Between the security of childhood and the insecurity of 2nd childhood we find a fascinating group of people called sailors. They come in assorted shapes, sizes, weights and states of soberness. They can be found anywhere on ships, in camps, in bars, in love, in brothels and always in debt. Girls love them, towns tolerate them and governments support them.
A sailor is lazyness with a pack of cards, bravery with a tattooed arm and a protector of the high seas with a bottle of rum under his arm. He has the energy of a turtle, the slyness of a fox, the brain of an idiot, inspiration of a casanova and when he wants something it usually involves grog.
Some of his likes are women, girls, females, dames and the opposite sex. He dislikes answering letters, wearing uniform, officers, navy food and having to get up in the morning. No one else can fit into a uniform pocket a notepad, cigarettes, a comb, photo’s of girlfriend, bottle opener, keys to womens appartments and what’s left of a months pay. He likes to spend his money on girls, whores, a lot of beer and the rest on foolish things.
A sailor is a magical creature you can lock out of your home but not your mind. You might as well give in. He’s your away from home lover, your only blurred eyed good for nothing bundle of worry and all your dreams become insignificant when YOUR sailor knocks on the door and looks at you with bleary, blood shot eyes and says “Hiya Honey, I’m home”.
Click upon the lass in the picture. Seriously groovy cover of a song I don’t think I have ever particularly liked. Watch it! Watch it now!