Started by Dilwyn Jeffreys Phillips on September 29, 2009 at 1:38 am in Three Word Story Group.
Twm and his scruffy crew rowed the small boat into Cwmtydu cove, after spending a rough three days out in Cardigan Bay where the Atlantic rollers had pounded continuously at the sloop they had stolen from under Dic Penderyn's inattentive pirates noses. Twm and crew sang and drank until the dawn broke and revealed, directly from Llanfairfechan, Mary Cwmtwrch holding a coracle oar about to swing it towards theboat rowlocks.... and decided to take a step backwards into the Teifi which was unfortunate for the crew who were drunk and standing in for 'real' pirates.
“What a motley . . . “, said Twm Sion. "Hark!" she cried in her native tongue. Then she spliced her mainbrace into several sections Oh! The pain! (insert violins here). It was unbearable -like English choirs singing a reel. Wooden splinters lay on the top of a submarine moored outside the Blue Anchor Inn.
"What'll we do apart from drink?" "Play darts" said 'Dic Big Darts', "There's the bar wench; sharpen the tips!" Dic smiled gleefully. So he started googling her large and round coracles 'til tar melted on his favourite beer mat -distracting him and making him handle his oars.
Meanwhile back at the choir rehearsal, Twm pulled out his family heirloom and jewels before the startled choristers. He loaded his musket with balls then proudly shouted, "Hello there ducky! Have my balls ever looked better?"
"Nice set." said Myfanwy, "But Twm's look slightly duller.
"His musket flopped and his big brown eyes narrowed "Oh,my bits! They've shrunk with shame. Now I must wear bearskins in awkward places to keep warm and ward off large unsightly hemorrhoids."
"Wait! Don't stop! Mine are bigger. Use this cream; itmakes them less itchy and redolent of boar, but they still attract puttie tats. Plus it's waterproof!”Disregarding the pain, he applied manfully.
Myfanwy's eyes narrowed. From these, generations of choristers sprung. Welsh bards emerged -grandiose, verbose, medieval and celtic blood frothing and foaming, boiling, clotting, cooling, oozing Glamorgan liquid -erected pink tents. Where snoozing fitfully, dreaming monster dreams, Twm pulled out his hymn book and a packet of Penclawdd cockles, ginger Altoids, and some fisherman’s friends.
Bag-balm applied to his scrofulous, scorbutic, sclertized scruff (otherwise called eczema), he cautiously sniffed his bookmark as he sang ‘CwmRhondda, Harp of Tara’, accompanied by the pirates' skin drums. The silence broke when Twm accidentally applied poison-ivy lotion to Myfanwy's bosom. What a horrible smell!
The pirates whittled their legs, made in Nantyffyllon by Whittler's Mother, little skittle whittler -the one with the mean pitchforks, knives and spoons and a large pot of grub. It was tea-time; time to invite 27the village harlots to proper sandwiches spread with pieces of salted herring and dubious propositions soaked in especially prepared mole skins the Porthcawl Pirates purloined from ailing CVS.
Meanwhile back in the locked trunk in Myfanwy's boudoir, Twm pulled out his special pry-bar -which was spotty at one end! Thus it ended! During the next application of ointment Myfanwy gently squeezed Twm's trembling tube of Prep H into the cavity in his peg-leg.
One day later, still endlessly striding along Porthcawls' promenade in old broken boots and the usual squishing ill-fitted 'wellies', Twm felt pebbles falling on his parrot's large beak. The effect was so dramatic. Pawlie pulled out his pickled proboscis picker and plucked the profoundly painful parasite.
Porthcawl Pirate Pest!
updated by @dilwyn-jeffreys-phillips: 12/11/15 09:16:33PM
