Jack Sparrow.

Jack Sparrow, the pirate.

Hahahahahahahaha!

This is just TOO easy! Someone must be smiling on me. I must've done something brilliant. Obviously my dedication to hammering iron and the literary arts has paid off.

For once, things are going to go my very happy way.

What kind of a name is Jack Sparrow anyway?

I mean, I may not know a LOT – well, anything, about Pirates; but I am SURE notorious, elusive and ferocious pirates do not get by naming themselves after scrappy, squeaky little balls of brown feathers. I don't see many people being terrified at the thought of a ball of fluff pillaging their belongings.

Why didn't he just call himself Jack Goat, at least then he could eat his way through Port Royal.

One things for sure, he must be a few inches short of a gold plated, jewel encrusted sword.

Meh HAH. I am SO in this time.

I could skip, but I won't, because I know there are vicious rumours circling about my sexuality at the moment (people adverse to the buckle movement, I believe) and also because, to my great regret, I suffer from a lack of coordination.

If I try to skip, I will fall on my face.

And once is quite enough in a day.

You know, I wish Mr Brown would let me do something with the walls in this Blacksmiths. His excuses for not letting me are purely pitiful.

MR BROWN: Will, Brown is for BROWN! Don't you see the connection? When people see the walls, they will instantly consider its owner. It's a business technique, son.

I don't know business well, but I am sure that suffocating your customers with brown does not help sell the swords.

I swear you'll find bodies of lost sword buyers buried in the crevices of this place, blinded and lost in a haze of mud coloured hell. Petrified against walls.

I hear noises.

Good GOD, what the hell is wrong with Molly?

I think she's finally cracked.

The Caribbean heat has finally penetrated her soft donkey head and left her practising the 'Elizabeth and Will' scenes we devise alone.

She's currently immersed in the 'hard to get' scene, involving Elizabeth (Molly) running around, giggling girlishly (grunting, or whatever it is that donkeys do) and me chasing her. I envisage it as all rather dashing and romantic.

Except that Molly is a donkey, not a real-life goddess.

And she can only walk in a circle.

And she's quite slow and tends to do her business along the way, which does not seem a very Elizabeth-like trait.

Plus it would appear I am trying to woo a donkey.

I have sunk so very low.

MR. BROWN: Snore

Such a bloody oaf.

This is what makes me angry! This is what helps to induce the late night angst ridden poetry sessions!

I slave away, creating masterpieces day by day, sweating even more profusely than normal and hence basically drowning myself in outer body fluids (which, by the way has led to a number of accidents involving hot pokers and mallets being dropped on my feet).

This does NOTHING for my hair, which in its normal state is actually rather fluffy and ringletty at the bottom, but instead is reduced to what looks like a squat dead, wet creature stuck resolutely to my scalp.

I would not be entirely surprised if it grew legs and took a casual stroll down my back from time to time.

This, in turn, induces the next-door- neighbour's cat to believe that I am nurturing some vixen-like female cat on my head, so whilst I am trying to conjure up precise and deep metaphors to describe my longing for Elizabeth, I am often surprised by a leaping mass of orange fur, which claws onto my ears, half suffocating me, and me, being too weak to actually remove the beast, I let it remain there for a good amount of time leaking odours and performing what I can only assume are sensual catty love songs to my scalp, which ring so loudly and truly that they haunt my dreams.

One time, it actually tried to mate with the top of my head. I was forced to have serious words with the owner the next day. That cat needs a long, freezing cold shower.

The memories just – just stain.

IT'S A VICIOUS CIRCLE I TELL YOU.

ME: Right where I left you. He is a BIT – only a tiny bit – but a BIT better than Weatherby or Norrington. He took me in, trained me up. Naturally, this was for the purpose of making me his own personal slave, but he is a sort of half father figure. We're suited at the moment anyway. I must smell as bad as he looks.

ME: But not where I left you …

Hang about.

Someone has MOVED MY PICKAXE.

WHY.

Why would someone do such a thing?

It was polished, it was neat, it was tidy, IT WAS IN ITS SPECIFIED PLACE.

WHY WOULD SOMEONE NEED TO COME IN AND MOVE IT FROM ITS SPECIFIED PLACE?!

I spend huge amounts of my precious, poetry-writing and sword-practising time arranging all the tools in here, trying to make it look half respectable, and people just – just DISREGARD my organisation.

I am outraged. Genuinely outraged. There was no need for it. The sword is made.

No other work needs to be done at the moment, and if so I'D be bloody doing it.

People KNOW how I feel about order! This is just CRUEL.

What could it have been? Mr Brown was feeling a bit lonely today so got out my pickaxe to talk to?!

Well I KNOW it wasn't Molly, she's compassionate to my needs, so that really only leaves Mr Brown or the lost customers of this mud-infested hell hole.

It's a CRYING outrage, what is the point –

Mr Brown … went shopping today?

He – he bought clothing?

HAS THE WORLD GONE INSANE?

Mr Brown has never changed his trousers in 8 years, why on EARTH would he need a hat -

Oh God. He's duped me again. I know it.

There must be some big banquet on tonight, and Mr Brown, as principal credit-taking sword maker has received an invitation. Hence a new hat must've been necessary.

But – but that means I must not have been invited.

Ignored.

Cast out.

REJECTED ONCE AGAIN.

But it IS a nice hat. Granted, its brown, but it is very leathery and nicely made.

You know… I think this is the sort of hat for a man like me. It suits those of us with dashing good looks, and I can see myself in a sort of buccaneer role with it on. Hair flying majestically, cape billowing in the wind, Elizabeth gasping with joy at the wonder that is MR WILL TURNER.

And failing that, it's an excellent way to stop that frigging cat from trying to mate with my scalp!

I might just try it on.

Just have a look at what its like.

I would never STEAL, no, but Mr Brown IS asleep …

OUCH!

MR BROWN!

How DARE you slap me with a sword?!

I am not a CHILD, I know that it is your hat and am AWARE I am touching without permission, but to scold me with a sword is just taking the biscuit -

That's not Mr Brown.

Well, actually, it could very well be Mr Brown, had he managed to have an entire body transplant in the seconds I lamented his disregard for my organisation.

How long was I lamenting….

I fear this is off the point.

WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!

No.

No NO NO NO NO NO! PLEASE SAY IT ISN'T TRUE.

It CAN'T be him. I refuse to believe that once again, my plans of heroic actions are to be destroyed and cast away on the shores of my donkey poo ridden life.

No.

THAT isn't a Pirate.

I've HEARD about Pirates. Pirates are disgusting, with one eye and no cheeks and kind of a face that looked like it sucked itself into its skull. And with a parrot. Perhaps a claw, or something.

Hence I have clearly stumbled into a misgiving situation. This man clearly cannot be Jack Sparrow.

Not only does he possess, from what I can see, all his bodily parts in total, but he is in fact, the most impressive and handsome looking male I have ever seen in my entire life.

And I am including myself in this estimation. So it's a high estimation.

Plus he is wearing MAKE UP. And it SUITS him.

He must be a relative of mine. That's the only explanation. He must've been shipped off to some tribal continent where they specialise in the blending colours of eye makeup and trinkets and after years of heart wrenching searching has found me.

Let's face it; the man is too good looking NOT to be related to me.

But he's not looking best pleased. I understand, of course. If someone touched one of my buckles without proper permission I too might get very angry.

It's easily explained. This is clearly a misunderstanding.

I'll just make sure. Just pose him a statement of sorts – making sure I look gruff, butch and heroic (creating the right impression, I feel), and then he'll deny it, and we'll all laugh about this later on.

I might just use my deeply masculine, impressive voice that I use during the 'wooing Elizabeth' moments in the re-enactments with Molly.

He is very attractive, after all.

ME: You're the one they're searching for – the Pirate. Now, you see, he'll just deny such things and we'll meet and greet and all is going to be rather humourou-

HIM: You seem somewhat familiar, have I threatened you before?

OH MY GOOD SWORD-YIELDING BUCKLE-WEARING GOD.

HE DIDN'T DENY IT.

WHY AREN'T YOU DENYING IT?!

HE IS THE PIRATE.

HE'S JACK SPARROW. AND JACK SPARROW DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BUTTOCKS I ENVISAGED HIM TO BE.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

He's GORGEOUS. And I think the voice he's using is ACTUALLY HIS.

IT'S ACTUALLY MASCULINE!

HE'S MASCULINE AND HE LOOKS LIKE A GOD AND HE WEARS MAKEUP AND GETS AWAY WITH IT!

There is just no justice in this world.

Well that's it then.

I'm dead.

Finished.

No bravery for me. Not heroism. No cape and peaked brown hat (which I was getting quite attached to).

No Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. ELIZABETH.

ELIZABETH HAS ALREADY MET HIM!

And – and she MUST have noticed, somewhere in the whole threatening of her life situation, that he was actually, well

SORT OF FLIPPING GORGEOUS.

And he speaks in the voice of a man!

And even though he's a pirate, she's going to realise that even one of THOSE can be more attractive than a humble, sweaty blacksmith, and she's never going to notice me again.

Not that she would, anyway.

Unless I can –

Woo him myself?

He might be that way inclined! Eye makeup DOES speak volumes, even when you're as good looking as he is …

And THEN it would throw Elizabeth well and truly off the hunt, leaving her free for m-

Oh you TWAT Will.

This is the depths I have sunk to.

I am considering wooing a male pirate to win the woman of my dreams.

WHO, SURPRISINGLY, IS NOT AN IDIOT AND MIGHT JUST NOT FALL FOR A MAN WHO SEDUCED ANOTHER MAN TO WIN HER HEART.

Well that's it. I've got nothing to loose. I'm going to let him destroy me.

The cruel world may have had her last laugh with me, but I AM going out gallantly.

Manly Will, come on, this is your finest hour.

TUNE that voice.

Husky.

Yeah.

ME: I make a point of avoiding familiarity with Pirates. Oh ho, how sinister am I! That was insulting. I do feel a bit proud. I really think I wore the expression I use when people can't colour coordinate their buckles. The risen sword and the glowering eyes and everything.

But, of course, now I have to fight him.

So, goodbye.

JACK SPARROW: Well then I'd hate to put a black mark on your record, so if you'll excuse me…

You what.

He's LEAVING.

THAT'S how poor I am at insults and glowering, the man can't even bear to fight me?!

HE'S JUST GOING TO SAUNTER OFF? IN A DISGUSTED MANNER?

I am SORRY.

But all that effort is NOT being wasted.

I AM GOING TO DIE VALIENTLY RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT.

Remember what you're defending Will. Keep steady. Eye contact.

Here come the sweats.

Good GOD not now. Being found dead in a pool of my own perspiration is hardly the way I planned to leave this godforsaken place.

JACK SPARROW: You think this wise, boy? Crossing blades with a pirate? Well, no, actually I DON'T think it's wise, I think it's incredibly stupid of me which I assume YOU shall prove in about 3 seconds and when they discover tiny bits of me all over Port Royal.

AND while I'm at it. BOY?!

I AM A MAN!

ME: You threatened Miss Swann. I'm throwing as much malice into my words as possible. I've had a lot of practise with Molly, but God KNOWS I never thought I'd actually have to do it for real.

I hope he doesn't fight me.

I can't actually see.

The sweat from my forehead has actually blinded my eyes. He's going to think I'm CRYING. This is pathetic.

I can't fight him now, I can't even move! I'll just trip up on my buckles and die in a massive pool of perspiration and donkey shite on the floor.

It all seems very fitting.

JACK SPARROW: Just a little. How come HE gets to pull off the sexy voice! I WANT A SEXY VOICE!

He can't be gorgeous AND have a sexy voice, it's just not FAIR.

Port Royal is NOT big enough for two gorgeous men, especially when there is only one gorgeous woman.

And despite him being a Pirate, he has a SEXY voice!

I cannot compete with that.

Well here's the moment I've been practising every day for.

Going to fight him.

Going to lose.

Going to die in a melted puddle on the floor.

All that remains will be one solitary buckle shoe, and a large Tom cat wooing my hair.

Just don't trip up Will. You don't need to skewer yourself.

JACK SPARROW: You know what you're doing, I'll give you that. Oh GOD. He's making me blush! How HORRIFYINGLY EMBARASSING. Kill me. Kill me RIGHT NOW. But how's your footwork?

My footwear? He appreciates buckles? This is so, HEARTwarming I –

JACK SPARROW: If I step here… Oh NO he meant movement! ME! The uncoordinated chicken-faced WEED! Don't TRIP…

Very good. Thank GOD. Now I step again…

WELL. I'm sorry, that was quite a haughty glance he gave me there. And is that – No. The SELF SATISFIED SMIRK?!

A TRADEMARK OF THE INFAMOUS BOBBLE-HEADED COMMODORE NORRINGTON?

Ta.

That's it. I'm angry. I have been fierce, threatening, maintained my ultimate cool, my hair has NOT frizzed up, and I have managed to sword fight whilst being severely handicapped by the problem of my ludicrously over-active sweat glands.

And HE just thinks he can waltz in here, all, all GORGEOUS and NOT SWEATY and just, just SCORN me.

I'M GOING TO CHOP HIS STUPID SMIRKY HEAD OFF.

Oh shit.

I missed.

Now he's stuck in here.

Good GOD.

And I'M stuck in here.

And he's bloody angry.

And now I'm severely lacking in the sword department.

JOY.

JACK SPARROW: That is a WONDERFUL trick. What was? Missing his head and securing my own doom? Yes, yes that was a stroke of pure GENIUS on my part.

But once again, his voice gets sexier with anger. Mine tends to turn to a variety of different pitches as I speak. You are between me and my way out. And now, you have no weapon.

Stating the bloody fricking obvious there –

Hang on – POKER! The Molly poker! I hate it, having dropped it on my foot several times (and once on my face) (it's a long story) but it might just save me now.

Ah HAH. I feel quite impressive. I swiped that content grin right off his beardy face (another thing! WHY can't I grow little plaits! If I did that, I'd probably be mistaken for a woman. Or perhaps a grazing goat. HE pulls it off.)

(PIRATES.)

GAHH! Sparks! Molly! My SWORDS! MY ORGANISATION DAMMIT! THE HELL DOES HE THINK HE'S PLAYING AT?!

JACK SPARROW: Who makes all these?! Meh HAH! I have shocked him! Shocked and indeed enthralled him with the wide variety of sword wizardry I have created in my long, weary angst ridden hours.

I have to admit, I hope he's a bit impressed.

I wish SOMEONE would be a bit impressed with me.

ME: I DO! Oh NO. What was THAT. My eagerness has caused me to slip quite cleanly back to that excruciatingly breathy drone I was using this morning! He's going to think I'm an absolute IDIOT. Quick, Impress him! DO ANYTHING!

And I practise with them 3 hours a day!

Waittt for it.

Wait for it, it'll come.

He HAS to be impressed by that. A little bit scared maybe? Perhaps he'll give up –

JACK SPARROW: You need to find yourself a girl, mate!

Excuse me?

EXCUSE ME?!

Is this Weatherby, in disguise?!

I can think of NOONE, not even Norrington, who would sink so low as to both ridicule my sword practise perseverance and assume that it means I am a worthless, single weed.

Well they might think it, but at least they have the common decency not to SAY it to my face!

That – that really hurt.

Maybe I just radiate singleness? Maybe Jack Sparrow knew as soon as he met me, that someone with donkey poo on his shoulder and the sweat supplies of the Caspian Sea couldn't POSSIBLY have attracted anything other than a horny Tom Cat and gnats.

It could've been the buckles.

I've always had my doubts about them, honestly, but I did resolutely stick by the fact that they really added to the colour of my tights.

WELL.

JACK SPARROW: OR – perhaps the reason you practise for three hours a day is that you've already found one, and are otherwise incapable of WOOing said strumpet.

He really does have the most striking brown eyes.

WHY CAN'T I HAVE STRIKING BROWN EYES?

Mr Brown once told me he thought I had the eyes of hardened horse poo.

He said it added character.

And I believed him.

But THOSE eyes…

Hang about.

How did HE know about Elizabeth? And how does HE know that I can't woo her?

And how dare he call her a CRUMPET! She is NOT edible or buttery!

SHE IS THE VERY PICTURE OF BEAUTY ON EARTH.

But do –

Does – does EVERYONE know I can't woo Elizabeth? Does… do people know I like her, and they sit around TALKING about it?!

Am I the only one who didn't know that everyone knew I liked Elizabeth but was incapable of winning her heart?

AM I THE ONLY ONE NOT IN ON THIS JOKE?

I bet its Weatherby. I bet he has meetings, with samples of my poetry and cups of tea, and they just sit there and – and GUFFAW at my misfortune.

JACK SPARROW: You're not a eunuch, are you?

WHA – I – How VERY – EXCUSE – BU-

ME: I PRACTISE FOR THREE HOURS A DAY, SO THAT WHEN I MEET A PIRATE, I CAN KILL IT!

HO, I am RAGING now. I am THE tempest storm. A EUNUCH. And with the slightly worried look down towards my AREA. Like he actually believed it to be TRUE.

How – how – I can't speak. I can't process that. That was so….

HOW VERY DARE HE?!

I'm going to FIGHT him, and I'm going to KILL him, and then I'm going to resurrect him and make him an UGLY eunuch –

Because No – one – questions – my – private – area – except – ME!

Just because he's good looking, does NOT give him the right to insult the very fragile integrities of some other equally good looking individuals.

That is just against everything I stand for.

Oh no.

WHY.

WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY.

How did I lose THAT. I was so CLOSE to winning. I was doing so well, I did some excellent turns, for GOD'S SAKE.

Great.

And now my face is covered in sooty crap. And my tunic. The man has NO compassion.

Does he NOT realise the trouble this will put me in?

Firstly, it takes ages to wash out, so I'm going to look like I've rolled my face in poo all afternoon.

Secondly, he's going to kill me, and I am going to be found LOOKING like I died rolling in poo, henceforth being referred to as 'that weedy blacksmith who killed himself by poo.'

THIRDLY, if I do survive – however slim the chance may be, this stuff will wreak HAVOC on my pores and hair – hair which is in a fragile state ALREADY, I may add.

And lastly, it is going to STAIN my tunic. The only good tunic I had left, Molly having eaten the others.

Jack Sparrow is purely a MONSTER.

I hate him.

The HELL? He's pointing a GUN at my head? He can't point a gun at my head, that's not how it's done!

ME: You cheated!

JACK SPARROW: Pirate. As if THAT excuses it, MR SPARROW. You, you – brown, fluffy ball of …. Fluff.

Step aside.

My ARSE I'm stepping aside. He can bloody well go through me now for all I care.

ME: No. Someone's hammering on the door…

HAH!

HAHAHAH!

I did it! I actually defeated him anyway! So I AM going to look good!

HAHAHAHAH!

All I need to do now, is avoid being shot, letting him escape and somehow find time to wipe this stuff off my face…

JACK SPARROW: PLEASE move? Manners, now is it? Well not this time, 'mate'…

OK he's made the gun do the click thing.

He looks quite serious.

This doesn't bode well for me.

I may have overestimated my powers of victory.

Well at least if they catch him now – which I hope they do – I will have died a sort of hero's death. Being shot is a lot more dramatic than dying in your own nervous sweat. Or congealed soot on your face. It's pretty impressive, actually.

ME: No. I cannot just step aside and let you escape.

Here it comes.

JACK SPARROW: This shot was not meant for you.

Goodbye my darkened world, lit only by the glow of a young lady too beautiful to love me. Here lies Will Turner, gallant weed, poo smeared, death by sweat.

Rest In Peace.

What -

NORRINGTON: Good work Mr Brown, you have assisted in the capture of a dangerous fugitive.

I cannot believe it. Mr Brown.

RISING to the occasion in my moment of need. Sliding out of his drunken stupor to whack Sparrow with a bottle…

HANG about.

He's getting the credit. AGAIN.

The BASTARD!

I bet he was awake the entire time!

MR BROWN: Just doing my civic duty, sir.

TAKING CREDIT FOR MY BLOODY FLIPPING STUPID CIVIC DUTY IS WHAT YOU WERE DOING.

GOD DAMN YOU MR BROWN!

NORRINGTON: I believe we can all remember this as the day that Captain Jack Sparrow ALMOST escaped. Take him away.

He is the CAPTAIN? I fought the Captain?!

He sounds a lot more impressive now, actually. His name suits his handsomeness. CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow.

Why can't I be a CAPTAIN?!

Captain Will Turner.

Captain William Turner.

Captain Turner.

Captain Willy Turner.

Captain Will 'The Blacksmith' Turner.

Captain Will 'Iron hammer' Turner.

Captain Will 'Poo shoulder' Turner.

Captain Will 'the sweaty' Turner.

Captain Perspiration.

Captain Weed.

'Captain' does have a certain ring to it. Maybe that's what I've been missing all these years. A title, a proper title. I mean, that must be what Elizabeth is used to, Captains and Governors and Commodores.

Will the Blacksmith was hardly going to do me any favours. That and the hair, I suspect.

She's probably used to ringlets as well. And my hair just won't do it.

Well I'm alive.

It's a good thing, actually. Given me ample time to embarrass myself in public, sweat with anger in front of Norrington and of course to drop the poker on my foot.

Its good to know that battling with Captain Jack Sparrow was THE most demeaning, shocking and useless event of my entire life.

I achieved nothing but to be insulted, traumatised and uglified by a PIRATE, for God's Sake, a PIRATE who is gorgeous and who has a sexy voice.

I hope they all just leave so that I can make that RUDDY sword to stick through my poo coloured eyeball.

NORRINGTON: Oh, and Mr Turnsford? BLOODY Hell –

You have something brown on your face. Good day.