Dolphin watching & Captain Cunt
While on honeymoon in lovely St Lucia, ex-Mrs PJM and I signed up to go whale watching as the idea of lounging around on the deck of a boat in the sunshine watching Flipper and his clicking pals playing silly buggers was frankly too good an opportunity to pass up.

The night before the trip we'd got talking to a couple from Newcastle in the bar (our only visit to the sodding bar, ex-Mrs PJM denied me even the welcome respite of getting drunk to avoid her regular whining for thirteen of the fourteen days). Anyway, we were both much the worse for wear when we staggered back to our room to sleep.

Next morning was Hangovers-R-Us. I shuffled onto the coach with all the enthusiasm of someone about to turn up for an amputation, but hoped for at least the opportunity of a hair of the dog on the boat.

Oh God... The polite term for the boat was "bijou". It can't have been more than twenty five feet in length and was clearly designed to travel at speed, posessing all the stability of a newborn giraffe on rollerblades. The Captain stood proudly in the wheelhouse, wearing a Hawaiian shirt a-la Magnum PI and dark glasses while sipping bottled beer retrieved from a cool box.

We pulled out of the harbour at Castries at minimal knots and I began to take note of the incessent bucking motion of the boat which jarred my tender stomach. I gritted my teeth and pretended I was fine, as hopefully my body would get used to the jarring.

After half an hour I was at the limit of my endurance. The boat was going so slowly that it was bucking like a mule with a firecracker in its arse despite the relative calm of the sea. Just a few more knots would have smoothed out the ride immeasurably.

Having taken on a hue somewhere between "Ghost Grey" and "Bile Green" on the Humbrol scale, both my self and ex-missus were decidedly ill. I took matters into my own hands and wandered up to the boat's captain-cum-pilot.

"Can we please go just a little bit faster? A few of us aren't feeling well"

The cunt just turned away and ignored me.

"Please?"

Again, no reaction.

I staggered to the back of the boat and proceeded to spew over the side, as did three other people upon witnessing my infirmary. I positively detest being sick, especially in front of other people. I felt like an animal and did not like it one bit.

"Help yourself to beer!" announced Captain Cunt over the tannoy, clearly beer was as much use to me in this condition as chocolate ironing board. I swear that the hawaiian shirted fool found this amusing.

Meanwhile, Flipper and his pals were on strike. Scanning the horizon carefully with binoculars in between industrial strength retching, it was obvious that there were no cetaceans of any description whatsoever to be seen.

Within five minutes, ex-missus had to physically restrain me from making a swim for it. I figured we were less than a mile from shore and being a gifted swimmer I reckoned I could do it in 30 minutes making allowances for my weakened state and sea currents. Plus the hike back to the hotel, I'd be home before dark. Even though the caribbean is shark territory I felt so ill that I would willingly take my chances. I kid you not, I very nearly jumped.

Still the boat continued bucking, even though other passengers complained.

Something in my tortured innards screamed in protest and I simply could not stand puking in front of people any longer so I staggered below to preserve what little dignity I had, making a final futile attempt at begging Captain Cunt to do something about the rocking boat en route.

Oh God... The head was the size of a broom cupboard and contained a small shower unit. Once I shut the door the sensation was akin to being locked in a hot phone box and shaken about and my stomach couldn't hold on any longer. The boat rolled in the water and I fell backwards and started to projectile vomit uncontrollably, missing the toilet by three feet. I'd lost control of my body at this point, which began to convulse and twitch in a manner familiar to anyone who's seen me dance, but as I flopped around like a rag doll, I was spraying what remained of my breakfast in Exorcist fashion. I had reached the point where I would have welcomed the Grim Reaper like a long lost brother.

Two minutes later I emerged from the head having painted a Jackson Pollack of epic proportions. Captain Cunt grinned evilly as I waddled to the side of the boat and dry retched once again.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Captain Cunt take a sip from his bottle of Piton Beer and then climb into the head to relieve himself.

Within seconds, he emerged ashen faced and his swaggering demeanour was somewhat humbled. Our speed picked up and the boat mercifully stopped bucking around. By the time we eventually found some dolphins, my colour had returned but Captain Cunt didn't dare subject us to a turbulent ride for the remainder of the day.

I like to think he spent the remainder of the day scrubbing my handiwork away. That'll learn him.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Wed 2 May 2007, 11:56, Reply)