An imaginary take on what has happened

Dear Diary,

In my mind's eye, I wonder, from the writings of Captain Bligh (the actual William Bligh, not the juvenile thug that commands my every move in that... place) and Edward Christian, what it might be like, in some parallel universe, here, now, at that... place. It runs thuswise (at least, in mine own fertile imagination).

Captain Bligh: Do the meals. Take them from oven.

Fletcher Christian: I beg your pardon sire, but the Boreal downdraft which blows down from the Genoa sail, makes any and all meals stone cold, the moment they are taken from the ship's hold, to the crew.

Captain Bligh: I not care. Take the meals from there, and put them in boxes.

Fletcher Christian: You are not listening to me, sire. I wish only to point out that the ships' crew shall only ever have Continental rations, or rather, food which is as cold as the wine-dark sea, unless something is done to counteract this blast of cold air coming from the north.

Captain Bligh: You do as I say. You no argue. I boss. You just instore. Do as I say.

Fletcher Christian: Were it not for my astute observation, any and all meals served from the ship's pantry would go out cold to the crew, sire. I merely wish to object to the manner in which the food is served, so that our men may have bellies filled with hot, not cold food, and this in turn may in fact increase morale among the crew. It is said in the British Army, before going on a standing patrol, that the platoon ought to have all had a hot, not a cold meal.

Captain Bligh: You do job. You do job as I say. No argue.

Fletcher Christian: I beg your pardon sire, but I am merely pointing out that all the meals which you presume to serve, are all going out cold.

Captain Bligh: You no argue.

Fletcher Christian: It seems to me to be most unreasonable, good Sir, when you say that one must go about the performance of one's duties to the detriment of the crew under your command. Surely it would make more sense to rectify the problem, and carry on, as all good sailors should do in Her Majesty's Navy.

Captain Bligh: I no care. You do what I say.

Fletcher Christian: You've given your last command Bligh. I'm taking over this ship. Miles! (Yes sir!) Go and fetch the keys to the armoury.

Captain Bligh: I in command here.

Fletcher Christian: Not for much longer Bligh. Reason is sacred, and your commands ask more of fine officers and good honest sailors than rationality can allow. Clap him in irons lads!