Shortly, a family friend will be leaving Boston, or Canada, wherever she is, to stay with my old dear for a semester of 'college'. I thought, there is only so much you can learn from websites and travel guides, and lets face it, a lot of that info is bollocks anyway. It'll only tell you to visit the slug down the Bay, or the Millennium Stadium or the Castle. "No" I thought, what she needed was a alternative survival guide, and here it is.....
When you greet people you can use the everyday hello if you so wish - or, you can greet people, as we do in Cardiff by saying "Alright", which is pronounced as "Or-rye". This can also be, and is quite often, punctuated with a "butt", as in "Alright butt". Butt is not what we Cardiffians call an "ass", (thats "arse" to us what created the language), it is however a term of endearment.
As the title alludes to Cardiff is not pronounced Car-diff as it is spelled. It is pronounced K-air-diff. Most words with an 'ar' sound are pronounced this way. "Dark" becomes "D-air-k". (Dark is also a popular alcoholic drink in Cardiff made by Brains Breweries, and it goes lovely with a meat pie made by local pie makers 'Clarks' or Cl-air-ks as you will come to know it. Eating one of these is essential to fitting in). To be fair, the dialect and speech patterns of us Cardiff folk is pretty strange. For instance...
Sentences are punctuated with words like, "like". You'd do well to add it to the end of your sentences. For example - "I'm just going to the pub, like". A lot of people tend to use the term "innit" which is short for "isn't it", which is a question, although rhetorical. You would use this like - "I'm just going to the pub, innit?". You are not actually asking the person you are speaking to if you are going to the pub, because you already know you are. I actually have no reasonable explanation as to why we talk this way, we just do.
Other things to look out for are when we say we will do something "now in a minute". I know we can do something either now, or in a minute, but in Cardiff, when we don't want to do something instantaneously, it's "now in a minute". Also, you may be asked where something is, in which case the question posed will be "where to is that??". Yes, we actually add a random word into a sentence.
Also, if you use either a bus, or a taxi, all drivers are refered to as "drive". It doesn't matter if you grew up with the person driving and you married someone in their immediate family, the relationship you have when they are behind the wheel is you and "drive".
Finally, one last note on dialect. To say thank you, you say pretty much anything other than "thank you". "Cheers", "ta", "nice one" and "safe" are all acceptable terms in Cardiff.
As well as our intense hatred for the English (as I touched upon before) we also loath people from Swansea. It is because they are inbred and live in caravans. And smell. Badly. If you know anything of the Appalachians and the folk there, then use that train of thought for Swansea. I can hear the 'duelling banjoes' playing in your head as you read this. You MUST take every opportunity to lambaste and ridicule Swansea and it's residents. It's like a sport.
Places to avoid in Cardiff - Llanrumney, Rumney, Trowbridge, St Mellons, Grangetown, The Docks, Riverside, Tremorfa, Splott and no place more so than where I live - Ely. If anybody invites you to any of these places, fake appendicitis and run. The best way to avoid an invite to the aforementioned places is to avoid anybody named "Chardonnay" or "Nevaeh" or "Mackenzie". These are what we call "chav" names. If you don't know what a chav is, google it.
If you go to one of our many pubs, it is not permitted (morally anyway) to order a cup of tea or a coffee. People who do so should be burned at the stake. Jenny did this last night and I almost died of embarrassment. If you want tea or coffee, go to Starbucks. Any coffee/tea drinking in pubs will be deemed as unacceptable behaviour and will be frowned upon by the alcoholics in the corner. Also, I will probably personally put you on a plane back home.
Anyway, a few other pointers, if you search online for things about Wales, you will find that most sites tell you that our national dish is either 'Welsh Rarebit' (cheese on toast), 'Cawl' (a broth/stew like dish) or 'Seaweed' (erm, just seaweed). They are all lies. The national dish is a Curry. Seriously. You will eat this on a regular basis during the duration of your stay. If I was you, I'd go for a mild curry, like a Korma, Masala, Pasanda or Bhuna. Do not go straight in for a Vindaloo because bad things will happen to you the next day. I am the living embodiment of that fact as on Thursday I had a Vindaloo then spent most of the next morning stuck to the toilet.
When getting around the city, do not trust the times given on any bus stops or train stations. They are usually wrong. Buses and trains almost always run late. Or early. We have 'Arriva Trains' as our main train service provider and we have 'Cardiff Bus' as our main bus service provider. We also have a bus company called 'St Davids Travel'. Do not, under any circumstances use this service unless you want to get robbed or killed in a horrific bush crash.
While 'Public Transport' is in mind, if you need a taxi home - always phone for one. Good numbers to remember are (20) - The Cardiff phone code, then 333333 for Dragon Taxis and 555555 for Premier Cars. This is because if you use a 'black and white' you'll get a driver called 'Dilip Singh' (not that his name matters, remember) who will take you the longest route possible to rinse the meter and it'll cost you a hell of a lot more than it should.
"Big Issue Maddam?" - When walking through the town centre, if you are confronted with this greeting, smile and politely decline. Big Issue is 'allegedly' a magazine for homeless people to sell in order help them get themselves back on their feet. That is just a front. It's just putting the next bit of crack in their pipes. I know people who have been selling Big Issue for years and still are homeless. Do not feel sorry for them. Even if they have cute little doggies with them.
While walking through town, you will need to practice the 'Blue Steel' look from Zoolander. This is so people don't bother you, either peddling their wares or for whatever reason. Do not appear friendly at all. They will suck you in and ask you to fill out surveys and to give a pound to small children in India. 'Blue Steel'. It's the future.
So there you have it. That is the basic guide on how to survive in my wonderful City. Use it, pass it to a friend, burn it - I don't care. But if it saves one life then I'll be happy. It was too late for Gary Coleman, but don't let it be too late for you.
Saturday 29 May 2010
Wednesday 5 May 2010
The School Trip.
How I get roped into certain things I don't know. I just do. Well, the latest debacle involved a farm, over a hundred little children and a scatty Eastern European. Sounds like something you'd find on Gary Glitters hard drive!!
As Gary reaches for his Johnsons Baby Lotion, I'll carry on. So, it was my mrs sons school trip. They were going to Cefn Mably Farm for the day. Now, I've got to admit, when I found out where they were going I did get a little excited because I love the farm and feeding the animals. Maybe, then, it was when I said "I love the farm, I wish I could go" that started the wheel in motion of my eventual attending.
So anyway, it turns out that my mrs has booked me on the trip with her and her two sons. On the morning in question, we took a stroll over to the school where we were greeted by the headteacher, someone I can only describe as 'Balamorys' Miss Hoolie. On speed. "Hello everybody" she beamed, with stomach churning happiness. I don't think it's possible for anyone to be that happy all the time. Maybe she goes home, listens to death metal and stabs kittens??
Moist with glee, Hoolie-on-Speed told us the master plan was to get on buses outside the school. I was still quite happy until I set foot on the coach and was greeted by a mass of McKenzie tracksuits and Elizabeth Duke gold. The other problem I faced was that the coach was set out into two rows, on of two seats and one of three. Quick thinking, I grabbed my mrs oldest son and sat him next to me in a two seater. I knew my mrs would have instinctively sat in a three seater with her two kids, leaving me the odd one out, either looking like a dirty paedo next to someone else's kid, or, even worse, sat next to the headteacher. To be honest, given a choice I'd have been happier on the sex offenders register!!
One of the first things I noticed (other than I was old enough to be some of the kids grandad) was that no-one calls their kids normal names anymore. There were Shakkilas, Laquandas, there were Nevaehs and Makakaka's. There were Zippy and Bungle's but no George. That's too sensible. I rue the day when there will be no Clives left in the World. Please all rise, for the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - Chakademusandpliers Smith. Fuck that.
Secondly, there's no hope for the future when the people moulding our kids for the future, those teaching them and inspiring them, can't fucking count, It took one teacher four attempts to count the children on the coach. Four. Each time she ended up with a different number.
As we aproached the farm, the countryside air got too much for one of the teenage single mums. "Eeurgh, smell that, fucking stinks bruv". Yes, because fresh air smells much worse than crack. Fucking bint.
We arrived at the farm and the kids on the bus were getting excited. It was in the region of 234 degrees and my bollocks were like Niagara Falls. With screaming kids and private parts dripping worse than Annabel Chongs, all I wanted to do was get off the bus. We couldn't. It was time for the farm lady to give a Health and Safety speech. She boarded the bus and started talking with as much gusto as the little black lady in Police Academy. She couldn't be heared over the screaming brats and at one point had to duck a flying Dairylea Dunker. All I managed to pay attention to was that "sticking fingers in animals mouths, and jumping in ponds are considered bad." Righty oh then.
We got into the farm at 10am and bought some feed. We fed animals. At 10.05 the kids were bored and wanted to go the the play area.
As me and my mrs sat down on a table, eating the Quorn pasta my mrs mum failed in disguising as chicken (erm, one tastes of cardboard), about three hundred kids were jumping around in the play area. Then, all of a sudden this crazy accented bird comes in ranting, pointing and the kids and gesturing angrily. Apparently one of the kids had taken animal feed into the play area. This lass was going fucking mental and screaming at the kids to leave. At one point she grabbed a little kid and pushed him out of the play pen. I pretended not to see because a) it wasn't one of my kids and b) the kids will probably end up behind bars at some point so a bit of freedom now wouldn't go amiss.
The play area was off limits. But these were Ely kids and, yo, Ely kids don't give a fuck. As soon as 'Gretel' dissappeared, the kids were back in there. Mistake.
She came storming back into the play area, ablaze with fury. She was livid and was howling at the Ely beans, pulling her hair out as if someone had asked her to wipe out Britains cash defecit rather than work in a farm. This time, the 'Johhny Foreigner' went a step to far as she launched a child infront of it's mother. "You can't touch my child" she screeched at the stressed farmer. The farmers answer - "Yes I can, I've been Police checked". Sorted, I thought. I've been Police checked. Now where was that little fucker who was eyeing up my 'Munch Bunch'. That little twat was having it.
As Gary reaches for his Johnsons Baby Lotion, I'll carry on. So, it was my mrs sons school trip. They were going to Cefn Mably Farm for the day. Now, I've got to admit, when I found out where they were going I did get a little excited because I love the farm and feeding the animals. Maybe, then, it was when I said "I love the farm, I wish I could go" that started the wheel in motion of my eventual attending.
So anyway, it turns out that my mrs has booked me on the trip with her and her two sons. On the morning in question, we took a stroll over to the school where we were greeted by the headteacher, someone I can only describe as 'Balamorys' Miss Hoolie. On speed. "Hello everybody" she beamed, with stomach churning happiness. I don't think it's possible for anyone to be that happy all the time. Maybe she goes home, listens to death metal and stabs kittens??
Moist with glee, Hoolie-on-Speed told us the master plan was to get on buses outside the school. I was still quite happy until I set foot on the coach and was greeted by a mass of McKenzie tracksuits and Elizabeth Duke gold. The other problem I faced was that the coach was set out into two rows, on of two seats and one of three. Quick thinking, I grabbed my mrs oldest son and sat him next to me in a two seater. I knew my mrs would have instinctively sat in a three seater with her two kids, leaving me the odd one out, either looking like a dirty paedo next to someone else's kid, or, even worse, sat next to the headteacher. To be honest, given a choice I'd have been happier on the sex offenders register!!
One of the first things I noticed (other than I was old enough to be some of the kids grandad) was that no-one calls their kids normal names anymore. There were Shakkilas, Laquandas, there were Nevaehs and Makakaka's. There were Zippy and Bungle's but no George. That's too sensible. I rue the day when there will be no Clives left in the World. Please all rise, for the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - Chakademusandpliers Smith. Fuck that.
Secondly, there's no hope for the future when the people moulding our kids for the future, those teaching them and inspiring them, can't fucking count, It took one teacher four attempts to count the children on the coach. Four. Each time she ended up with a different number.
As we aproached the farm, the countryside air got too much for one of the teenage single mums. "Eeurgh, smell that, fucking stinks bruv". Yes, because fresh air smells much worse than crack. Fucking bint.
We arrived at the farm and the kids on the bus were getting excited. It was in the region of 234 degrees and my bollocks were like Niagara Falls. With screaming kids and private parts dripping worse than Annabel Chongs, all I wanted to do was get off the bus. We couldn't. It was time for the farm lady to give a Health and Safety speech. She boarded the bus and started talking with as much gusto as the little black lady in Police Academy. She couldn't be heared over the screaming brats and at one point had to duck a flying Dairylea Dunker. All I managed to pay attention to was that "sticking fingers in animals mouths, and jumping in ponds are considered bad." Righty oh then.
We got into the farm at 10am and bought some feed. We fed animals. At 10.05 the kids were bored and wanted to go the the play area.
As me and my mrs sat down on a table, eating the Quorn pasta my mrs mum failed in disguising as chicken (erm, one tastes of cardboard), about three hundred kids were jumping around in the play area. Then, all of a sudden this crazy accented bird comes in ranting, pointing and the kids and gesturing angrily. Apparently one of the kids had taken animal feed into the play area. This lass was going fucking mental and screaming at the kids to leave. At one point she grabbed a little kid and pushed him out of the play pen. I pretended not to see because a) it wasn't one of my kids and b) the kids will probably end up behind bars at some point so a bit of freedom now wouldn't go amiss.
The play area was off limits. But these were Ely kids and, yo, Ely kids don't give a fuck. As soon as 'Gretel' dissappeared, the kids were back in there. Mistake.
She came storming back into the play area, ablaze with fury. She was livid and was howling at the Ely beans, pulling her hair out as if someone had asked her to wipe out Britains cash defecit rather than work in a farm. This time, the 'Johhny Foreigner' went a step to far as she launched a child infront of it's mother. "You can't touch my child" she screeched at the stressed farmer. The farmers answer - "Yes I can, I've been Police checked". Sorted, I thought. I've been Police checked. Now where was that little fucker who was eyeing up my 'Munch Bunch'. That little twat was having it.
Tuesday 4 May 2010
A Mariners Journal.
Life on the Ocean waves? Bollocks, I could never make it as a pirate!! I can handle the bottle of Rum part quite well, but unless I can "yo ho me heartys" on a train, a taxi or even an Ely bendy bus - I'm a afraid a pirates life ain't for me.
The magnitude of what I was about to embark on dawned on me as we got to Portsmouth. After gazing in wonderment at the Spinnaker Tower, Portsmouths very own 'Dubai-a-like' needly thing, the coach driver pointed out our ship. It was fucking huge!! The biggest thing I'd been on til then was a pedalo at Roath Park.
My nerves started and my arsehole was twitching. After checking in, James bought a round. Amazing how a pint of Magners (or Bow, or Stella, or Vodka or even the aforementioned bottle of Rum) can make you feel a bit better. Sadly, the ease and calm about myself dissipated and the bumhole started flickering again when I went to the bar. Two Magners, a Carling and a double Baileys - £14-odd!! Twas going to be an expensive trip, I thought.
On boarding the ship and dumping the bags in the spacious en-suite cabin (brings a whole new meaning to pissing in the shower), we headed to the bar. £3.60 a Bow!! Jesus, a place more expensive than the Cardiff City Stadium, and much like the CCS the pint tasted of stagnant piss. At least I wouldn't be that homesick!!
The first sign of things to come for me was when the engines started. You may as well have dressed me in a shirt saying "Western Infidel" and sat me between two shoebombers on a plane. I was shitting myself.
So, we set sail. Or set engine. Whatever the sea lingo is. Immediately, I felt the motion of the ocean, or the Solent, a bit too much for my queasy stomach. After a few more pricely Bows and in what was unquestionably the stupidest decision since deciding to go on a cruise in the first place, a pint of Murphys, I retired back to the cabin. Unbeknowsnst to me, it was a place where I'd find solace throughout the trip.
After an hour or so, this hardy soul and Jenny decided to "fuck it" and go back out to the bar for some serious drinking. After a few more Bows, another Murphys (ok, admittedly, that was eve more stupid than the first), and several double Vodka and Lemonades I found my sea legs. Or maybe it was the Tequilla that me, James and Jemma were puttting away at the bar that got me a bit squiffy, hence stumbly, hence somehow rebalancing my equilibrium.
That night, Dave Fox was a legend on the dancefloor. He was strutting his stuff and driving women crazy with his sexy, sultry moves. I think even I had a bit of wind in my sails at the sight of Foxy simulating a sex act with a stage rail. He was only outdone by a guy who bore a striking resemblence to Harold Shipman and his rotund, ebony skinned squeeze. I can't honestly say that Shipman wasn't dead and his large lady friend didn't have him on strings ala 'Weekend at Bernies'. Maybe she was his carer and supposed to be taking the old fella away for the weekend and he died en route to Portsmouth and she thought "I aint missing no cruise" and decided to bring him along for the ride. Either way it was hilarious (for me and James at least) to see a possibly dead, old white guy move with all the dexterity and emotion of a Thunderbird while his lady friend got low, crunked up and shook her ample ass like a ten tonne Beyonce. At 2am, me and Jenny, both suitably drunk (although she claimed it was her vertigo playing up) hit the sack.
I woke up at 7am, just as the ship was on the tip of Northern France. The smell of garlic, cheese and arrogance was unbearable. Ok, it wasn't but the stench of stale alcohol in the cabin was.
Off to breakfast. For some reason, either the ships builders, or P&O, or just some funny fucker in general decided to put the restaurant at the front of the ship. Where it moves the most. And then some funnier fucker, the waitress put us right at the front - about 6 foot from the bow window. I saw sky, I saw sea, I saw sky, I saw sea. I just about managed to hold down a basic cooked breakfast, a banana and an apple before heading back to bed for the rest of the day.
Jenny, who is more at home on the sea than me, went out and pottered about and even brought me an 'all day breakfast' pasty for breakfast. I summoned up enough testicular fortitude for a walk around the ship and we booked a table for later that evening at 'Langans', the posh, fancy dan brasserie of the ship. Then, predictably, I went back to bed to die a little more.
At 6pm, me, Jenny, James and Jemma formed 'James manly T-shirt' (in honour of his manly pink t-shirt) - an unbeatable Quiz team. We got beat. How were we, hailing from Grangetown, Tremorfa and Risca, supposed to know Corgis were originally bred as Sheep Herders, and anything at all about Polo other than knock-off Ralph Lauren gear at Splott Market??
At 8pm me and Jenny, or Jenny and I, went for our romantic meal. We both chose Field Mushrooms with Bacon and Lancashire Cheese for starters, followed by Chargrilled Rib-Eye Steak with Peppercorn Sauce. Jenny had hers hacked straight off the cow while mine was actually dead and cooked. Delicious. The restaurant was really nice, to be fair, it was one of the sort where you've got to guess which fork, out of the 18 on the table, to use for what food. After food it was a night of disco and entertainment. For everyone but me. I went back to bed.
That night, whilst Jennifer was visiting slumberland, I on the other hand took to the cabing floor armed with only a blanket, a pillow and the overwhelming urge to vomit. I finally dropped off at midnight, waking up every hour until the Chief Officers announcement at 5.45am that we would shortly be docking in Spain.
Land ahoy!! Land-a-fucking-hoy!! Never mind the captains announcement that there was 100% chance of rain, it was land, dry or not. Sure, the place looked like a shithole that made Ely look like Cyncoed, but it was land all the same. Even for only a few landlubbing hours. I left the ship in a pair of shorts because even if the weather was supposed to be shit - I'd paid a hard earned tenner for a spray tan to show off my legs, so by god was I going to show them off.
Upon setting foot in Spain, I soon discovered to my dismay that it may not have been seasickness making walk like a twat. It was just me. Being a twat. As I was walking on Terra Firma everything was still spinning. Not Good. "This land thing is making me feel sick" I thought, "thank God I'll be back on the ship soon".
We were soon reboarding the 'Pride of Bilbao' and waving goodbye to a sunny Spain that was in all honesty as akin to dodgy soap El Dorado as I am to George Clooney. I was now looking forward to the 30 or so hours that it would take for us to arrive back in Albion.
Sat on the ship and raring to go, I listened to Captain McFaddens announcement. He told us the crossing would be "reasonable". Reasonable, what the fuck does reasonable mean? Does it mean I'll be actually leaving my cabin or does it mean I'll be curled up in the foetal position on the cabin floor. Crying. Again. He told us there were underlying swells which would give the ship a bit of movement. The only movement I was interested in was a straightforward one back to Blighty. Plus, I'm not being funny but underlying is where I'd expect swells to be. I wouldn't fancy a swell, or any water for that matter, being above me whilst on a ship. I felt bad enough watching a Perfect Storm (ironically the film showing on the coach ride back from the trip) with out having to star in it.
A couple of hours in I became fully aware of what "a bit of movement" actually meant. For some it meant the ship rocking, rolling and swaying. For me it meant a living hell and assuming the previously mentioned foetal position. In the dark. With, for some reason, a towel on my head. I was also at this stage taking about 14 showers a day. Not because I'm a clean freak, just because it was something to do to eat up time in the relative comfort of my cabin. Anyway, "a bit of movement"?? Yeah, the Grand Canyons a bit of a fucking pothole!!
The ships Wildlife Officer was on the PA system harping on about Dolphins and Whales and the chances of us seeing them. Unless he planned on bringing Flipper to cabin 5819 the chances of me seeing them were zero!! Then he told us that we were at a depth of 500m, soon to be 3000m. A bit of useless trivia, unless of course you want to set off a panic attack. Especially as I counted lifeboats for 844 people. Slightly worrying when there were over 2500 on board. Women and children first. Like fuck, it would've been a straight sprint to the lifeboats and it that situation, Usain Bolt got nothing on me. (N.B - I was going to say Linford Christie but he does have something on me, well not on me, but something I don't have - a very 'reasonable' penis!!)
Whilst sat in the cabin, in the dark, I was thinking about the characters on board the ship. There was obviously Harold Shipman and his bint (who looked like Bubbles De Veres ex-husbands new wife in Little Britain, daaahling), there was a girl from the valleys who looked like Becky from Coronation Street, or like she would after being hit in the face with a shovel, there were a whole load of people from Jeremy Kyle and there was a guy from West Bromwich with dyed blonde curtains and the worlds most homosexual beard, trying to look manly amongst his mates, all the while making Alan Carr look like Chuck Norris. He actually looked like a dodgy German porn star who I could imagine shagging a hairy bushed munter from behind whilst screaming "das ist fantastiche, ja"!!
After a day of drinking cans of Bow in Catherine and Louise's room, Jen and I got dolled up for food. After much debate over where to eat, I decided (or Jen decided for me) to man up and go back to the front of the ship for a meal. I had to atleast try to put a smile on my missus face as the relaxing weekend away had turned into a nightmare. Upon being seated, we were reliably informed by the waitress that I was the first person ever to ask to sit as far away from the windows as possible. I tried to conatin the sickness and summoned up all my will to gorge myself through a starter of assorted cheese, cold meats and a bowl of some sort of pasta. I then had a main course of Lamb Curry and Rice. I followed that up with another main course of a full carvery dinner. Fuck it, P&O had been bleeding me dry all weekend, I had to get my monies worth. unfortunately my cavalier attitude proved to be my undoing as eating as much as I could in as little time possible only served my stomach all the ammunition it needed to ensure another night, feeling sick, on the cabin floor.
That night, I swear some fucker was pulling a 'Lieutenant Dan', you know, the part in Forrest Gump where it's stormy and he sat (well, he couldn't stand, he had no legs), tied to the ships mast challenging God to do his worst and destroy Bubba Gump Shrimping Co's ship, Jenny. To be fair, the 'God of the Sea', Neptune or Kanute or Oberon or Syphillus, whoever he is, had a good go on the 'Pride of Bilbao' . The ship was being ragged around like a rag doll, like the 'Sad Sack' of the seas. But, the ship withsood and the only thing that broke was 47 of my ribs from being bounced around on the hard cabin floor.
We woke up at about 9am on the last day of our maritime adventure. The sea was a bit calmer than the previous night so I decided to head for breakfast. A decent enough breakfast roll with enough cheese to given an Elephant a heart attack was washed down with a cup of tea equivalent to what I can only describe as a hot cup of devils piss. But I was happy. Why?? Only 9 hours before we arrived back in Portsmouth. To be honest, Portsmouth is a dive and I will never forgive their team for the 2008 FA Cup Final, but I couldn't wait to get there, I was almost coming in my pants at the prospect.
One thought had plagued me since Sunday. Actually, two thoughts. No, none of them were about buoyancy and how a ship that size floats, they weren't about if Dave Fox's 'Baloo' like dancing would be enough to score him a part in a West End production of Jungle Book if it ever came about, and they weren't even about where Harold Shipmans chunky chica was hiding his strings. Nope, none of these. All the while I was wondering- who have City got in the play-offs and did Blackpool keep the dirty, six fingered, inbred, caravan dwelling, gypo scum out of the top six. It made the wait for dry land, and phone signal, unbearable.
At 10.30 UK and ship time, we decided to pack our bags ready. I was a bit pissed off there were no worthwhile souvenirs to nick from the room. The only thing of any value was the air conditioning thingy-ma-bob that I ripped off the wall falling off the top bunk on day two. In the end I decided on a towel. And a room key. In my defence, I did leave 42p in coppers, 8 seasickness tablets, a BFAWU keyring and a copy of FHM's top 100 women.
My seasickness had all but gone. Maybe it was that in a few hours I'd be back on dry land, or maybe I had finally found my sea legs. Either way I headed to the bar for a Bow. When I got there I recieved the two best pieces of news you could give a guy. The first gem was from Captain McFadden, the bastard of 'a bit of movement' fame. He told us that while the ship had been battered around the Bay of Biscay, we had made good time and we'd be docking in Partsmouth an hour ahead of schedule.
The second nugget of joy came from my brother who told me that City had Leicester in the Play-offs and that, more importantly, the Jacks had missed out. Have that you sister shagging fuckers!! How does it feel to miss out on the last day?? Hahahahahaha!!
After pissing myself laughing at the Jacks, and, conveniently enough for the last day, not feeling sea sick at all we headed for dinner. Lancashire Hot Pot. I don't know if it was the foor or the fact that I was full steam ahead onwards to British shores, but I felt al 'Al Murray, Public Landlord'-y. I almost felt like screaming "God Save The Queen", swigging a pint of Fullers and leading a rendition of "Rule Brittania". For a Welshman, thats quite odd and I felt very weird about the whole situation. It's kind of like sticking your dick in a glory hole, getting the best blow job of your life then finding out your mother was on the other side.
"I can see land, I can see land" I bellowed at 3pm. I haven't been so excited since I found out Lady Gaga didn't have a penis, rendering all those hours of masturbation worthwhile and not gay.
At 4pm, looking from port side (or at least I think it was, we played a game about ships in 'Beavers' but can I fuck remember it - I got kicked out way before I could ever think of becoming a 'Cub'), I could see Portsmouth. Surprisingly, I was finding the Spinnaker Tower quite shit this time around. It looked just like one of the corners had fallen off the Millennium Stadium and landed there. Still I couldn't wait for the ship to dock. Home sweet home. For once, I was even looking forward to going back to Ely.
What had I learned from the whole cruise experience? Well, for one thing, the next time my ass is surrounded by water - It'll be in the bath.
The magnitude of what I was about to embark on dawned on me as we got to Portsmouth. After gazing in wonderment at the Spinnaker Tower, Portsmouths very own 'Dubai-a-like' needly thing, the coach driver pointed out our ship. It was fucking huge!! The biggest thing I'd been on til then was a pedalo at Roath Park.
My nerves started and my arsehole was twitching. After checking in, James bought a round. Amazing how a pint of Magners (or Bow, or Stella, or Vodka or even the aforementioned bottle of Rum) can make you feel a bit better. Sadly, the ease and calm about myself dissipated and the bumhole started flickering again when I went to the bar. Two Magners, a Carling and a double Baileys - £14-odd!! Twas going to be an expensive trip, I thought.
On boarding the ship and dumping the bags in the spacious en-suite cabin (brings a whole new meaning to pissing in the shower), we headed to the bar. £3.60 a Bow!! Jesus, a place more expensive than the Cardiff City Stadium, and much like the CCS the pint tasted of stagnant piss. At least I wouldn't be that homesick!!
The first sign of things to come for me was when the engines started. You may as well have dressed me in a shirt saying "Western Infidel" and sat me between two shoebombers on a plane. I was shitting myself.
So, we set sail. Or set engine. Whatever the sea lingo is. Immediately, I felt the motion of the ocean, or the Solent, a bit too much for my queasy stomach. After a few more pricely Bows and in what was unquestionably the stupidest decision since deciding to go on a cruise in the first place, a pint of Murphys, I retired back to the cabin. Unbeknowsnst to me, it was a place where I'd find solace throughout the trip.
After an hour or so, this hardy soul and Jenny decided to "fuck it" and go back out to the bar for some serious drinking. After a few more Bows, another Murphys (ok, admittedly, that was eve more stupid than the first), and several double Vodka and Lemonades I found my sea legs. Or maybe it was the Tequilla that me, James and Jemma were puttting away at the bar that got me a bit squiffy, hence stumbly, hence somehow rebalancing my equilibrium.
That night, Dave Fox was a legend on the dancefloor. He was strutting his stuff and driving women crazy with his sexy, sultry moves. I think even I had a bit of wind in my sails at the sight of Foxy simulating a sex act with a stage rail. He was only outdone by a guy who bore a striking resemblence to Harold Shipman and his rotund, ebony skinned squeeze. I can't honestly say that Shipman wasn't dead and his large lady friend didn't have him on strings ala 'Weekend at Bernies'. Maybe she was his carer and supposed to be taking the old fella away for the weekend and he died en route to Portsmouth and she thought "I aint missing no cruise" and decided to bring him along for the ride. Either way it was hilarious (for me and James at least) to see a possibly dead, old white guy move with all the dexterity and emotion of a Thunderbird while his lady friend got low, crunked up and shook her ample ass like a ten tonne Beyonce. At 2am, me and Jenny, both suitably drunk (although she claimed it was her vertigo playing up) hit the sack.
I woke up at 7am, just as the ship was on the tip of Northern France. The smell of garlic, cheese and arrogance was unbearable. Ok, it wasn't but the stench of stale alcohol in the cabin was.
Off to breakfast. For some reason, either the ships builders, or P&O, or just some funny fucker in general decided to put the restaurant at the front of the ship. Where it moves the most. And then some funnier fucker, the waitress put us right at the front - about 6 foot from the bow window. I saw sky, I saw sea, I saw sky, I saw sea. I just about managed to hold down a basic cooked breakfast, a banana and an apple before heading back to bed for the rest of the day.
Jenny, who is more at home on the sea than me, went out and pottered about and even brought me an 'all day breakfast' pasty for breakfast. I summoned up enough testicular fortitude for a walk around the ship and we booked a table for later that evening at 'Langans', the posh, fancy dan brasserie of the ship. Then, predictably, I went back to bed to die a little more.
At 6pm, me, Jenny, James and Jemma formed 'James manly T-shirt' (in honour of his manly pink t-shirt) - an unbeatable Quiz team. We got beat. How were we, hailing from Grangetown, Tremorfa and Risca, supposed to know Corgis were originally bred as Sheep Herders, and anything at all about Polo other than knock-off Ralph Lauren gear at Splott Market??
At 8pm me and Jenny, or Jenny and I, went for our romantic meal. We both chose Field Mushrooms with Bacon and Lancashire Cheese for starters, followed by Chargrilled Rib-Eye Steak with Peppercorn Sauce. Jenny had hers hacked straight off the cow while mine was actually dead and cooked. Delicious. The restaurant was really nice, to be fair, it was one of the sort where you've got to guess which fork, out of the 18 on the table, to use for what food. After food it was a night of disco and entertainment. For everyone but me. I went back to bed.
That night, whilst Jennifer was visiting slumberland, I on the other hand took to the cabing floor armed with only a blanket, a pillow and the overwhelming urge to vomit. I finally dropped off at midnight, waking up every hour until the Chief Officers announcement at 5.45am that we would shortly be docking in Spain.
Land ahoy!! Land-a-fucking-hoy!! Never mind the captains announcement that there was 100% chance of rain, it was land, dry or not. Sure, the place looked like a shithole that made Ely look like Cyncoed, but it was land all the same. Even for only a few landlubbing hours. I left the ship in a pair of shorts because even if the weather was supposed to be shit - I'd paid a hard earned tenner for a spray tan to show off my legs, so by god was I going to show them off.
Upon setting foot in Spain, I soon discovered to my dismay that it may not have been seasickness making walk like a twat. It was just me. Being a twat. As I was walking on Terra Firma everything was still spinning. Not Good. "This land thing is making me feel sick" I thought, "thank God I'll be back on the ship soon".
We were soon reboarding the 'Pride of Bilbao' and waving goodbye to a sunny Spain that was in all honesty as akin to dodgy soap El Dorado as I am to George Clooney. I was now looking forward to the 30 or so hours that it would take for us to arrive back in Albion.
Sat on the ship and raring to go, I listened to Captain McFaddens announcement. He told us the crossing would be "reasonable". Reasonable, what the fuck does reasonable mean? Does it mean I'll be actually leaving my cabin or does it mean I'll be curled up in the foetal position on the cabin floor. Crying. Again. He told us there were underlying swells which would give the ship a bit of movement. The only movement I was interested in was a straightforward one back to Blighty. Plus, I'm not being funny but underlying is where I'd expect swells to be. I wouldn't fancy a swell, or any water for that matter, being above me whilst on a ship. I felt bad enough watching a Perfect Storm (ironically the film showing on the coach ride back from the trip) with out having to star in it.
A couple of hours in I became fully aware of what "a bit of movement" actually meant. For some it meant the ship rocking, rolling and swaying. For me it meant a living hell and assuming the previously mentioned foetal position. In the dark. With, for some reason, a towel on my head. I was also at this stage taking about 14 showers a day. Not because I'm a clean freak, just because it was something to do to eat up time in the relative comfort of my cabin. Anyway, "a bit of movement"?? Yeah, the Grand Canyons a bit of a fucking pothole!!
The ships Wildlife Officer was on the PA system harping on about Dolphins and Whales and the chances of us seeing them. Unless he planned on bringing Flipper to cabin 5819 the chances of me seeing them were zero!! Then he told us that we were at a depth of 500m, soon to be 3000m. A bit of useless trivia, unless of course you want to set off a panic attack. Especially as I counted lifeboats for 844 people. Slightly worrying when there were over 2500 on board. Women and children first. Like fuck, it would've been a straight sprint to the lifeboats and it that situation, Usain Bolt got nothing on me. (N.B - I was going to say Linford Christie but he does have something on me, well not on me, but something I don't have - a very 'reasonable' penis!!)
Whilst sat in the cabin, in the dark, I was thinking about the characters on board the ship. There was obviously Harold Shipman and his bint (who looked like Bubbles De Veres ex-husbands new wife in Little Britain, daaahling), there was a girl from the valleys who looked like Becky from Coronation Street, or like she would after being hit in the face with a shovel, there were a whole load of people from Jeremy Kyle and there was a guy from West Bromwich with dyed blonde curtains and the worlds most homosexual beard, trying to look manly amongst his mates, all the while making Alan Carr look like Chuck Norris. He actually looked like a dodgy German porn star who I could imagine shagging a hairy bushed munter from behind whilst screaming "das ist fantastiche, ja"!!
After a day of drinking cans of Bow in Catherine and Louise's room, Jen and I got dolled up for food. After much debate over where to eat, I decided (or Jen decided for me) to man up and go back to the front of the ship for a meal. I had to atleast try to put a smile on my missus face as the relaxing weekend away had turned into a nightmare. Upon being seated, we were reliably informed by the waitress that I was the first person ever to ask to sit as far away from the windows as possible. I tried to conatin the sickness and summoned up all my will to gorge myself through a starter of assorted cheese, cold meats and a bowl of some sort of pasta. I then had a main course of Lamb Curry and Rice. I followed that up with another main course of a full carvery dinner. Fuck it, P&O had been bleeding me dry all weekend, I had to get my monies worth. unfortunately my cavalier attitude proved to be my undoing as eating as much as I could in as little time possible only served my stomach all the ammunition it needed to ensure another night, feeling sick, on the cabin floor.
That night, I swear some fucker was pulling a 'Lieutenant Dan', you know, the part in Forrest Gump where it's stormy and he sat (well, he couldn't stand, he had no legs), tied to the ships mast challenging God to do his worst and destroy Bubba Gump Shrimping Co's ship, Jenny. To be fair, the 'God of the Sea', Neptune or Kanute or Oberon or Syphillus, whoever he is, had a good go on the 'Pride of Bilbao' . The ship was being ragged around like a rag doll, like the 'Sad Sack' of the seas. But, the ship withsood and the only thing that broke was 47 of my ribs from being bounced around on the hard cabin floor.
We woke up at about 9am on the last day of our maritime adventure. The sea was a bit calmer than the previous night so I decided to head for breakfast. A decent enough breakfast roll with enough cheese to given an Elephant a heart attack was washed down with a cup of tea equivalent to what I can only describe as a hot cup of devils piss. But I was happy. Why?? Only 9 hours before we arrived back in Portsmouth. To be honest, Portsmouth is a dive and I will never forgive their team for the 2008 FA Cup Final, but I couldn't wait to get there, I was almost coming in my pants at the prospect.
One thought had plagued me since Sunday. Actually, two thoughts. No, none of them were about buoyancy and how a ship that size floats, they weren't about if Dave Fox's 'Baloo' like dancing would be enough to score him a part in a West End production of Jungle Book if it ever came about, and they weren't even about where Harold Shipmans chunky chica was hiding his strings. Nope, none of these. All the while I was wondering- who have City got in the play-offs and did Blackpool keep the dirty, six fingered, inbred, caravan dwelling, gypo scum out of the top six. It made the wait for dry land, and phone signal, unbearable.
At 10.30 UK and ship time, we decided to pack our bags ready. I was a bit pissed off there were no worthwhile souvenirs to nick from the room. The only thing of any value was the air conditioning thingy-ma-bob that I ripped off the wall falling off the top bunk on day two. In the end I decided on a towel. And a room key. In my defence, I did leave 42p in coppers, 8 seasickness tablets, a BFAWU keyring and a copy of FHM's top 100 women.
My seasickness had all but gone. Maybe it was that in a few hours I'd be back on dry land, or maybe I had finally found my sea legs. Either way I headed to the bar for a Bow. When I got there I recieved the two best pieces of news you could give a guy. The first gem was from Captain McFadden, the bastard of 'a bit of movement' fame. He told us that while the ship had been battered around the Bay of Biscay, we had made good time and we'd be docking in Partsmouth an hour ahead of schedule.
The second nugget of joy came from my brother who told me that City had Leicester in the Play-offs and that, more importantly, the Jacks had missed out. Have that you sister shagging fuckers!! How does it feel to miss out on the last day?? Hahahahahaha!!
After pissing myself laughing at the Jacks, and, conveniently enough for the last day, not feeling sea sick at all we headed for dinner. Lancashire Hot Pot. I don't know if it was the foor or the fact that I was full steam ahead onwards to British shores, but I felt al 'Al Murray, Public Landlord'-y. I almost felt like screaming "God Save The Queen", swigging a pint of Fullers and leading a rendition of "Rule Brittania". For a Welshman, thats quite odd and I felt very weird about the whole situation. It's kind of like sticking your dick in a glory hole, getting the best blow job of your life then finding out your mother was on the other side.
"I can see land, I can see land" I bellowed at 3pm. I haven't been so excited since I found out Lady Gaga didn't have a penis, rendering all those hours of masturbation worthwhile and not gay.
At 4pm, looking from port side (or at least I think it was, we played a game about ships in 'Beavers' but can I fuck remember it - I got kicked out way before I could ever think of becoming a 'Cub'), I could see Portsmouth. Surprisingly, I was finding the Spinnaker Tower quite shit this time around. It looked just like one of the corners had fallen off the Millennium Stadium and landed there. Still I couldn't wait for the ship to dock. Home sweet home. For once, I was even looking forward to going back to Ely.
What had I learned from the whole cruise experience? Well, for one thing, the next time my ass is surrounded by water - It'll be in the bath.
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