Not the industrial strength Pusser’s issue Grog through!
Hell no keep the good stuff for those that know 
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Last seen romping in the sand dunes with Harbal.
Oh good grief! Well thats a different kind of engineering to what the Cap’n had in mind…we need a ships engineer, or am I going to have to squeeze out some fish oil again? Penguins are known for their epic farting capabilities, so y’know, pegs at the ready! 
Cap’n Vlad be ignoring I -so am away to me hammock for some Zzzds. Any’un who wakes me before 8 bells will be keel-hauled!
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Captain, Sir, Your honour, am a chapess!!!
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He’s clearly sozzled. No idea where he is. I’m away too before my feathers get ruffled anymore than need be. The sea breeze is getting proper chilly on these here high shed seas. 
Well bugger me with the blunt end of a rag mans trumpet, it must have been your jaunty walk and seeing you in the Mens bogs that confused me, abject apologies ma’am 
Well crew I am off to my fart sack, has anyone seen my cabin girlie?
Good evening and GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
Muscular but thick baddy here.Everyone in their hammocks ?I’m off to the shops…
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OOooh - sounds intriguing - I was the Bosun but Cap’n Vlad is ignoring me now - so we could slp away to the chain locker and count the links … or something!!!
or something ??? I am muscular and bad but thick…
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I’m ready for my pirate role, sorry I’m late, it took me a while to realise the eye patches only go on one eye, and I couldn’t get the bloody parrot out of his cage , apparently, poly didn’t want a cracker, but settled for a toffee, anyone know how to unstick a parrots beak., ?, I then had the bright idea of using a common garden bird, captain blackbird sounded ok, but capt,n great tit not so much, anyway I found a willing peacock, so captain peacock it is, and I’m freee, I also spent a while looking for the ablutions, the poop deck is not what I thought it was, and I think we need a mop, anyway, prepare to be boarded…tickets please….
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went off to get Paddington Bear and your Marmalade sandwiches for you , but got waylaid by a Pirate hiding in the Crows nest, he ,tied me to the rigging ,he was mightily hungry ,and ate your sandwiches.
And its only now ive freed myself .
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Just had to attend to some business offshore…back now though…where are we going?!
Good morning shipmates…
MMMeanwhile…
Day 3. Not at sea. Pulled alongside a floating Little Chef.
After repairs and replenishment of lots of those little bags of brown sauce we venture once more on a heading of West by North South. My navigator summer and her apprentice Silver Tabby having done a map singing course with the Girl Guides assures me that all is well, (this does little to inspire me with confidence)
They demonstrates their abilities by singing a 1:500,000 map of the Yorkshire Dales, " All the green bits are the trees, and the blue bits are where the sea is, Sherwood Forest is nine miles long, do dah do dah day" I retire to my cabin for a lie down in the dark.
"Fate was to strike me a further blow"
It was early one morning. I had passed a restless night and a lot of urine, but continued to doze fitfully in my deck chair.
The sky was clear; the sun was just rising, sending its pale yellow beams skipping across the glassy surface of the ocean. Everything was quiet. (It’s the Welsh poet in me so bear with me dear readers) Then suddenly I was woken by much shouting and cheering. A sudden shudder shook our little garden and I leapt to my feet (artistic licence) to see a magnificent Pirate type Ship thing draw alongside.
PIRATES!!! (Understandable I suppose) They came streaming down ropes in their droves, cutlasses clamped between their teeth as two, maybe three dozen of them invaded our tiny plot of land.
Snarling, leering and singing jaunty songs about rum, bum, baccy, parrots and treasure, they lurched and careered all over the garden, revelling, carousing, and shivering whatever timbers they could get their hands on.
They broke flowerpots, smashed the greenhouse, pee’d in the fishpond and molested both summer, my cabin girlie and pixie knuckle despite the fact she was pretending to be a Carmen Miranda hat, just to confuse me. and Maree and Silver Tabby were accosted and manhandled roughly, much to their pleasure. Then, after about five minutes of debauchery and intemperance, they evidently decided that they’d had enough, got back in their boat and sailed off leaving behind a very miffed ships engineer who had been in the heads and had missed the fun. ( do we have a ships engineer? ‘BOSUN, check the manning list’
Feeling more than a little stunned, I surveyed the fresh devastation left in the wake of this second catastrophe. Shrugging to myself, I and the crew set about clearing up the mess, collecting up the empty rum bottles, shovelling up the piles of vomit and trying to extricate chocolate gateau from the dvd player.
Then! to our horror, we realised that the pirates had carried off harbals garden shed, complete with our supply of crisps and bags of brown sauce, the lager having already been consumed by The bosun ( this is the non existent bosun by the way a reward will be offered for her safe return) and a cast of thousands! We were finished…
So endeth Part the whatever…copyright pending.
Is Captain Vlad and his trusty valiant crew doomed to forever circle the M25? More, much more later , when the Penguin returns/arrives
Now available on your iPlayer
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Sounds like a bog standard Saturday in Asda around here ………. 
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errmm???
ermmm? Does not cut it navigator…take a look around, there is no booze or snacks…the crew is dropping like flies…WE ARE DOOMED,
Only the penguin can save us now…….
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Day 4. Lost at sea ….We are doomed. (again)
For a while we just drifted around the M25 there was no sign of life, not a B&Q in any direction. With our supplies gone we were forced to forage amongst the flowerbeds for worms and beetles, (Note: Beetles, not an early 60’s pop group, but more of a scaley backed thingy, ), but the sustenance these provided was negligible.
We found ourselves slipping deeper into malnutrition, and as each day went by so our energy faded and our will to carry on living ebbed away.
Then, just over 10 minutes later near Chipping Norton, we received a strange visitation.
Sprawled upon the ground, our throats burning with thirst, our stomach racked with pangs of hunger, I felt a draught upon the nape of my neck. Looking up, my hazy, sun-bleached vision perceived the outline of a strange bird standing before me (exciting eh, and haven’t we met a few of those eh harbal?).
It was like a seagull, only larger. As big as an albatross, but with brightly coloured plumage like a parrot, and a hooked beak like a hawk. It was similar to a vulture in some respects, but with the shrewd, intelligent-looking eyes of a penguin (I like penguins) and the brightly patterned waistcoat of a golfer and the legs to prove it. (Note: It is a well-known medical fact that the uglier the legs the better the golfer). But I digress……
It held something in its beak which it let fall to the ground with a wet slap. I snatched up the object eagerly, and ravenously sank my dentures into it. It turned out to be a fresh cod, which was just as well, since if it had been a limpet mine it would have blown my fillings out. That fish restored a little of my vitality. I felt it would not be wise to share the cod with my crew after all it could have been a mirage, I read that in a book once, and you can’t really share a mirage no matter how filling it is. No doubt about it, that curious visitor had saved my life.
The bird returned on subsequent days, each time bringing me a gift: sometimes a cod, sometimes a tuna, a skate or a copy of the Daily Mail. Two weeks after its first appearance, the bird brought me a freshwater salmon, which I took as an encouraging sign that we were was nearing land.
Then it began to get more adventurous and started to bring me rashers of bacon, chocolate chip cookies and pork scratchings.(Note for foreign readers: Do not ask ok) But the bird didn’t just provide food - it brought me cider and those small cigars in a tin, the ones with a French name but aren’t, as well. By now the crew, remember them? were getting suspicious about my weight gain and the penguin. I laughed it off, telling them it was a hallucination and to keep rowing. After all, what sane person believes in a flying penguin dressed like Tiger Woods.
‘The sad bit’ (Slow violin music wells up in the background, ably played by the Dagenham Girl pipers)…
The penguin who I now called Pixie Knuckles to the amazing fact that her name was Pixie Knuckles, an amazing coincidence, also provided company. I would spend hours talking to the strange bird, (bet that takes you back don’t it lads ? Bloody hell! I have spoken to some bloody strange birds in my life…) pouring out my life story, my hopes, my aspirations and my fears. (Note: Fears, things that scuttle along the carpet with lots of hairy legs). The bird listened patiently, never interrupting, never displaying even the slightest sign of boredom unlike a lot of my friends and you dear reader. I began to wonder whether it was real. Perhaps it was just a delusion; a product of my own fevered imagination? But then, if that was the case, where did all those doughnuts come from? Ah! Ha! Got you there!
So endeth Part 3 (Also available in paperback) in part 4…Land sighted… hoorah!!!,
and about bloody time.