It was early in the spring of 1835 when me and my friend Arsecock were shanghai-ed. We had only had a few pints in The Admirals' Cockles in Plymouth, but there must have been something in the brew. When I woke up, I was sick, the whole world was rolling from side to side, and everything smelt of shit.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"Hahar! Ye've awoken," said a gruff bearded old man in a smart unifo...
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