Life aboard the Black Pig

We all sit here in the workhouse ship, slaves, trapped in our workstations as our taskmaster parades up and down the boat, trying to catch his captives eating a cheese butty, gazing at the sky or using google maps. There is seldom a moment in the day when he catches us paddling, because that's what we're supposed to be doing and well, he wouldn't actually "catch" us doing that would he?

As for cheese butties, if I had one for every human in our boat that's been replaced with an exact duplicate, then I would be in the Guinness book of records for person with the most tasty snacks in his belly. I'm tired of the personality changes that are going on all around me, people who used to play golf, have a pint and paddle with the rest of us have become guarded and sneaky, drones of the new regime, spies and felons.

Banging the drum.

It's a natural progression, buddies and squash partners changing their hats and climbing the corporate ladder, progressing through the ranks and attaining incredible heights of importance and responsibility.

Steering the Black Pig with big pointy hats on.

The Yes men. In fact, most of the time, the very yes men, who will under any circumstances say yey and agree with their masters, whatever the consequences or impracticality of their agreements.

And what of the oarsmen, the engines of the ship?

Well, they're leaving and won't be coming back, it's at the point where it's not about money any more, they're just jumping over the side and the trend has been that all those on the port side are away first.

Which is why we've started going around in ever decreasing circles.

Less people with paddles.

More people with whips.

I wish I could stay.