A pirate.

Memories clattering like scuffed, dog-eared cards.
A friend reminded me of an old drinking buddy (we'll call said drinking buddy, Wilf) in a conversation we shared the other night. Wilf would put away more bacardi than any sane human should ever conceivably be able to do. Last time we met, he spoke of hauling contraband from the continent back to Yorkshire and how a recent operation had still left him with at least one and a half lungs, all the while lighting up a Marlborough and giving me an aggrieved look for walking away from St Eeeeeeeeeurgh, the patron saint of alcoholics everywhere.
And the song in the hyperlink...
Wilf loved Bowie's Amsterdam more than just about anything in the world and we'd argue into the small hours at any pub that hadn't yet barred us about its merits and failings, as opposed to Brel's original. And we'd almost throw punches because I'd defended Brel's near-autistic gyrations (having seen a recording of his live performance on an old 16mm print somewhere or other) and Wilf abhorred Gallic displays of emotion of any kind. But instead of coming to blows, we'd just get punted and find another pub somewhere in the amber triangle of East Balmain, Leichhardt and the Cross that hadn't yet put us on their blacklist.
May this dispatch find you still leaving beautiful hells in your wake, my brother.

Amsterdam - Bowie