School’s out, Baby – let’s steal a Ferrari. Yes, the dreaded “end of term” is upon us tomorrow; the provinces will be flooded with children. Help! But as the burlesque of summertime unfolds, there is plenty going on for them to do.
Take last weekend, for example. ‘Arrrgh,’ I roared, tapping my brother on the shoulder as he weaved his way through the ever-shifting crowds. ‘Arrrrgh,’ he growled in return, and turned to continue battling the procession. Shiver me timbers, he didn’t recognise me.
Well, he wouldn’t – I was dressed foppishly. Nothing wrong with wearing eyeliner and having a cock drawn on your bicep in permanent marker, of course, but I ought to explain. Last year Hastings attained a Guinness World Record by having 14,231 “pirates” in the same place – the biggest pirate day in the world. That’s an awful lot of pirates. And parrots.
This year, managing by the skin of my teeth to be in the country, I walked down the West Hill to the festivities. Despite a broiling sun, I donned leather trousers – cough, GAY, cough – a bandanna and a wig. Absolute torture. ‘Couldn’t you have dressed as a Somalian?’ asked my father afterwards. ‘They probably wear shorts.’ Smart Alec.
To complement the ensemble, an ersatz telescope with a gold filigree handle poked from my pocket. ‘Wanna see my golden shaft, Poppet?’ I leered to myself in the bathroom mirror, practising before heading down to Blackbeard’s Bazaar. I squinted from behind a skull and crossbones eyepatch.
Keelhauling and Cat O’ Nine Tails
‘I can’t sail the Pearl single-handed, you know,’ I continued sotto voce. ‘I’m commandeering you and that bodice till dawn.’ Crumbs, what a pervert – even more perverted, perhaps, than a straight man going to yoga classes. Having made my own skin crawl, I stuck in public to ‘Call me Jack. That’s Captain Jack, if you please.’
But, hello, what’s this? After a couple of quarts of Nelson’s Folly, and posing menacingly for stangers’ cameras, there was something afoot in the beer garden of the Jenny Lind pub. Far away from the gauntlet of freebooting warlords in Hastings High Street, a bottom was being spanked.
Bring ‘er Alongside
In broad daylight, a “dom” had become a “sub”. Pressganged into lowering his pants, this scallywag corsair was being soundly thrashed by some brazen upper crust crumpet, each flog of the whip compounding the pain and jiggling her six-pounders.
Jolly Rogers’s bum steadily reddened…until the inevitable, expletive-laden signal was voiced, indicating that his threshold had been reached – the “code word”, I believe they say in the world of S&M. (That’s not Marks & Spencers, if you’re skim reading.)
Well, all jolly suitable stuff for the school holidays, I should say. And 3rd-11th August is Old Town Carnival Week. Goodness knows what’ll happen, but there’ll definitely be pram racing. Do get down to Hastings over the summer if you can..