The P & O Chronicles Volume 2

INDIANA SLOPE

AND THE TOILET OF DOOM

THE FINAL WEEK

Apart from a quick stop at Palma to top up with unleaded we are at sea
now until our return to Southampton on Wednesday.

We need to fill up as apparently this boat does 17.5 metres to the
gallon ­ so it gets through a fair bit of fuel.

When we are at sea the days tend to blur together so the final week of
our journey is best encapsulated in one go rather than trying to break
it up and make it seem as if something interesting happened every day.

As we leave the Black Sea ports we will be retracing our journey back
down the Bosphorous past Istanbul then through the Dardenelles on our
way to the brief stop in Palma on Saturday.

The weather is wonderful so the old folk are all up on top of the boat
frying themselves at every opportunity.

My little sheltered haven where I can sit and read is nearby so it¹s
great sport to watch the oldies cooking and listen in on some of their
inane conversations.

I heard one old girl ask a passing steward ³Do the crew sleep on board?

The staff and crew are always faultlessly polite in the face of such
stupid questions when they must be absolutely dying to be rude or rip
the piss out of some of these brain dead punters that they have to put
up with.

For the cruise through the Dardenelles Indiana has been able to persuade
the entertainments team that he should be allowed to go onto the bridge
of the ship and give a commentary to the passengers as we pass through.

All thoughts of the clip board are now forgotten.

Indiana is very excited.

I point out that we are passing through the Dardanelles at 3 in the
morning which causes brief panic until Indiana realises that his loyal
assistant is taking the piss ­ again.

So late on the afternoon of Wednesday I hear the familiar ³bing/bong of
the ships tannoy system which is normally followed by the deep and
reassuring tones of our Captain.

Tap tap tap ­ testing testing 1 2 3 ­ can you hear me?

Eventually the dulcet tones of our eponymous hero ring around the boat
and a fascinating talk follows as we cruise through the historic
waterway.

I hate this bit but I have to tell you he was bloody good ­ although I
did find it a bit embarrassing when he got all excited and made machine
gun noises as we sailed past Gallipoli.

The Oriana Theatre Company are presenting a tribute to Eurovision in the
theatre after dinner so that¹s worth going to in the hope that one of
the blokes will fall and hurt himself, or better still, one of the girls
will have a clothing mishap.

Both of these are regular occurrences by all accounts.

The performance does not disappoint.

There always seems to be one female dancer who is a bit of a salad
dodger and this troupe is no different.

The girls are all kitted out in tiny skirts and little crop tops
supported by diamante bra straps.

I¹ve had to send Indiana to bed as this would all be too much for him.

The particular girl who has caught my eye must have some hidden talent
as she¹s clearly not here for her looks.

Suffice to say that were the flooding to return she would make an
excellent sand bag.

The male dancers are quite athletic strong looking lads but there is one
little chap who sticks out like sore thumb. He¹s shorter and skinnier
than the rest of them and is topped off with bright red hair and wing
nut ears. It is though easy to tell why he is in the show as he has a
wonderful voice.

Clearly someone in the production team has a sense of humour as wing nut
has been given the job of dancing with and generally picking up and
throwing around our friend the salad dodger.

He gets redder and redder and his knees wobble more with each song and
dance routine but he keeps at it without ever dropping her.

I do however watch with fascination as her diamante bra strap works its
way closer and closer to the point of no return on her shoulder
whereupon due to the weight of her Walters* it will slip down and wing
nut will end up deaf or with two black eyes.

It duly happens but all of a sudden our large dancer develops speed and
coordination that so far had deserted her. In one move she spins away
from the audience, slides the bra strap back over her shoulder and leaps
back onto the shoulders of wing nut.

Quite an impressive recovery and probably only the few perverts like me
who had been waiting for this actually saw what happened.

Her swinging tit left quite a nasty red mark on wing nuts right ear but
other than that the kids coped well.

As the week at sea passes much time is spent with book and fag near one
of the pools on deck 12. Some dreadful sights around as I have mentioned
earlier. I become fascinated by one particular woman who is clearly
allergic to or simply opposed to the use of Immac.

Her legs are hairier than mine.

One day as she walks towards me I could swear that she¹s got Ken Dodd in
a headlock but in fact it¹s just her armpit hair ­ very scary.

A brief stop in Palma sees Indiana locked away in the cabin preparing
the talks for his American cruise which leaves next weekend. So I wander
into the town to pick up some English newspapers and have a look around.

Palma is now very posh, it¹s like Mayfair on Sea!

Designer shops everywhere and lots of very wealthy people in amazing
yachts in the marina.

I feel no need to be with the beautiful people so find myself helping
Syd Little find his way back to the boat with 36 bottles of Mateus Rose.

The Palma weekend passes in a blur of beer, football and rugby. A bit
like the average Great Missenden weekend really.

One of the dancers manages to break a leg in rehearsals over the
weekend. I can¹t help wondering if it was wing nut collapsing under the
weight of Sandra the salad dodger.

The consequence of this unfortunate accident is that the entertainments
staff have to put together a cabaret show at 24 hours notice to fill the
gap left by the dance troupe.

Indiana only goes and offers to help saying he can do a 10 minute stand
up comedy slot!

Has he gone mad ­ he¹s the worst joke teller in the pub.

If he¹s given a slot I shall go to bed early as I don¹t want to see a
mate suffer in public.

I¹m glad that Indiana¹s lectures have been so well received but he¹s
putting it all at risk if he thinks he¹s Billy Connolly.

Maybe I¹ll offer to do speech therapy classes in the mornings.

As we reach the final leg of our journey the sea is becoming very rough
indeed. Indiana and I put in a serious and lengthy session in Anderson¹s
Bar on Monday night. Shit loads of beer and gay coffee is consumed and
eventually at around 02.40 the bar staff suggest that we and our various
drinking buddies ought to be off to bed.

With a 12 foot swell and after a marathon drinking session the journey
back to the cabin is an eventful one.

I fall asleep fearing that I may have told the joke about the woman who
can only reach an orgasm during a thunderstorm and worry about Indiana¹s
trip to America next week.

Our final day at sea and we are faced with even bigger waves. The staff
have very kindly placed ³Motion Discomfort Receptacles around the boat
for our use.

What a magic name for sick bags.

I¹ve got a bloody awful hangover but I don¹t think I¹m sea sick. No
doubt when the hangover passes I¹ll find out.

Bit of a sleeping it off day and thankfully once the hangover passes I
realise that I am one of the lucky ones who is not suffering with sea
sickness. Indiana is also in fine fettle but the boat is almost deserted
as people have clearly taken to their beds.

All that¹s left to do now is pack the cases ­ spreading the excess duty
frees between both sets of cases and keeping our fingers crossed, pay
the tips to our steward and waiters and then head off for one last 7
course dinner followed by piss up.

We get an hour back tonight so a bit of lie in before braving the M27,
M3 and M25.

If nothing else this journey of discovery has made me realise that I
should never consider a career with old people and that diplomacy is not
one of my greatest strengths.

Indiana still appears to have a career with P. & O. despite my best
efforts though I do think that as he makes his way across the Atlantic
next week he will miss the charm of my snoring and farting in his cabin.

* Walters ­ cockney rhyming slang for titties.