“Lower the main sails, me hearties,” cried Captain Penn, once Jack Dudley spied land from the Crow’s Nest, “We be on the Wild Coast, to be sure, and we all know why we be here.”

A cheer rose from the crew, though perhaps a less hearty one than you’d have heard four days before, when the John Brant Brodie set sail from Plymouth; though he had ably steered our ship and the rag-taggle band of landlubbers across the Bay of Biscay and through the Straits of Gibraltar, his pirate speak was starting to grate (after all, he had no difficulty conjugating the verb to be when drinking in the Druid’s Head – at least, no more difficulty than any other working class man of South Staffs.), and his behaviour on shore had been anything but exemplary. As I climbed the rigging with Jack Dudley and Elijah Phelps, I contemplated how lucky we were to have actually made it to Barcelona in time for what was arguably the biggest match in Wolves’ history to date. As I did so, I looked down in pity at Geoff “Gibby” Gilbert, whose job it had once been to climb the very ropes I now climbed. Perhaps “lucky” wasn’t quite le mot juste.

“…show Poseidon who’s boss…”

Our first port of call had been Caceiro, Galicia. Strong winds had carried usswiftly to Iberia, but it had also levied a heavy toll in sea-sickness – the sides of the John Brant Brodie were so green she looked like an ancient wreck brought but recently to the surface. Weakened by the foregoing and expulsion of all sustenance during the journey so far, we were all keen to eat once the feel of steady land had settled our stomachs, but Captian Penn insisted we begin drinking straight away, “In order to show Poseidon who’s boss.” Cerberus, whom I’d brought along as ship’s mascot, growled a little at the invocation of his former master’s brother, but I stroked him and gave a pork scratching to each of his heads, which he managed to keep down far better than the beef cheeks I’d given him during the journey.

Captain Penn talked tough, but although he was the only one not to have brought up his last four meals en route from Devon, he proved to be the least suited to rum, and after the second round at Casa Antonio the owner passed him a mop and told him to leave as soon as the floor was clean. We wandered through the streets a little until we found a cosy tavern called the “Ruiseñor”, ate some paella and gave Penn plenty of bread to soak up the rum, but the calm was short-lived. Little ports like Caceiro change atmosphere in an instant, and talk of our captain’s behaviour travelled along the streets faster than the lamplighters could illuminate them. Only the language skills of handsome Joey Briggs – who had fought on the Republican side in the Civil War – saved us from a salty beating, and I was extremely relieved to make it aboard without incident. I also hoped (somewhat naïvely, as it turned out) that the forced truncation of our stay would speed up the journey.

“Remember, me hearties: what happens in Tangers stays in Tangers!”

At Porto, things were no better. Claiming to be well acquainted with the city (and apparently speaking fluent Portuguese) Penn led us all to a dark little bar near the waterfront where he challenged the owner of a mean-looking German Shepherd to a dogfight with the ship’s mascot.

“Cerberus will not be fighting!” I said firmly, “He’s a good natured thing, and supernatural, too. Wouldn’t be fair on him or the Alsatian.”

At this Penn stormed off in a mard and only rejoined the ship under police escort, Porto’s welcome having lasted just under an hour longer than Caceiro’s. Chimdy and I helped him to his cabin, and AB Alfie Newham took the helm as we lifted anchor and headed down the coast.

Our final stop was – according to the established itinerary – Gibraltar, but the increasingly-erratic Captain Penn announced that our ship would not be welcomed into a British Port while flying the wolf’s head and crossbones. This seemed unlikely given that Harold “Chimdy” Potts had designed the flag only a few weeks before, but – by now a little bit concerned about our captain’s sanity – I nodded and went along with his decision to drop anchor in Tangiers instead.

It was the first time out of Europe for all but a couple of veterans of Monty’s campaigns, and the sights and scents of the place, at once blurry and sharp to the senses, was intoxicating to even the most grounded amongst us. When travelling, it is a most normal and natural condition to wish to belong to a place you are visiting; life appears so strange and so other that you wish to know it inside out and take it on as a new appendage to your persona, as a man of the world. At once, though, I knew Morocco was different. This was a place to be viewed from a distance; this was the ideal place to be a cosseted tourist, safe behind the skirts of a guide or the high walls of an embassy. Danger, of course, was part of its intoxication, but the problem with danger as an intoxicant is that it is so difficult to control the dose.

If Captain Penn sensed any danger he certainly didn’t show it, or perhaps he was so habituated to it that he craved as large a dose as possible. He began by ordering us to unload crates stored at the galley that I had assumed were supplies for the journey but proved to be contraband. The prices for these goods appeared to be extremely unstable, and heated discussions in Arabic continued until Captain Penn unsheathed a rapier and his customers a number of pistols. This speeded negotiations up a great deal.

Though apparently disgruntled by the terms of his transaction, Penn soon changed his aspect and urged us to explore the nightlife as fully as possible. “Remember, me hearties: what happens in Tangers stays in Tangers!” he called, while also ordering me to get the ship’s mascot from the poop deck. “And clean up the poop while you’re at it!” he snapped. It was clear he aimed to get little Cerberus involved in a fight, no doubt hoping to recoup some of his lost profits with wagers. Of course, I refused as I had in Porto.

“You can’t refuse!” shouted Penn, “It’s in the ship’s articles!”

“You can’t refuse!” shouted Penn, “It’s in the ship’s articles!”

“What are you talking about?”

“‘The ship’s mascot shall be at the disposition of the Captain for all recreational purposes including walking, fetch and vicious fighting with animals of and not of its own kind.’ Article Twenty-One.”

I had not read the ship’s articles, having assumed the ceremony by which we swore to them over crossed swords was just a lark.

“Cerberus isn’t the ship’s mascot,” I improvised. “I never said he was ship’s mascot.”

“Article Twenty-Two,” recited Penn, “‘Any pet brought on board by any member of the crew may be named ship’s mascot by the Captain.’ I name him ship’s mascot. Now go get him,” he was brandishing his sword by now in a threatening manner.

“But he’s not a pet…, he’s more like a member of the family…”

“Nice try, Gonby. Get the mascot and let’s get to the Medina.”

Fifteen minutes later we were making our way into the medina, swords drawn and surrounded by hustlers and faux guides, “Où as-tu trouvé cette bête, mon ami?” “Se lo compro, amigo, ¡muchas pesetas!”

“Get away!” shouted Captain Penn, to little effect.

The Captain appeared to know his way around the Medina, but the appearance soon waned. As my suspicions grew that we were lost, a plan began to formulate itself in my head, and, after recognizing a partially-subterranean cigarette stall for the third time, I whispered my plan to Jack and Chimdy. On the count of three we took a sharp left at speed, followed by three rights. Shouts of “Gonby! Come back here!” faded and we were free of our captain and the rest of the crew, but not of faux guides.

“I’ll give you five shillings to lead us out of here,” I said to the tallest one.

“You’ll give me fifty pounds,” he said. “Plus whatever else you have!”

We ran again, Jack and Chimdy following me around random corners, and over a fruit stall, the oranges and watermelons rolling towards our pursuers, slowing them down. We now had the greengrocers to dodge as well though. Angry guttural shouts rang through the labyrinth, rousing drowsy sellers from their seats in the narrow passageways, who would block our way until shooed with a flashing sabre. Rebab music sped up as we passed, and oboes played dizzy, circular themes. A hawker called us into his shop and we accepted the refuge. He kept us there for an hour, peddling aphrodisiacs and get-rich potions until we paid him for nothing, downed our mint teas and left; at the doorway, the thieves met us, but an exhausted Cerberus was finally losing his temper. With a unison roar, his three heads reared up and opened their mouths. Wider and wider the mouths became until they were capable of holding a human being, and that’s what each of them did. The thieves that hadn’t been gobbled up fled in screaming fear, and Cerberus shook his heads for twenty seconds and then spat the men high into the air.

“Good boy,” I said, and gave him three pork scratchings.

“Good boy,” I said, and gave him three pork scratchings.

A local child had been watching these events, with dark, darting eyes and a poker player’s mouth. He approached the dog and showed his hand, looking to me. I nodded, and he rubbed each of Cerby’s heads.

“Can you show us out?” I asked.

The boy stopped fussing the dog and shrugged his shoulders.

“Le port, le port…” said Chimdy. This he grasped and led us on.

Outside the Medina, in the starrier, more modern air of the outer city, I gave the boy a pound and let him have a last fuss of Cerby. At Chimdy’s beckoning, however, I was soon staring back whence we’d come, and whence Captain Penn now emerged with the rest of the crew, all pouring with blood, with Elijah Phelps carrying Gibby on his back. And they weren’t hanging around.

Once on board the John Brant Brodie, we lifted anchor and began sailing north-east, barely able to hoist and unfurl with the shock.

Once through the Straits of Gibraltar, we assessed the damage. Jake Cleaver, the ship’s doctor, assessed Gibby and announced that he would need to amputate; “Chippy” Noakes immediately began began fashioning a prosthetic from one of the chairs at the captain’s dining table. Phelps had lost an eye, and after getting Chimdy to thread a needle for him, fashioned an eye patch from a the chair’s upholstery.

□ □ □ □ □

And so it was that we docked in Barcelona, off-loaded more contraband, and headed through the bustling streets full of tramcars, beggars and petty criminals, to the dazzling Nou Camp via a couple of pleasant café-bars, and awaited the first whistle.

“Come on me hearties!” shouted Captain Penn.

“Come on me babbies!” shouted I.

And we watched as the Club de Fútbol Barcelona take apart our beloved double champions of England, with quick feet, quick passes and a very quick goal. In hindsight, one might look back and point out those eight minutes before Villaverde’s opener as Wolves’ peak: still in the European Cup, and on course for a third successive league Championship, and the first League and Cup double of the modern era. You might imagine that we looked each other in the eye (or eyes, in the case of everyone but Elijah Phelps) and thought, “This is the end of an era,” or something weighty like that, as the goals kept going in, and our players looked tireder and tireder, and older and more outdated. But all that was really on our minds was sailing to Liverpool in time for the Everton game the next Saturday, without any more amputations or threats of deportation. That, and picking up some tasty morsels on the way to the John Brant Brodie, with which to treat each of Cerberus’ sweet little heads.