Three years ago, I wuz stuck at a home at Portsmouth. Me ship 'ad been sunk and Oi's was reduced to scrapin' barnacles from ships hulls in order to 'earn a crust.'
One day, Oi saw an advertisement sayin' 'Adventueres Abroad Mon Ami'. So Oi staggered down to Madame Fifi's - which Oi'd never done before
. Inside was a Legionnaire lookin' type who was wantin' some men with cut-throat experience, to which Oi wuz well accustomed.
We was hired by the French ter protect their fleets from the Corsairs, a dastardly bunch on the shores of Tunis. The problem was Oi had to cede me Captaincy to a Frenchman - Msr Theirry Henry-Zidane. He wuz a roight pain in the butt and Oi wuz gettin pretty fed up with 'is antics and 5 Star Michelin Chef Cooking.
After a sucessful couple of months, our ship wuz secretly boarded by the Corsairs and the entire crew was kidnapped into service by the Corsairs.
The Corsairs gave me a dow called 'The Arrr-chmed 9000' - a 20 gunner with real zip!
Oi wuz now shootin' cannon balls at the Frogs.
One day, Oi came up against Msr Theirry Henry-Zidane. The Frogs had been stuck in a sea fog, and we snuck up to 'em real nice and quiet. Just as we were made visible, the crew started jumpin' ship. They were local lads from Portsmouth, press-ganged into service, screamin' sumthin' about garlic breath and eatin' snails.
The onboard cuisine and puffy leadership had taken it's toll on our local lads. We all became Corsairs in the end and it sure beat the pants of scrapin' barncles. Mr Zindane-Henry was sentenced to eatin' local cuisine, with the maximum penalty - eatin' Fishhead Stew for the next 10 years - that'll teach him ter feed us exotic continental dishes.