The Grog Doomer.

I am a fine dog groomer
All day I groom fine dogs
Of all the looming blooming
Fine dog grooming claims the clogs
(with apologies to Pam Ayres)

You wouldn’t understand, and I can’t explain because I’m no longer permitted to talk about where that came from. Just a bit of Shire business of no interest to those beyond the bounds.

*  *  *

So what of ‘grog’ you might ask. What is it?

Grog was the term applied to the daily rum ration that used to be given to sailors of the Royal Navy before some weasly government decided it was costing too much and doomed it to a netherland of fond remembrance. It was a tradition that went back… ooh… a long way, and it served a purpose. It made the men a bit more gung ho in the heat of battle.

When the gun deck was breathing fire and brimstone and you couldn’t hear the screams for the cacophony of crashing and banging, the bosun would be feeling frivolous:

‘Hahaha! That was good one, eh?’ he would quip merrily as a 25lb iron ball came crashing through the bulkhead at 80mph. ‘Took Harold’s head clean off at the tonsils. Let’s shoot one back, shall we lads? See if we can’t land one between a Frenchy’s legs. That should make his love life a bit more interesting.’

The alternative might have been a conversation that was rather less than morale boosting:

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’

‘Sailors.’

‘What?’

‘Sod this for a game of sailors.’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Anyway, I’m off.’

‘Off where?’

‘Er…’

See? Useful stuff, grog.