Number Seven Boat Trips Bristol | Touching base with Blackbeard, this Easter
It be a month since my last interference. I start this diatribe in a similar manner to a confession, because have just been through Holy week, not because I actually wish to confess to anything. Do not think me insincere when I say that I love Holy week. It’s true. I’m still waiting for my own resurrection. Though mine would be more appropriately celebrated with cannon fodder, than eggs. So, this is April, and what have we done? We have entered into the spirit of summer by doing what most Brits do; stripping ourselves to the minimum amount of clothing it is considered decent enough to get away with. In some cases, it goes beyond decency. Twas ever thus! The streets in the morning are less filled with the throng of commuters and more the mounting debris of the wastage incurred from the night before. What a time to be a wandering spirit. Is holiday time a period for reflection, or for forward strategical planning? Perhaps it is for neither, or nothing other than enjoying it for what it is; a holiday. All I have is reflection, being dead as I am. By reflection, I mean ‘consideration’ and not that I can see myself in any mirrors. It doesn’t bother me, though. I do not sweat, I do not burn in the sun and I will never be the April fool. So, here’s to that, and here’s looking at you, Bristol.
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The Tale of Father Dermot

A few of our staff went out for a drink, one night, where they stumbled upon the dishevelled figure of Father Dermot, wearing only a nun’s habit and clutching onto an empty bottle of Buckfast tonic wine.

One of our crew sat down beside him and listened as he related the sad story of his life and the series of unfortunate events that had led up to that point. It had all started with Dermot living a happy, feral Irish youth, whiling away his time in the Wicklow mountains. That is, until one day he was kidnapped by a gang of marauding nuns, taken to a discrete location near Cork, close to Kinsale, where he was forced to live in a nunnery, clad in a habit and forced to do nun type things.

Dermot was (it has to be said) quite happy with his lot until one fateful day in the communal showers (one part of the life that Dermot thoroughly enjoyed). The mother superior walked in, and to cut a long and depraved story short, he was thrown out of the nunnery, clad only in his flimsy habit and placed on the next Guinness tanker bound for Holyhead.

From there, his life fell into a rapid downward spiral. He traipsed from night clubs to coffee bars, with only his nun’s pole-dancing act to bring in the money to pay for his ever expanding Buckfast dependency. Deeply appalled and sympathetic, our crew passed Dermot a bottle of Butcombe ale. It was at this point that Dermot had his epiphany. “To be sure, this must be the nectar of the Gods,” he was heard to mutter. This, then along with cooking lessons of our resident dominatrix Mucka lead to his ordination as a fully-fledged ‘Pastafarian’.

His services are now held on board of the ‘Spirit of Freedom’ every Sunday, where you can be converted with his Butcombe-based ‘Ale Mary’. We also have a confession box on board with the best confession of the season earning the lucky person a boat trip for 30 passengers. Names should be changed to protect the guilty. To enable us to give you your price however, should you win, submit your own name and contact details [your anonymity will be preserved].

Father Dermot is now in a happy and settled relationship and limits his wearing of the habit only in a bedroom for bed fun, so to speak.

Come and have your epiphany with us and enjoy our exciting range of brunch eggs. All accompanied by simply fabulous Ale Mary.

PS.: Upon telling my 14 year old son this story, to which he listened intently, he said in the end: “But dad, isn’t this just a cynical marketing move?” “Of course it,” I replied, “but do you want to remain vegetarian for the rest of your life?”

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