Apres le Vent Song and poem from Saturday nights JMC dinner.

To the tune of a well know girl band’s hit…

(crew)

Just tell us what you want, 

what you really really want

(skippers)

We’ll tell you what we want, what we really really want,

We want you

We want you

We want you to just bloody do it now!

(crew)

If you want to be our skipper, you gotta do better than that.

(Skippers)

If im gonna be your skipper I don’t want none of your c**p

(Pete)

If im gonna be your skipper, I want my breakfast in bed

(Diane)

You aint gonna be MY skipper, and you aint gonna get fed!

(all)

RBYC what are we gonna do?

RBYC what are we gonna do?

(More verses required…any takers?)

 The litter picker letter,  by Rob Hammond.

 

It was a late windy night and we were on a mission,

To find a five meter contour, with a phantom position,

Devised by a deviant, with a mean disposition

 

We eventually found it and left with a smile

Only to realise we’d missed by a mile!

With a shrug of the shoulders and an ‘oh buggeration’

We set off south for our next destination

 

When the helm suddenly cried “goodness me, what’s that I’ve espied?”

The lights on Cowes have gone out, just like the war

And if we don’t move over, our butts will be sore.

 

The hulk lumbered past and out of his wake

Came the pilot boat, in a hurry, to us, for goodness sake.

He shone his search light in our eyes, the great twit

It mucked up our night vision,  as it would, just a bit.

And growled by our stern like a big cat on the hunt

The bloody great lumbering stupid ….

 

He finally approached us,  from the rear

And as he came up, his man did appear

on his rail holding what looked like a spear.

Lucky for me with my dicky ticker

It turned out to be a long litter picker.

 

“You might like to read this” he said without pause

And put something official in between its jaws

It turned out to be useful advice, and some flannel

But at no point had we entered his bloody deep channel!