I hate myself.

No, don't feel sorry for me.

I am such an idiot. I am less than an idiot. I'm like – a toad. A pirate even. Yes, I'd sink that low. I am a pirate.

I can't even move the shame is so great. I'm just going to lie here in the gravel. I didn't actually fall down here. I tripped down the stairs. And now.

This is where I shall stay. It's not exactly comfortable. But it's what I deserve.

What I deserve for being a spineless weed.

DOORMAN: Sir?

ME: Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhh. Why must people TALK TO ME WHILE I LAMENT. Where is the common decency of people nowadays.

DOORMAN: S'cuse me sir but – if you'll pardon me sir, we can't shut the door.

ME: What?

DOORMAN: You're lying in the door. We can't shut it.

ME: Oh – oh I'm terribly sorry –

DOORMAN: No problem, Sir, if you'll just –

ME: MIND MY FUCKING BUCKLE.

DOORMAN: S-sorry, Sir…

I can't even WALLOW RIGHT.

That's it. I'm going back to the shop.

I'm going back to the shop, and I am going to spend every waking minute constructing the best sword known to humankind. It's going to be beautiful. Not just gold filigree, oh no – I'm thinking jewels, diamonds, incrustations – perhaps even my signature.

Then I am going to take this sword.

AND I AM GOING TO CHOP MY OWN HEAD OFF WITH IT.

And then, then I am going to resurrect myself.

AND HANG MYSELF ON THE GALLOWS.

I really am beyond speech. Why am I such a fool? Elizabeth is probably laughing at me from her carriage right now, he shining pearls gleaming in the sunlight as her smiles mock my lifeless form.

You know, for a Governor's house it really smells quite foul around here. I've noticed it for a while. And I would know, because, as I found out, your sense of smell becomes more adept when you lie face down in the gravel.

What the hell IS that? It smells like Molly –

No.

It's not true.

I won't believe that it is actually possible.

THERE IS DONKEY SHITE ON MY SHOULDER.

Oh forget the sword, I'm taking the next blunt object and shoving it right up my nostril.

Oh GOD. I can't believe I actually stood there and talked to my darling with donkey excretion rubbed merrily across my right shoulder blade. Oh –oh and a piece of straw, how delicate.

I bet she smelt it. I bet she's sitting there with the Governor right now feeling sorry for me, nodding appreciatively at the pity that is that poor lowly orphaned blacksmith weed who doesn't even have the money to wash his own shirt before going out in it.

HOW DID I MISS THE FUCKING DONKEY SHIT?

HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?

Unless –

No.

No that's ridiculous.

Governor Swann wouldn't even want to touch me, let alone have the audacity to smear poo on me before Elizabeth arrived – or would he….

No. No there wasn't time.

The doorman?

MR BROWN?!

Oh the SHAME. And it's all trailed in my hair – and – OH AND MY NEW RIBBON!

I can't BELIEVE THIS. I traded my last chicken for that fucking ribbon just because it matched my tights. Just because I thought Elizabeth might appreciate a small gesture like that, might, you know, feel a slight attraction towards a well-kept man who knows the trick of colour co-ordination.

BUT WHO THE FUCK WOULD BE ATTRACTED TO A WELL-KEPT MAN SMEARED IN MULE EXCREMENT.

I hate myself.

Well. There's nothing left to my life now. I may as well become an outlaw. I'm half way there already. The soiled clothing. Broken buckled shoes. Woeful expression. Pocked skin due to gravel indentations. One piece lodged solidly in the eye.

I'll become a pirate. I'm disgusting and ugly enough to be one. I'm poor enough to be one. All I need is a drink.

BARMAN BORIS: Will m'boy! What brings you to these parts? I didn't order nothin' did I?

ME: I - actually – I came for a drink. Please don't laugh at me.

BARMAN BORIS: A drink?

ME: Yes. Eye contact Will, keep eye contact, look fierce, come on you can do it –

BARMAN BORIS: Water?

For god's sake.

ME: No – I meant a real drink. Ale. Whatever it is, give it to me! Oh so smooth.

BARMAN BORIS: You feeling alright? DO I LOOK LIKE A MAN WHO'S FEELING ALL FUCKING RIGHT? MY LIFE HAS BEEN SHREDDED BEFORE MY EYES AND SMEARED IN THE SHIT ACROSS MY SHOULDER.

ME: I feel quite well, sir. I have money, if that's the problem.

BARMAN BORIS: No, no that's fine. It's just – you've never had a drink.

Why does he have to speak so loudly?! He's causing a commotion! PEOPLE ARE STARING. Oh GOD RUN AWAY!

ME: If it's too much trouble, I'll leave – And make that sword before I cause myself anymore damage.

BARMAN BORIS: No – no stay, Will. What'll you have?

FUCK.

I don't KNOW any drinks!

Shit. What do I do? God I must look nervous – I'm sweating again – add to the range of pleasant smells emanating from my person today – oh NO.

What the hell is THAT?!

Don't come over here.

Don't talk to me.

Go away.

Go away, you smell.

Urgh.

Get away.

GET AWAY.

STRANGE ODOUROUS WOMAN: Give him rum. He looks like he's seen a ghost. It's called staring the odour of death in the face. I hear it causes discomfort to many people.

HOW WAS I TO KNOW IT CAME IN HUMAN FORM?

Maybe if I sit down she'll go away. If it is a she. I think it might be a horse. A horse in the most disgusting shade of orange I've ever witnessed. This is actually appalling. This is worse than being at the Governor's house.

She's not going away.

No.

In fact, she's going to lean on my head.

GOD. I'm going to pass out. She actually smells like my shoulder in horrendous amounts. That's probably why she's over here. Trying to mate with something as smelly as she is.

And she has THE sharpest elbows known to humankind.

This is just cruel.

STRANGE ODOUROUS WOMAN: There you go, get that in you. The fuck is that. It's brown. Its mud. Its muddy water and she wants me to drink it. I think she scraped it off her foot and put it in the tankard. And you haven't told me your name. I'm Rose, by the way.

Oh how very fitting. I'm sure stink would be a more appropriate name. Perhaps DUNG.

ME: Will Turner.

ROSE: And what brings you to these parts Will?

ME: Sorrow. Please go away. PLEASE.

ROSE: Ain't that the truth of it.

WHY IS SHE SITTING ON MY LAP?

ROSE: Drink up, come on!

I WOULD IF I WAS CAPABLE OF MOVING ANY PART OF MY BODY YOU WHALE.

All right.

I'll drink it.

Save me time making the sword if I can kill myself with muddy water first. That will be quite a legacy to leave to my –

I don't even HAVE anyone to leave a legacy to!

I am pathetic. Purely pathetic. Pure and simple pathetic Will.

God. I think it's congealed. I think lumps are forming. Or perhaps that's just something living in it. A bog creature. Half a toe nail.

Good bye cruel world.

ME: Cheers.

ROSE: The same to you –

THE FUCKING HELL IS THAT?

IT BURNS! IT BURNS SO BADLY!

AH!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I'm DYING! I'm CHOKING and I'm DYING at the same time!

Can't breathe – turning blue – gah.

GAH.

ROSE: So, women troubles?

Excuse me? WOMEN TROUBLES? I don't give a flying sword about WOMEN TROUBLES.

I AM DYING.

ME: …. Yes. Do people drink this stuff normally? Do they know it is just FIRE? Fire and gunpowder and mud from smelly's feet.

ROSE: What happened? She run off with someone else? ELIZABETH IS A SAINT not A WENCH.

ME: No, I – I just can't seem to get her attention. Unless, of course, I am smeared in poo.

ROSE: You got mine. URGH. Don't smile at me you THING. You have no teeth! You just have holes where teeth should be!

It sounds about right though. The only women I can attract are toothless horses that smell of manure. Excellent. I should just marry Molly.

GET YOUR FILTHY ARMPIT OUT OF MY FACE.

ROSE: You know, the way I figure it, is women are attracted to a certain something about a man. An accent, an air – something like that. What do you have?

ME: I make swords.

ROSE: And?

She's going to be impressed by the next bit. I know she is.

ME: I practise with them. 3 hours a day or more sometimes!

Surely she should be clasping her hands now? Eyes bright with wonder and intrigue?

ROSE: … Is that it?

Oh great. So now the SMELLY WOMAN thinks I'm pathetic as well. As if I couldn't be more disheartened. The woman has her armpit in my eye.

ROSE: Listen, Will. You're a good-looking lad. Well. I try. We can work on that. Try this.

What?

WHAT?

I don't think I'm going to attract Elizabeth by wearing that monstrous piece of material – oh GOD don't say she's taking it off. No. The thought is too horrendous.

No – no she's ripping it.

And giving it to me.

Well at least I have got something out of today.

A soiled piece of orange cloth from the bottom of a horse's skirt.

ME: Um. Thank you.

ROSE: Tie that round your neck, she'll be SWARMING after you. As will the flies. Women love a man with a bit of taste. You'll have something unique. I do not doubt that. Not only will I smell of mule, I'll have the opportunity to wear mule. Oh god. I think its disintegrating. I think its exploding itself in my hand.

ME: Somehow I don't think a new scarf will convince her I'm the man she needs.

ROSE: It might help. Yes. 'Elizabeth, do you notice something a little – unique about me?' 'Oh yes Will, the soiled piece of orange cloth makes you look so MANLY.' You know what your problem is?

Well.

There is a woman the size of a small navy fleet on my lap, gently soiling my new tights. I have gravel puck marks in my cheeks from lamenting. My buckles are broken, my new ribbon and shirt are soiled by donkey shit and I will never have the woman I love. Oh, add to that the fact that I'm a nothing weed with a backbone deficiency.

ROSE: You ain't passionate enough.

ME: I'm not?

ROSE: No. Women love men who stand up for what they believe in, and are heroic and determined and ambitious – what are you?

ME: A blacksmith.

ROSE: Apart from that – what do you do?

ME: It is all I do.

ROSE: You aren't passionate about anything? Never really angry?

Two words. James. Norrington.

ME: Sometimes.

ROSE: Well just get really angry and passionate, wear the scarf, bob's your uncle –

I'll do anything if it will GET YOUR SMELLY PHYSIQUE AWAY FROM ME.

BOY: PIRATE! There's a pirate here!

WHERE? HIDE ME!

BOY: He had a chain to the governor's daughter an' – he what. – 'an e' escaped, and now everyone's out looking for 'im!

ROSE: Do you know a name?

BOY: Jack Sparrows what I 'eard 'em shout!

Oh Will.

Will your time has come.

This is the chance you have been looking for! Heroic, dashing, brave, talented, gorgeous – she won't be able to resist! This is PERFECT.

I'll go back, change my clothes, find a new ribbon and tight set, clean the poo off me, wash this orange thing, tie it on -

Then I am going to find this Jack Sparrow.

Oh I can see it now.

ELIZABETH: Oh Will! Will you caught that villainous wretch! How did you do it?

And I shall step out, ribbons billowing, looking impressive, not an inch of poo.

ME: I was just doing what I had to.

ELIZABETH: For me?

ME: (By this point I shall be leaning casually on the sword) You know I would do anything for you, Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH: Oh Will! How gallant and brave and wonderful you are!

Oh GOD it's just too perfect. This Jack Sparrow is such a blessing.

And Governor Swann will have no choice but to be nice to me.

And I can accidentally wipe poo on Norrington's back.

ME: Thanks for the drink Rose -in no fathomable manner – but now I must find this Jack Sparrow and thwart any plans of escapism!

That was her cue.

To get off me.

NOW.

ROSE: One last drink?

That's it. I'm going to push her off.

Well I would if I had a FUCKING SHOVEL.

ME: Thanks for the scarf. Oh God. The smell. Its catching. Now I smell of it too.

ROSE: You're welcome, Will. You'll need it to win fair lady with Jack Sparrow about.

God's sake, he's a pirate not a prince.

That'll just add to the situation when I defeat him. I shall stand, glowing in the light, radiant, handsome and wonderful, over the shivering wreck of something that looks like the rear end of a pig and probably can't even pronounce his own name.

Ah ha HAH. This is so PERFECT.