inflatable air-bed in the back of the Buggered Pig. He was as pissed as a fart, and Jim lad, who was also pretty inebriated, was at the wheel. “Dad,” he said. “There's something very odd going on. The canal has sort of – well, it's widened out. Considerably, as a matter of fact. And instead of being flat and still and full of shopping trolleys and dead dogs it's all choppy and sea-like. There are gulls everywhere, and a few albatrosses, I think they are, and I can't see the land any more. I think we're running out of fuel, and we're lost. I did tell you earlier, but you said not to worry about it, you told me to carry on steering and occasionally say 'Haa-haar!' in an unreasonably loud voice.

“It's OK, Jim, lad, everything's Bristol-shape and ship fashion. It's just your over-active imagination playing tricks on you – you inherited it from me, you know, your dear mum hasn't got a scrap of imagination and she's got no sense of bloody fun. I know exactly where we are, I'm referrin' to me nautical charts as I speak.”

“That's no nautical chart, dad, it's just an old ordinance survey map of the West Midlands, and you've got it upside down - we're bleeding lost.”

“It's Cap'n Black Jake to you, Jimmy laddie matey boy, and we are not bloody lost, not by a long shot. 'Ere, let's 'ave a butchers, let your Cap'n cast 'is experienced sea-going eye on the situation.” Black Jake staggered to his knees and vomited violently over the side of the boat. “Ah-aaar, lad, we seem to be at sea, which doesn't make a fat lot of sense seein' as we're supposed to be on the friggin' canal. Yup, most definitely we're at sea. Look, laddie, a British schooner laden with gold an' rum an' stuff, with its' fair 'elpin' of fair maidens aboard, no doubt. Load your pistols and get yer cutlass out - prepare to board 'er! Haa-haar, Jim lad, I love this game.....”

“OK, dad.”

“Prepare to be boarded, you old dogs!” Black Jake said to the elderly man steering a barge full of pensioners.

“What do you want?” the old timer said.

“We, erm, seem to be lost,” Simon said. “And we're almost out of fuel.”

“Where are you going, and why are you dressed as bloody pirates?”

“We are pirates, you wrinkly old toad!” Black Jake said, dropping clumsily to his bottom. “I am Cap'n Black Jake, and this is my trusty cabin boy Jim lad. We're gonna take your rich cargo, steal away the most attractive of your women to sell at the next slave market, cut down your riggin' an' cast you adrift – that's if you behave yourselves and hand over the booty.”

“I don't think you'll find our women of much commercial value, my rat-arsed friend, and we don't have any valuable cargo apart from a few packed lunches, a couple of bottles of lemonade, forty Silk Cut and some pipe tobacco. What if we refuse to submit to your frankly ridiculous demands, you utter nincompoop?”

“Then you'll all walk the plank and go to a watery grave in Davy Jones's locker, you complete tarts! Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo ho and a bottle of Pils!”

“Shut up, dad, please..... I'm sorry, Sir, he's been on the rum and he's a bit worse for wear. My dad doesn't know what he's saying, but he doesn't mean any harm, honestly – he's always doing it. Could you tell us where we are?”

“You're approaching the junction of the Cannock extension, son. Where are you going?”

“Erm..... Back to Walsall, I guess, we came from the other side of Spratt's bridge.”

“Haa-haar you hopelessly ancient turd!” Black Jake said before collapsing flat on his back in a drunken stupor and slipping into a deep, troubled sleep.”

“Sorry, again,” Simon said, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Don't worry, son,” the old timer said. “You need to turn your boat around here where the canal's nice and wide and go back in the direction you came from, you'll be home in less than an hour. We have plenty of spare diesel, I'll go and get you some so that you can top up your tank.”

“Thank you very much,” Simon said. “You're a gentleman.”

“So are you, son, which is more than I can say for your dippy father. Never mind, he'll soon sleep it off.....”