Ships gone that you miss?

[Frutos]

Belgrano

I'm fairly sure HMS Conqueror didn't miss it.

 

[lawros left foot]

You young ones don't know you're born! You try supping from a flagon of mead on high seas aboard The Mary Rose. All over me doublet and hose it went, every bloody time!

Hang on, I'll swing the lamps, and pull up a bollard, i love a good sea story

 

[Vegas Seagull]

Ship Hotel, Hove Street
Best place in town for old school winter Sunday roast followed by mustn't grumble and custard

 

[drew]

Tirpitz. It was a bomb that missed that sank it.

Somebody was watching Channel 5 today!

 

[Luke93]

Athena B

Secondly this. Solely because of the best chip shop in Portslade is named after it XD

 

[Meade's Ball]

My relationship by post with Lynda Bellingham. We'd written to each other with various levels of amorosity over around 3 years, the quality of the paper i'd poetically scribble in increasing in value for the first 2 of those. We'd arranged to meet, in a small town in Buckinghamshire, for an afternoon al fresco of steaming meats. I'd prepared myself for the day itself slowly, putting together some of the images she'd written about to formulate the picture of her perfect man, praying she'd not notice me to be merely 21. I'd waxed the middle of my pate repeatedly, polishing its bareness and dying in areas to add the blotchiness of age, willing no stubble to emerge itself. The moustache i'd grown was a young man's one and quite the wrong colour, so a thick painting of each hair was require and a regular dash of Isoflex High Performance Liquid Rubber was administered. Weeks before our date of lust, the correspondence lessened. I wrote daily, enclosing one of my lengthened oak-coloured bristles, and in reply a few days apart would be increasingly disinterested responses, matter of factual, arid, and on the cheapest, imperfectly-folded line A4. I was devastated and confronted her in writing, again and again firing off enquiries and accusations and the theories of the damned in her direction. 9 days passed and finally had my two-word riposte: NO MORE. Lynda, i cried out, scratching terribly at my regrowing scalp and tearing at the moustache hairs i wanted her to perfectly love as both a symbol of me and of Michael Redfearn. It still hurts for me to think about, and all the more when i glance at the blackened stains on my upper lip that Isoflex failed to warn me of fully. One learns though, not to throw one's irons into just one fire, for instance. I won't dive in head-or-heart-first this time, or to just one woman. Coleen Nolan and Nadia Sawahla have been sweetly answering my mailings for the last half-decade, and the passions for each are growing mutually. If my plans for their backstage flirtation to develop into something more physical come to fruition, then i'll be in what i believe to the first ever Loose Women threesome of note, and i'm of hope only one will depart with my bludgeoned shrunken heart in their mitts.

 

[jakarta]

My relationship by post with Lynda Bellingham. We'd written to each other with various levels of amorosity over around 3 years, the quality of the paper i'd poetically scribble in increasing in value for the first 2 of those. We'd arranged to meet, in a small town in Buckinghamshire, for an afternoon al fresco of steaming meats. I'd prepared myself for the day itself slowly, putting together some of the images she'd written about to formulate the picture of her perfect man, praying she'd not notice me to be merely 21. I'd waxed the middle of my pate repeatedly, polishing its bareness and dying in areas to add the blotchiness of age, willing no stubble to emerge itself. The moustache i'd grown was a young man's one and quite the wrong colour, so a thick painting of each hair was require and a regular dash of Isoflex High Performance Liquid Rubber was administered. Weeks before our date of lust, the correspondence lessened. I wrote daily, enclosing one of my lengthened oak-coloured bristles, and in reply a few days apart would be increasingly disinterested responses, matter of factual, arid, and on the cheapest, imperfectly-folded line A4. I was devastated and confronted her in writing, again and again firing off enquiries and accusations and the theories of the damned in her direction. 9 days passed and finally had my two-word riposte: NO MORE. Lynda, i cried out, scratching terribly at my regrowing scalp and tearing at the moustache hairs i wanted her to perfectly love as both a symbol of me and of Michael Redfearn. It still hurts for me to think about, and all the more when i glance at the blackened stains on my upper lip that Isoflex failed to warn me of fully. One learns though, not to throw one's irons into just one fire, for instance. I won't dive in head-or-heart-first this time, or to just one woman. Coleen Nolan and Nadia Sawahla have been sweetly answering my mailings for the last half-decade, and the passions for each are growing mutually. If my plans for their backstage flirtation to develop into something more physical come to fruition, then i'll be in what i believe to the first ever Loose Women threesome of note, and i'm of hope only one will depart with my bludgeoned shrunken heart in their mitts.

This is why I love NSC.....

I also wanted to do things with Oxo & Linda B

 

[flint]

The Good ship Lollipop

 

[lawros left foot]

My relationship by post with Lynda Bellingham. We'd written to each other with various levels of amorosity over around 3 years, the quality of the paper i'd poetically scribble in increasing in value for the first 2 of those. We'd arranged to meet, in a small town in Buckinghamshire, for an afternoon al fresco of steaming meats. I'd prepared myself for the day itself slowly, putting together some of the images she'd written about to formulate the picture of her perfect man, praying she'd not notice me to be merely 21. I'd waxed the middle of my pate repeatedly, polishing its bareness and dying in areas to add the blotchiness of age, willing no stubble to emerge itself. The moustache i'd grown was a young man's one and quite the wrong colour, so a thick painting of each hair was require and a regular dash of Isoflex High Performance Liquid Rubber was administered. Weeks before our date of lust, the correspondence lessened. I wrote daily, enclosing one of my lengthened oak-coloured bristles, and in reply a few days apart would be increasingly disinterested responses, matter of factual, arid, and on the cheapest, imperfectly-folded line A4. I was devastated and confronted her in writing, again and again firing off enquiries and accusations and the theories of the damned in her direction. 9 days passed and finally had my two-word riposte: NO MORE. Lynda, i cried out, scratching terribly at my regrowing scalp and tearing at the moustache hairs i wanted her to perfectly love as both a symbol of me and of Michael Redfearn. It still hurts for me to think about, and all the more when i glance at the blackened stains on my upper lip that Isoflex failed to warn me of fully. One learns though, not to throw one's irons into just one fire, for instance. I won't dive in head-or-heart-first this time, or to just one woman. Coleen Nolan and Nadia Sawahla have been sweetly answering my mailings for the last half-decade, and the passions for each are growing mutually. If my plans for their backstage flirtation to develop into something more physical come to fruition, then i'll be in what i believe to the first ever Loose Women threesome of note, and i'm of hope only one will depart with my bludgeoned shrunken heart in their mitts.

Sir, I salute you, the 21st century Shakespeare

 

[Train Spotter]

The Chartres, absolute heap!

 

[Eric Potts]

My relationship by post with Lynda Bellingham. We'd written to each other with various levels of amorosity over around 3 years, the quality of the paper i'd poetically scribble in increasing in value for the first 2 of those. We'd arranged to meet, in a small town in Buckinghamshire, for an afternoon al fresco of steaming meats. I'd prepared myself for the day itself slowly, putting together some of the images she'd written about to formulate the picture of her perfect man, praying she'd not notice me to be merely 21. I'd waxed the middle of my pate repeatedly, polishing its bareness and dying in areas to add the blotchiness of age, willing no stubble to emerge itself. The moustache i'd grown was a young man's one and quite the wrong colour, so a thick painting of each hair was require and a regular dash of Isoflex High Performance Liquid Rubber was administered. Weeks before our date of lust, the correspondence lessened. I wrote daily, enclosing one of my lengthened oak-coloured bristles, and in reply a few days apart would be increasingly disinterested responses, matter of factual, arid, and on the cheapest, imperfectly-folded line A4. I was devastated and confronted her in writing, again and again firing off enquiries and accusations and the theories of the damned in her direction. 9 days passed and finally had my two-word riposte: NO MORE. Lynda, i cried out, scratching terribly at my regrowing scalp and tearing at the moustache hairs i wanted her to perfectly love as both a symbol of me and of Michael Redfearn. It still hurts for me to think about, and all the more when i glance at the blackened stains on my upper lip that Isoflex failed to warn me of fully. One learns though, not to throw one's irons into just one fire, for instance. I won't dive in head-or-heart-first this time, or to just one woman. Coleen Nolan and Nadia Sawahla have been sweetly answering my mailings for the last half-decade, and the passions for each are growing mutually. If my plans for their backstage flirtation to develop into something more physical come to fruition, then i'll be in what i believe to the first ever Loose Women threesome of note, and i'm of hope only one will depart with my bludgeoned shrunken heart in their mitts.

Remember Preston ?

 

[Deportivo Seagull]

HMS Hermes

 

[Jam The Man]

battleships (electronic game).

I still have a fully operational one with all the parts!

 

[smudge]

Makes you feel old when ships you've spent years on get scrapped!
3 that I served a total of 20 years on. HMS Fearless, HMS Invincible, HMS Ark Royal.
Can't say I actually miss them though, just remember the great times with great mates.

In my second career, I miss the crew bar oboard Noregian Dream. It was like having the best pub ever where it was Saturday night every night & wall to wall clacker. Marvellous scenes indeed for an ex matelot!

 

[lawros left foot]

Makes you feel old when ships you've spent years on get scrapped!
3 that I served a total of 20 years on. HMS Fearless, HMS Invincible, HMS Ark Royal.
Can't say I actually miss them though, just remember the great times with great mates.

In my second career, I miss the crew bar oboard Noregian Dream. It was like having the best pub ever where it was Saturday night every night & wall to wall clacker. Marvellous scenes indeed for an ex matelot!

The last surviving ship I served on was sent for scrap last year, it made me feel quite old, six ships, all gone now, and I saw one of them sunk off Gib, in exocet live firings

 

[Leighgull]

My relationship by post with Lynda Bellingham. We'd written to each other with various levels of amorosity over around 3 years, the quality of the paper i'd poetically scribble in increasing in value for the first 2 of those. We'd arranged to meet, in a small town in Buckinghamshire, for an afternoon al fresco of steaming meats. I'd prepared myself for the day itself slowly, putting together some of the images she'd written about to formulate the picture of her perfect man, praying she'd not notice me to be merely 21. I'd waxed the middle of my pate repeatedly, polishing its bareness and dying in areas to add the blotchiness of age, willing no stubble to emerge itself. The moustache i'd grown was a young man's one and quite the wrong colour, so a thick painting of each hair was require and a regular dash of Isoflex High Performance Liquid Rubber was administered. Weeks before our date of lust, the correspondence lessened. I wrote daily, enclosing one of my lengthened oak-coloured bristles, and in reply a few days apart would be increasingly disinterested responses, matter of factual, arid, and on the cheapest, imperfectly-folded line A4. I was devastated and confronted her in writing, again and again firing off enquiries and accusations and the theories of the damned in her direction. 9 days passed and finally had my two-word riposte: NO MORE. Lynda, i cried out, scratching terribly at my regrowing scalp and tearing at the moustache hairs i wanted her to perfectly love as both a symbol of me and of Michael Redfearn. It still hurts for me to think about, and all the more when i glance at the blackened stains on my upper lip that Isoflex failed to warn me of fully. One learns though, not to throw one's irons into just one fire, for instance. I won't dive in head-or-heart-first this time, or to just one woman. Coleen Nolan and Nadia Sawahla have been sweetly answering my mailings for the last half-decade, and the passions for each are growing mutually. If my plans for their backstage flirtation to develop into something more physical come to fruition, then i'll be in what i believe to the first ever Loose Women threesome of note, and i'm of hope only one will depart with my bludgeoned shrunken heart in their mitts.

I was a a party with Linda Bellingham once. I could tell you a very unsavoury story involving my mate and another reveller. But, I won't as I suspect its libellous.

 

[golddene]

The Black Pig, commanded by Captain Horatio Pugwash and ably assisted by his trusty crew Seaman Stains and Roger The Cabin Boy. Arrrrrr...

Wasn't Master Bates a crew member also?

 

[fataddick]

I was a a party with Linda Bellingham once. I could tell you a very unsavoury story involving my mate and another reveller. But, I won't as I suspect its libellous.

A lie, then? Nothing that's true is libellous.

 

[fataddick]

Wasn't Master Bates a crew member also?

FFS are these serious posts? The innuendo Pugwash names were were all made up by Victor Lewis-Smith in the late 90s. The Guardian paid out 150k in damages for printing them in the first place. Best NSC doesn't go the same way...

 

[lawros left foot]

FFS are these serious posts? The innuendo Pugwash names were were all made up by Victor Lewis-Smith in the late 90s. The Guardian paid out 150k in damages for printing them in the first place. Best NSC doesn't go the same way...

No chance of my childrens T.V. series" I'm a plastic Palace tosspot" getting a BBC contract then?