After that, haphazard little drunks, sponged in the "pubs" from mates with a few coppers left, like myself, and when sponging was played out another trip to sea and a repetition of the beastly cycle.
"But women," I suggested, when he had finished proclaiming booze the sole end of existence.
"Wimmen!" He thumped his pot upon the bar and orated eloquently.

"Wimmen is a thing my edication 'as learnt me t' let alone.

It don't pay, matey; it don't pay.

Wot's a man like me want o' wimmen, eh?
jest you tell me.
There was my mar, she was enough, a-bangin' the kids about an' makin' the ole man mis'rable when 'e come 'ome, w'ich was seldom, I grant.

An' fer w'y?
Becos o' mar! She didn't make 'is 'ome 'appy, that was w'y.