December 17, 1966

Hell, hell, it's meself was born to roast, there's a terrible curse on the poor O'Doomes and me with not a penny put by. At four bells little Squint the sparks comes weeping in with the terrible news, it's the United Nations, Satan take their black hearts, has put the finger on Rhodesia, and her wanting nothing but a bit of peace and quiet to keep the hottentots out of their beds, and O'Doome's cargo to be impounded on arrival and us for the dry run home and not one rupee's bonus, and there's Wall-Eye Doris waiting in Liverpool with a paternity suit and a Protestant lawyer, what chance does a sailorman stand? Bankruptcy and jail, and it's bread and water and sewing the bags, and never a smell of the good green sea again.