So this American cunt was talking shite about the Greenland Whale Fishery, saying how we just fuck around up North skinning whales and bring in the blubber and how that don’t really compare to the work done in the N’Bedford t’Pacific Sperm Fishery. Says him, “Yous just fuck around up North skinning whales and bring in the blubber. We take a whole floatin’ refinery operation out with us so’s we can stay out longer, right? Render the oil on site, right? So we carry more end product,” says him, meaning the whale oil, “to market. Yous can barely make any cutter t’all filling the hold with blubber, bringing it back to port half retted selling to some other cunt for him to boil it down to end product. No value added,” says him.


Says me, “Sure and why not take a short trip? And don’t we take ten trips to your one? And ain’t we seein’ our wee’uns and keeping our women true and our cocks wet ten times better than you? I’d take a bastard stupid right whale coming over all friendly for a how-do-you-do over a hundred of yer bastard mean spermers come lookin’ for a square go. Bowhead, right, grey . . . on a bad day in the Greenland they swim away and no worse.


“And sure if the blubber rets a bit it still makes oil, and a stinkin’ pot burns as true as any other. It don’t even stink too bad in the hold until we hit warmer seas in the hot season. And what kind of sailor,” says me, getting a bit riled now if I tell it true, “what kind of sailor is so low as to need to take a second trade as an oil cook, eh? Slicing and frying blubber like a goddamn chippy.” The boys got a laugh at that one, “Sure my Gran were a fisherman but he ne’er had to cook the catch o’th’day.”


So we goes on like this for a while until finally he says something like the proof is in the puddin’ and isn’t N’Bedford and Bahston worth all the fucking tea in China and isn’t Cork a piece o’shite by the seashore with starving kiddies and a town hall with fuck all architectural value; and I have to admit, looking back, he had a point. After we finished kicking his bloody head in, some bastard big savage with the tattooed face carried him up to his room. Probably buggered the poor cunt.


I been to N’Bedford, you know? Nice town. Money town.

 

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