The half dead eyes of the hapless sailor, clinging to the half empty barrel of tortoise fat and albatross beak, look up to engage yet another lick from the captain’s daughter.

Brine, blood, tar, powder and oak flavoured the air as pressed sailors, nibbling at maggot ridden biscuits, watched moronically on. This modest but faithful 50 gun ship of the line rose and fell with the swell of the sea. A constant to remind all that punishment is but a temporary thing and that however great the suffering it is nothing more than a drop in the ocean. 

….And with this in mind we hit the studio and knocked out some tracks. Which was nice.