Cruise Blues

The Low Life of the High Seas

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"I found a quiet corner of the Lido just through the automatic doors. Now, if only the moaning ex pats with four chins would piss off and stop gobbling endless rounds of toast", I messaged my husband cheerfully as I sat down to type this.

The internet’s been patchy, and I've been otherwise distracted, but I finally found a quiet corner of the Lido deck, close enough to the buffet seating to revel in the swoosh of the air con as contentedly burping revellers lumbered past, but perhaps a tad too close to a couple of English ex pats who paused every now and then in their low key sniping to load up their plates on a repeating loop.

At time of writing they'd devoured their sausages and bacon and were on their fourth round of toast. They opted for fruit for the 7th course. I'm sure those brave little melon chunks will repair the damage done to their groaning intestines by their gastronomic gusto.

Reader, I’m on a cruise and, honestly, it's been tremendous.

Rarely have I experienced such a deep sense of refreshed relaxation. Even asleep, my dreams are playing nicely, as though my tricksy little brain has accepted that out on the dreaming Pacific my usual daily concerns are unreachable. Each day brings the pressing difficulty of deciding whether to eat breakfast early before luxuriating in the steam room and hydrotherapy pool, or later which might not leave much room in my tum for lunch.

It's a little pocket of make believe, a trouble free existence.

Except, of course, for all the other people.

The Other People Problem

I had a lovely long chat with a sharp and witty elderly lady this morning. Conversations with strangers on the ship have been few and far between because Mick gives off a sort of loomish vibe that seems to discourage the other humans from too much uninvited interaction.

For the most part, that's rather pleasant, but obviously I can't have my bodyguard by my side 24/7, and he was off lifting weights while I lifted a coffee cup and a gluten free cake to my fat little face, so Carolyn timidly approached, and we got to chatting.

Mick's naturally rather fierce screensaver rarely reflects his generally more placid ruminations. Whereas I've often thought I'd have made a great contract killer, with my deceptively approachable visage which does not accurately mirror my cold, dead heart.

Carolyn and I had a lovely convo all about our dogs and families. I pretended to be normal, and she kindly inisted I looked younger than my age, which is utterly untrue - the camera certainly does lie - but perhaps from the vantage point of 83 everyone looks younger than they ought.

As I toddled off, I reminded myself that sometimes I do indeed enjoy being out amongst the humans, provided they're civilised.

Several decades ago I read a comic, perhaps a Marvel publication back when those were still worth reading, with the premise that the protagonist despised other humans almost entirely. But when one morning he woke up to find he'd been abandoned by the human race and left stranded all alone on a world devoid of humanity, he was suitably aghast and spent his chastened time hunting for some sign of life with an "oh, what have I wished upon myself" look upon his wretched face.

It's a fairly common horror trope of course, but I was about ten at the time and it was the first I'd stumbled upon the notion outside my own minor misanthropic cogitations.

And despite the attempt to sell it as tragic tale of woe, a world devoid of the teeming masses seemed pretty blissful to me, even aged 10.

Anyway, I've wandered off the track again. The point I was aiming for vaguely is that I've been enjoying a fabulous holiday, but in between the steam room, sauna, massages and third breakfasts I've squeezed in the time to share some complaints I feel bitterly in my marrow. Well, you'd be disappointed in me otherwise.

Not about the ship staff, to be clear. They're amazing people who deserve a sainthood, each and every one. Even the more blank faced, humdrum employees have earned a trophy for their constant attentions and in particular for tolerating the bloated, bloviating buffoonery of some of my fellow cruisers.

They don’t care, Dave. Just be polite and let them get on with their jobs.

We've tipped our room attendant well, and will do so again, on the basis that he deserves a large gratuity and more for his ability to fake a smile after the endless days of grim toil and the insufferable man who leaned in too close and grinned "Put that in your pocket for shore leave" while proferring a patronising 20 bucks to a man who works 12 hour shifts to feed his family back in India.

I don't really like my people. Or perhaps the problem is that I don't, really, have a people. The 83 year old was the closest I’ve come to on the ship to the "What! You Too?" moment C.S. Lewis summed up so nicely.

I would imagine a similar conundrum presents itself to many, once you leave your ain folk in the rear view. For the longest time you have a foot in two countries, and then everyone starts to die off or forget you ever existed, and you reconcile yourself to the notion that Queensland - which is somewhat Shangri-La like, despite the occasional cyclone and ferals who allow their kids to run around without shoes - is now your home.

And then when you truly contemplate a visit back to those far flung shores you find your ain folk incomprehensibly changed, and apparently unquestioningly accepting a bizarrely dystopian reality as the norm.

The country I left behind is in the process of being memory holed by the permaffended. As the permanently online work hard to vanish its history, a new world order has arisen, a deliberately cultivated cthonic catastrophe. Assisted suicide is being jammed down the throats of a populace where old folks have - coincidentally I’m sure - just lost their heating allowance, fuel is incredibly expensive, the housing shortage has festered to epidemic levels and they're sliding into a third world health system despite the poor and middle classes paying fairly ruinous taxes, with a regime at the helm keen on imprisoning people for wrongthink on social media while judges release 70 paedophiles in one month alone without charge.

But that's another story.

Meanwhile, the national health system is still pretty great in Queensland, although the Stasi here are hounding people for speech, and releasing paedos freely into the wild here too.

But at least the weather's usually nice, and the beaches are great.

Family Ties

Mick and our family are my people; I have a few close friends I count in my clan too. What we all have in common is politeness - at least as a first default, and we also try to combine gratitude and a sense of humour with reasonable intelligence and some self awareness.

I'm not seeing many of those traits on this cruise.

I'm sure you'd be bored with poetic descriptions of scintillating sunsets, dreamy azure ocean swells and zephyrs tickling your ears on deck 11, or the exquisite joy of a Swedish massage offered in a room with a view.

So instead, allow me to regale you with some of the lowlights of my voyage across the ocean blue.

Cruise Control

Down in guest services on day one, a woman with bulging eyes and a severe haircut, sporting a slip of some kind in lieu of actual clothing could be found fabricating some asinine accusation regarding one of the overworked and underpaid stewards, while the girl she had trapped behind the counter like a deer in the headlights was forced to nod politely to her tales.

Meanwhile, in the Java Blue cafe, a churlish wildebeast of a woman snapped "Where's Mine?!" at a delay in her cappucino order and proceeded to harangue the baristas with bursts of staccato commentary as they attempted to rectify this huge injustice. "What was that?! What did you say?! You better not charge me twice!" and other such witticisms were barked in quick succession, well worth the price of a coffee to the harried duo, I'm sure.

Elderly men are to be regularly observed swarming the female singer in the Piano Bar under the pretence of asking pertinent questions while ogling her bosoms freely, as their wives pretend not to notice that Harold is at it again.

And on night four, as we enjoyed the talented woman gustily channeling a young Suzi Quatro, one of the ship's many Daves could be heard shrieking across the atrium, demanding that his other half use her room card to pay his beer bill.

"Karen! KaREN! KAREN!!!" he screeched across the echoing chamber from his place at the bar which he'd been propping up a little too long. When his eponymous downtrodden appeared at his side she murmured something in low tones I didn’t catch, but it apparently displeased the Dave who drew himself up to his full 5 foot 5 and declaimed "Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot!"

To be fair, he required needed no assistance in his short jaunt to idiocy.

We're not drinkers, but we've tipped on each of the few cocktails we've supped over the last week, in an effort to somehow balance the scales for our fellow Australians.

As he assured the grimly grinning bartender, with what he imagined was wit and wisdom, that "Songs would be sung in his honour" before weaving off trailing his dejected wife in his wake, I felt quite certain that the man behind the bar would far rather have received a couple of bucks than drunken Dave's good estimation.

The Blubber Pandemic

And how to even begin to address the contagion of corpulence aboard the Flying Dutchman?

As they jigglingly wheeze from the soft serve ice cream machine to buffet and back again in a hideous carousel of catastrophe, many also suffer dreadful mobility issues, dragging their blubberousness around on canes and walkers, lurching from table to table like leviathans in a strong current.

It's not like I'm a slender tenderfoot these days, I could stand to lose a stone or three, and my tricky knee makes me slow on the stairs - but at least I can make the stairs, unlike many of the wobbling, wittering water buffalo who are our cruise companions.

There’s something terribly wrong with this picture. During my sojourns in America I thought I’d seen all that fatness had to offer. I was wrong. This is the fall of the Roman Empire writ large and ably assisted by those who tamper with our food chain.

I have also embraced my inner bitch quite unshamedly. Idly passing the time one morning, I started playing a cruel but satisfying game. I call it swing low sweet chariot - although when I speak it aloud to the eye rolls and head shakes of my husband I just say punch buggy.

Staying Abreast of the Situation

Here's the thing about tits - they start to sag as we age. As the owner of a rather abundant cleavage I understand this perfectly. It's nothing to be ashamed of.

But you know what else is nothing to be ashamed of? A decent bra.

If you can't afford City Chic - my personal favourite, particularly when they're having a two for one sale - I can assure you that KMart does a very functional and affordable lift em and hold em in black, white and cream.

And if you can afford a cruise, you can afford a bra.

So ladies of Australia, I beseech you, buy a bra that minimises the nipple to navel gauge.

Do it for those of us who would pefer eye bleach to being confronted with another punch buggy swinging saggy tale of woe.

Manky Old Man Syndrome

But by the far the most unforgiveable thing I've seen, heard, or borne witness to has been the table manners of some of the men of the ship.

I've yet to see any woman indulging in this grotesque practice. But somehow, around their 6th to 7th decade, a subset of men seem to morph into snout beasts who believe that blowing their filthy, noisy noses like the trumpets of vomitous doom at the lunch table is an acceptable practice.

It’s not.

To be clear, a quick discreet blow while at table should also be avoided where possible. Just get up and leave the table before emptying your nostrils, like a normal, civilised person.

But a quick discreet blow would be heaven-sent in comparison with the twitching horrors I’ve been subjected to.

In the last week, I've personally borne reluctant witness to four ghastly, grubby, deeply over entitled elderly gents yanking an obscene snot laden piece of cloth from some concealed area about their body and then honking, snorting, wheezing, blowing and trumpeting their foul contents into said sad cloth.

Actually, no, I saw three of them with their own foul germ laden sheets - but one of them went a step further and used one of the ship's cloth napkins to loudly and thoroughly clear his nose in full view and hearing of the queasy crowd of diners.

Each time I stood up and walked away, muttering imprecations. If it happens again, I fear I will no longer be able to contain myself to mutterings and filthy glares.

If the comment "Oh my God, that's absolutely disgusting" could kill there would be at least four fresh corpses on this ship.

In retrospect, perhaps there is a place for the death cult, useless eaters**euthanasia bug currently infesting the West. Old men who blow their noses at dinner tables can go first in the queue.

So, all old men must cease and desist this practice immediately. And all adjacent family members must step in at the first sign of this behaviour to enforce rules of decency. If necessary, slap the rag out of his filthy fingers with a tray, or other blunt object.

Advancing years do not absolve you from rudimentary human decency and mannerly interactions.

But, aside from these few distractions, and despite my acerbic tone, let me assure you the last week has been an absolute blast.

We're heading back in a few days, at a leisurely pace. I probably wouldn't visit Papua New Guinea again, and I'll write more on that later, but I've been more than grateful to briefly sample another culture when not revelling in the ocean sunrises and sunsets from our balcony.

Mick suggested we try Cunard Lines next time as they cater to a better class of entitled loafer - but I don't fancy anyone looking down on me the way I've been looking down on this motley bunch, so I think we'll stick with mingling with the great unwashed on our next cruise.

And there will be a next cruise, constant reader, never fear.

I'll also write more about the pros and cons of this particular holiday, for those who may be interested in a more factual, and less censorious account.

But for now, I must away. There's a latte with my name on it and an ocean of relaxation to contemplate.

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Author’s notes - if you have found yourself offended by this article in any way, please be aware that I don’t care. At all. Do feel free to grizzle at me in the comments. I may ignore you, or might point out how deeply offensive your complaint is and demand that you re write it or delete it if I am in the mood for a game of Offence One Upmanship. Or I might just mock you. Such larks.

My thoughts on low hanging fruit or the descendants of Augustus Gloop have been carefully contained within my head, murmured discreetly to my husband and now shared with you on this page. I am almost 100 percent certain that none of the contestants on Treadmill to Bucks* Ocean Edition will ever read this piece. But if they do, and recognise themselves, that’s fine. I’ll happily have that conversation.

**Useless Eaters was a term coined by the Nazis, whose belief systems seem to have been appropriated by many Western governments proving that both ends of the political spectrum are capable of viewing the people in their charge as an economic equation, not a worthwhile human being who does not become a useless burden by dint of age or infirmity. After careful consideration, I now fully disagree with state assisted suicide, as it has already been misused in several instances and I am deeply concerned with the way it is being embraced in the West.

Additionally, I am aware that the formatting isn’t quite right, but it’s the best I can do on this tablet whilst sailing the seven seas.

*Treadmill to Bucks - see Stephen King’s original story The Running Man

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