The young hero of this tale spends his life trying to fulfill his mother’s dying wish that he track down and punish the rake that abused her and left her a ‘poor consumptive wretch’.
After years, he corners him, somewhat improbably, in the belly of a whale.
Epic fail, Butler bletch. I am in there like swimwear. Having heard of your objections to electric based music in the past, here is thirteen minutes of legitimate mariner related electric guitar action.
It had a bloody two-minute long verbal introduction too.
Redeeming features?
The quirky, quieter bit at about 7 mins - where I actually thought it had come to an end. Oh, and the bit right at the end. Oh, no, hold on a sec. That’s just called the end, isn’t it?
Did you know that Bruce Dickinson is an anagram of Nice dick-rub, son?
It had a bloody two-minute long verbal introduction too.
Redeeming features?
The quirky, quieter bit at about 7 mins - where I actually thought it had come to an end. Oh, and the bit right at the end. Oh, no, hold on a sec. That’s just called the end, isn’t it?
Did you know that Bruce Dickinson is an anagram of Nice dick-rub, son?
Yeah, you say that bletch, but you completely failed to mention the Spandex. Which kinda means they carried Spandex off and you didn’t notice. That to me suggests you were hypnotised by the fusion of 80s hair metal and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, but can’t quite admit it on account of your stated preference of acoustic jams. Spandex, bletch. The material that stretched over your little game.
And another thing. You do know that Bruce Dickinson is a qualified airline pilot, and in that capacity, rescued a load of stranded British tourists? Now it’s nowhere near as toe-curlingly embarrassing as when aintforever suggested Cap’n Ron Moody didn’t know his flying onions, but you’re in that ballpark, sir. I just don’t want a love of the Internet Anagram Server to forgo good judgement.