Another southerly gale blasts through the bar, un-barred by the hairy git's trew - true. The bar clears in a cloud of noxious fumes. Mumble.. mumble... wombles the wakening hairy git..

"As I was spraying, t'was a job getting out of the South Sea, but, I did it. But then m'dears, I was straight into the Roaring 40s again. Talk about wind! It damned near blew me apart! T'were all the fault of Arkwright's Pickled Onions (see link)."

We blew Arkwright's liver and lights out with the first brew of 'Roaring 40s', but he keeps blowing us up with bloody pickled onions. Talk about fart-fodder - that's what blew the arse out of me trou' so I had to polish me eye-glass on me bollocks (see earlier post)... Aww.. Shucks.. If the govern-mint put a Flatulence Tax on Arkie's Onions, they would make a mint - not that flavour though.

Anyway, the hairy old git sighs, and starts sliding floorwards.

"There were other Snares" he says. "I've almost escaped the 40s, but must make me way through the 50s and 60s, before I Round the Horn, y'Ken?" (more potential Fred-Creep)