"Please, God, don't make her ask me to dance.

Demand I give her a ruby ring or diamond necklace, sure. It's worth thousands of gold pieces, and my scurvy crew (trad.) will be cursing their captain's name as their pirates-retirement fund gets diverted onto the heaving bosom of a Governor's daughter, but that's much preferable than the alternative. I'm here for the buckling of innocent swash, not the integration into polite society through courtly dancing.

Pseuds could argue this was a terrible attempt to immerse you in the Pirate mindset fearful of the feminine world of domesticity, cleanliness and poncing around to something whose lyrics don't involve the precise number of men capable of fitting on some old chest, but when you're dreading the appearance of a rudimentary Rhythm Action, it doesn't quite cut the mustard.

In short, Pirates is a most curious beast."

I crash at Ste Curran's place in London post-ATP, and decide to blog this. Tales of adventures another time. I'm still slightly physically queasy from that point at around 6:25am last night (Golden rule: A day doesn't end until you sleep) where The Triforce did a greatest running jokes hit-mix.