Pusser’s

SAILORS EXPLAINED

Between the security of childhood and the insecurity of 2nd childhood we find a fascinating group of people called “Pussers”, also known as “Sailors.”

Sailors 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 laziness with a pack of cards, bravery with a tattooed arm and a protector of the high seas with a bottle of rum under somewhere about his person. He has the energy of a turtle, the slyness of a fox, the brain of an idiot, inspiration of 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 women’s flat’s, and what’s left of a months pay. He likes to spend his money on girls, beer and any other form of alcohol, cigarettes, and runs ashore. The rest he wastes.

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, slaps you on the bum, and says “Hiya Honey, I’m home. You’re next!”

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If you click the picture of the the Pusser’s final drop, you will encounter a song I have heard the world over; at one point I was that sick of it, I gave considerable thought to punching who ever was feeding the jukebox.

“It starts “I left my heart to the sappers around……..” If you can’t finish that first line, we me be running on a different wave length.

SN xx

Roll on Death! Lets fuck the Angels!