2-02
We get oor way oop the mountain, doing the alpine things, boots and ropes and all. We come across a group of fellas taking a sign off a hut, replacing someones name with the name of the next lake or so. Some other fella with crazed eyes, Ah'm sure I could see a snowstorm raging behind 'is pupils, telling them other fellas that they cannae just up and replace the name, he might've been an arse, but he was a great alpinist or something. Ya gotta talk aboot such things, he says. Yeah, grunts one of the fellas, like mah brother said we should make a business institute for "Organised Chaos", call it the Goebbels school of applied business science. Such a great organiser, he says.
Once ye get away from flatland, ye gotta keep yerself moving uphill. Might be so, but these people are all crazed. There's a coupla kids wandering aroon up 'ere, one of them has a pullover with the name Trenker across the front. Obviously some kinda local hero. Ah'm not sure his friend didnae 'ave Leni written across his. Ah rekkin they'll find that exposing flatland kids to the low oxygen levels up 'ere leads to some kind of irreversible brain damage, them scientists always investigating some strange stuff.
Ah gotta say Ah was glad to get to the top, to see more than just an arm's length away from me. Ah needs them open fields of view, the raging seas, at least a horizon. From here on it's all down river for me. Ah rekkin ye cannae trust a place where yer boot cannae go.

1-02
'Olidaze mate. Jus' lahk back at school. Ah'm proobablee letting mahself go, but ah rekkin Ah can 'ave a leetel 'oliday. Tha problem is finding sumfing what's new and diff'rent enough that it makes sense to do. Remember me tellin' y'all that Ah hadda take the long way aroon to get to Ye Olde Trading Harbour last year? Well Ahs been thinking that it might not be tootally wrong to have a look at whatever that thing is in the middle. Ye cannae have a long term plan if ye cannae see more'n ten metres for yer face. Them valley dwellers, they're mad. Ah've found me a frien' whad'll drive me aroon a bit - Ah never got me a licence for something this small. So we has 'eaded off toward these snow-capped things, but it's a stinker of a day, sweating like pigs we are. The locals don't seem to like it one bit. We is heading up this tiny road in a valley thing, cliff one side, stream on tha other, all twisty turny like a cut snake. Hardly room for one automobile, let alone two, when the bloody inevitable happens - some local, all sweaty and hatin' the heat, come up the other way. Ma fren'pulls over, the other fella pulls over, mah fren' starts to back up, there was a widening in the road just back aroon tha corner, but that local, all sweaty an' bothered, honks and beckons us to squeeze past 'im. No go. Either we 'it 'im or it's swimtime. We back down, ready to back up, when the sweaty local jerks out, swings aroon' and pulls in closer to the wall to let us past. With a crunch. Ye ken these modern autos, plastic all over, well crunchy bits of mirror tinkle down the rock face. He no seem more bothered, but waves us on, but ma fren' cannae get past. Back up again, but Ah grab me fren' and tell 'im to take a look see. Our trusty local pulls out again, back up against the wall taking out his starboard bow, crushing 'is car doon small enough so we can inch past. As we get ta the windah, mah fren' stops and says "Ah'm sorry" to this fella and he grunts back, all sweat and blue singlet "but Ah'm not!" It seems that he's 'aving some kinda heatstroke attack, obviousl not built for weather above the freezing point. The fella in the car behind, hardly a distance and the road is plenty wide, lies nearly asphyxiated, larfing 'is box off. Locals mate. Probably his son, watching 'is old man lose the plot completely.

3-01
Mahh husband and Ah. Blinking fookin’ lahts. Bing Crosby Rudolf the Rehd noos’d rehndeer. Warm wine with froots. Pine trees and tannenbaum. ....Foock this, back to the boot, Ah’m goin’ swimmin’ or rig the Matt Rust. Happy new calendar, best o’ Scottish to y’all. cheers!
Malt A.Lone

2-01
Land, lahk Ah told ye lest time, Ah'm not sure Ah'm med fer it. Let me spin yer a tale. Being summer 'n' all, Ah decided Ah should tek adventeg o' the turn down in trade 'n' take me a 'oliday. Thought thet Ah mey as well take a peep at sumthin' hysterical, 'n' bein' in the trading trade and a boatsman to boot, Ah though Ah'd get doon to looksee at the hub a that old tradin' empire. Well, there not bein too many rivers or canals over the Alps 'n' the old girl not bein' too seaworthy, Ah though I hafta take 'vantage o' the iron canals and caught me a train. Bein' a profeshnul travler 'n' all, Ah'm really glad o' that Schengen fella and the ease with which Ah ken potter aroon. But blow me if they aint sent the fella on 'oliday too. So the well dressed men on the border done decide that by some accident o' name or somesuch, Ah is not the fella they want in their land. Well, never let it be said that Malt's a fella who'll lay doon an' take that sorta treatment. It's pretty easy to block a land passage, but the wet frontier is a bit of a harder one. So Ah gets me doon tha coast and after a coupla conversationals Ah'm buying a lovely old fisherboat, name of "Matt Rust," all lug sails and hemp rope, no piece o' iron bigger 'n a nail in her. Ah gets me goin' and reflecting as much radar as driftwood, Ah gets me inta the harbour of me dreams. Ah gotta say that eets not what Ah hed in mind, it's all cruise ships and whacking great big naval things. A slotted me way in, makin' sure them funny buggers dont ask fer me passport agen. Ah gets me ashore, but they seem to have closed all the museums an' all. Ah suppose thet they must all be on 'oliday too. Only there are too many people here, runnin' like a buncha mad buggers all over the show, cleaners, business power people, it looks like it might be a police summer camp. Arr, thet'd be eet, they're all singing together an' laughin'a lot, like a buncha old sailors havin' a yarn. Ah wish Ah had a grasp of the local lingo, the stories musta been pretty good, all laughing together and raisin' their spirits. Ah dont think Ah'd like to be in the copper's summer camp though, Ah wen' fer a walk an' they are all fenced in, big steel walls an' shipping containers, some of 'em lookin' through all forlorn and wishing they were home, looking unhappy at the packs of tourists all wanderin' aroon ootside. Ah couldn' find me a way oot, but Ahm 'appy in the harbour, feelin' a coupla centuries of history laying in on me, so Ah layed oot in mah boat an' snoozed, found a coupla hidden bars for a few medicinals, an' generally had a lay off. Met a coupla large gennelmen in dark suits, drinkin' orf their sorras, seyin' they don' lahk what they gotta do, bu' a jobs a job. Told 'em Ah rekkin thet's a crock, ya gotta do what you feels right, but one big fella started cryin' an' lookin' all foolish, so Ah got 'im a medicinal or three until he looked a bit better. All the big boats boogered ooff, the police camp finished so they all went home and the museums opened. All a nice wey to end a 'oliday. Ah chetted a beet wiv a leetel ledy, she done tol' me tha' the police done cause trouble outside. Barrack mentality, Ah thought ta meself, makes them p'licemen a bit strange. It's a job, Ah suppose they sey. For meself, Ah went selin', and thet's not a job. An' it's not land either, Ah tells ye.
Malt A.Lone

1-01
Times err tough, y'know, 'n' Is bin thinking a lot 'bout stoof, it being winter 'n' all. Thinkin' 'bout me awld moom, bless 'er soul, lovely old photo of 'er up oon the wall, when she wuz young somewhere in the Gulf o' Mexico. Some old uncle o' ers 'ad an old Belize sand-hauler, she done do it right over and took on 'em posh yachties in rating boats. Luvely pichas o' 'er 'n' 'er mates, beatin' ta windward just behind some overcrewed canvas hog.. Had ta fight like the duvvle for it, but they let her race. Like 'er poor old granddaughter. An' thet sekund meet last week dun tol' me emanci-whatsit done run it's coures. Ha. Bollocks.

But what's getting me awl messed up in deese long winner nights wuz going upriver to an old meet's bleedin' burial. Lovely ol' engineer 'e was, great hand with the charts an' a damn fine fella to boot. broke the mould after 'im, they did. Gotta say Ahm nett the 'appiest fella on land, but thees theengs ye gotta do. Getting up river to attend the catholic mess his old daddy insisted on. Pews cremmed too tightly together. Church interior several bleedin' degrees colder than the drizzlin' winter rain outside. Gime a monsoon any day o' the week, Ah says.
If youse unnerstand the local dialekt, then praps you'd 'ave unnerstood from his remarks that the pfaffer had absolutely no idea of who me awld meet'd been or what he'd accomplished in his too short time. This entire ceremony, the procession on foot through the village behind the local marching band, the one later on in the cemetery (again with the band, who played three numbers before marchin' off to their next gig at the inauguration of a shoe store), couldn't have been more antithetical to me awld meet's aesthetic -- with the welcome exception of a friend's tuba solo from the church choirloft, which was openly frowned upon by the church staff.

I 'ad ta nip of for a quiet dram, luckily the procession was good long so ah neecked orf from the front 'n' got back at the back, getting a few warmin' ones in me. At the cemetery I started thinking that somehow me old meet may well have had a hand in setting this up after awl: playing an elaborately subtle joke on awl of us, letting his old pappy make these surreal gestures to his neighbors, bringing the rest of us out to get a taste of what he'd escaped from, smirkin' at us awl standin' in line waiting to toss a hand trowel full of garden soil down onto that wood box. Whadda bunch a' silly tossers we musta looked like! Efter we cleared awl the loculz oot, the grounds crew took over, unceremoniously clearing off the ropes and planks, drivin' a leedel ol' bobcat in to dump the real soil -- gray clay -- back inna the 'ole. Watching the operator's moves with the scoop arm brought back a sense of balance; easy to imagine that the old engineer wooda admired his skill.

Not sayin' it wuz easy, but Ah nicked off then 'n' got me a few drams o' the scootish, then raised a few to me awld meet, his favourite, a taste he picked up in the baltic, thet old buffalo vodka. Ah kenn often hear 'em stampeding 'cross the steppes. Dengerous bleedin' things.
Malt A.Lone

2-00
Scuttle the scurvy dawgs. Fook ‘em ‘n’ fook their attempt at intercultural artsy fartsyness. Looks lahk Ah’ll be running meself a little salvaging operation t’ get me other boot back. But there’s question ah gotta pose to yers awl, is it true that every German skipper’s a Deutsche Kapitaen? Why is that so?
Ah reckon Ah seen a bit o’ tha world but sometimes ah jest don’ get it ‘n’ then someone comes along ‘n’ asks me what the hell I rekkin ‘bout these peoples ‘n’ those peoples ‘n’ ah begins to prattle on ‘bout somethin’ b’fore ah realise ah aven’t got a tootin’ clue.
But back to them facts in the hand ‘n’ all. Ah done gorn let meself be taken as a trusty person ‘n’ went ta sell me other boot to a buncha gung ho young sailors ready to see the world, ‘avin’ read all their Conrad ‘n’ all. Ah rekkin a man ken do lots worse. Dunnit meself. I was to be amazed. “Dear Malt, yer boat’s rooted, where’s the anchor?” read the message in a fookin’ bottle then comes the rumour that it’s moored to a desert isle somewhere in the southern seas ‘n’ I rekkin Errol fookin’ Flynn woulda made a better seaman. Butcha cannae ‘av everything in this ol’ world so I rekkin’ I gotta invest the down payment inna bottle of the best of the scottish and cast off the lines ‘cause the salvaging seas await me.
Malt A Lone

1-00
Mah fookin’ motor’s rooted. Oonbelievable, and the jerk says it’ll cost two arms ‘n’ a leg to come get it.
So ah thinks ah’ll jest take it out mahself, lug it onna truck and take it to ‘im. So Ah gets meself to one a’ them truck rental coompanies.
Ripper, get a truck no problem, it’s a bit hectic and the damn harbour master done gone yell at me too. Looks like it’s catchin’ - Ah parks them truck and some local jerk gets up and starts telling me Ah must be from somewhere else and didn’t Ah see Ah hit that car and then the mobbin’starts ‘n’ there’s some other dickhead telling me Ah must be driving such a thing for the first time and they all get all holier than thou and foock ‘em Ah’ll go park somewhere else. Check the car no damage: bloody locals. But mah motor’s still rooted ‘n’ Ah needs some cash so Ah gets meself to a local ‘otel and no thanks lady I’d loov a Scotch but time’s bein’ as they are ‘n’ all Ah needs
meself a job ‘n’ praps Ah could wash dishes in yer restaurant. But the lassie say Nah she reckon’s Ah dont speak the lingo so Ah cannae wash dishes here. But what? Like the dishes can only speak the local tongue.
Ah don’ believe this so Ah go get meself back on me boat and pour mahself one ‘n’ one for the motor too ‘n’ Ah rekkin this land deal is definitely overra’ed.o

2-99
It is times like these that make it seem more necessary to defend the boat against all sorts of bucaneers. Those people that ah saw last year giving out weird speeches `bout being strangers and not from here. It’s mah strong belief that evryone´s a stranger somewhere anyway but they don’t seem to like people who are from somewhere else. But ahm digressing here. So anyways this fella comes aboard seeing nothing but strong beliefs, beliefs ah cant share atall, which normally doesnae bother me much coz ahm not the botherin kinda type, but this fella seems different. He seems ta think we are runnin a commercial cruiser here and since he is about to be on board its his full right and responsibility to claim treatment like he’s some royal costumer or sometn. A young entrepre-something or other. well, cunt, ya guessed wrong ahm tellin ya, for this boat aint about ta go fancy schmantzy for anyone just about yet. and if ya think that threatnin’ higher port fees will help ya take over and proclaiming all that neoliberal shit ya so full of - guess again. For there are plenty a harbours more than willin to have us and if for nottn´ else but havin us blokes there for some good old chop chop with their local populists which of course is more of the same as we got here so ahm definitely stickin’ around and bloody well will keep you whitecollars at bay! Malt A.Lone

1-99
They call it the heart of their country, the green lung, I have no clue whatsoever as to how I ended up in this rotten place of a citizens most beautiful dream come true - for all I know this city does not even have a harbour. All ah knows is something went wrong as I boarded the last boat, ah kinda fell off the right track, couldna have been the scotsh, cause he’s always on my side. But here ah am, surrounded by people whose heads are wrapped in shrinkwrap and people dressed in white who keep telling me I am difficult for ah am a sailor. First off ahm not a sailor, ahm a proud midshipmen and have been to all seven seas, but them wouldna know tha difference. All they care about is the tags they tryin to put on me and tha shrinkwrap, which is what they wanna see on ma head. But no fucking one is gonna mess around with ma head and now ahm just gonna call the fellas and felines from mah boat and we´ll all teach em a good lesson in “how to behave offshore”. And then we´ll figure out a way on how to leave a city that doesnae have a harbour and doesnae need pity. For ahm not alone!
Malt A.Lone

4-98
Rotterdam - the Harbour of dreams - drinkers haven and gamblers hell.
There ah goes off the plank and onto the unstable grounds a-shore, hoping to find fellow drinkers and lasses of my trade.
Little did ah know that there was some unplanned activity in store for me. Ahm gettin´ used to these spectacles popping up evrywhere nowadays to entertain those people that don´t seem to know no better ways of losing their money. But the fact that they did wanna set it all up so ah couldn´t go into ma favorite bars no more without even pretending ahm part of their so called artcrowd pisses me off genuinely. So ah already knows ahm not gonna stay sober anyways and as ahm settin mahself up at tha store ah run into this lass that seems to be as sobered up about them artie farters as ahm -but just as we are havin the greatest time of all she confesses that she really is into performance art and wants me to be part of her show. So ah know ahm gonna set myself up with a lifetime supply of scotish friends and never ever gonna leave the fuckin boat no more.
Malt A.Lone

3-98
Where the hell am I anyway?
I´d rather not know too much about it.
All ah knows is ah cant take it any longer, couldn´t possibly have been that teeny bit of
single malt in a cuppa coffee. That usually juzz wakes me up - this time it was a definite knockout.
Ah know ah shouldn´t have trusted a port where they advertise themselves as righteous motherfuckers. They got themselves a prohibition on everything, it seems. Calling out for alcohol free zones and even performance free spaces, whatever that means. But ah saw someone getting arrested off the street not for being disorderly or drunk, but for wearing a red clown nose and dancing in the streets.
Seems like ah´m in a strange basement and ah know they are serving alcohol illegally, but in coffee cups and you have to order "little blacks" as they call it, to get real juice. All my money´s gone as well - prohibition aint cheap for sure.
And ah seem to remember something about some theatre piece in here - ah yes the Revolutionary Performance Liberation Front they called themselves and they were proclaiming the end of prohibition and they were gonna rise like a phoenix from the ashes and do revolutionary theatre, calling out for spectacles all over the city and general free entertainment for happy masses. Only it deems to me now that they also gave a first glimpse of their revolutionary theatre just then and ah can´t say ah liked it a lot. Seems it was the reason for my headache, ´cause ah can take a lot of bad liquor.
Ah think ah probably have to turn ´em in, for ah can´t deal with bad performance and isn´t that what the prohibition is for?
MaltA.Lone

2-98
There is no way denyin’ that leaving the boat is genuinely a bad idea, but there is always that notion that a new port brings a new town and new people - right?
Well, wrong, actually. I wonder how long I can keep up with a lifestyle like this before I decide it just ain´t worth the trouble of actually anchoring the boat.
Just last week the itch got to bad again and ah decided to give it a go and entered a lovely smalltown harbour in a city that seemed to have its yearly festivities of springtime rites and genuine beer polka party. Lotsa people wearing "Alcohol is sexy" T-s and being happy and dancing in the streets typa folks. Just like my kind a people it seemed.
So ah gets all excited and prepared for a grand nite out, leaving all me worries behind.
This time I bring my Scottish friend along for I did learn my lessons from last time where ah just could not find any, but that shouldn’t be no problem atall, for this seems to be a city that is all hooked on being all eurostyle and modern, they even make themselves some fancy ol´ postcards with disneyland and an operahouse that ah knows for sure is in Synney on top of it, either they juzz built themselves a copy or are all completely gone off their knockers. I tend to believe the latter, for after almost leaning on to my Scottish friend too heavily, some lokal yokel didn´t like the idea of me pointing out to him that maybe his t-shirt that reads alcohol is sexy is actually taking the piss outta him and he decides he wants to have a brawl about it and of course ah prove him wrong. Only nobody told the coppers that Scotland is part of Europe and therefore they really shouldn´t be lockin’ me up no longer. MaltA.Lone