George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
His shipmates drank rum and grog, while he maintained a wine cellar in a corner of the ship’s hold.
He kept it hidden from the others, stacking up a pile of old sails and crates.
Every now and then, someone would spot George tossing an empty bottle over the rail into the sea.
“Oh, sorry,” he’d say, “that’s the last one. If only you’d been around when I opened it.”
One day, they took heavy cannonfire, and George’s precious wine collection was smashed to bits.
George wept for days.