I’VE DECIDED to change my car. It is 8½ years old and bits of it keep falling off. I love its little cotton socks though, and I always will. We’ve been through thick and thin together, but now its time to sadly say, avoir.

I remember walking into the showroom all those years ago and falling in love. And I still am. Showroom blackout it might be called. Love at first sight or is it lust. This is where logic goes straight down the pan. You enter the showroom at your peril. It might be the gleam of the bodywork or the reflection of the chrome or the heady smell of the interiors that zaps your brain and reduces upright, intelligent, sane men into dribbling psychiatric wrecks within the space of two minutes. Two minutes and you have signed over half of your next three years salary on an ‘iffy lump of shiny metal and tinted glass. The insanity of it all should happily register on the Richter Scale, but inside this place, it is but a mere blip at the epicenter of a wallet-emptying earthquake.

And the wallet is not the only thing that is empty. Why is it we leave our brain cells at home when it comes to the search for a new motor? Sensible, grown men suddenlyturn into over-excitable petulant children when they catch sight of metallic paint, low profile tyres and a tailgate badge with some silly letters or numbers always ending in “i”. Put an X in there as well, and stand well clear and wait for the orgasm.

What is this British fixation with car labels? The longest one I’ve ever seen went something like this: Vauxhall Chevalier 2000 fan assisted turbo cooled twin abs gsi.I’ve read novels that are shorter than this. I know I made that last label up, but honestly, I did once see something like it and thought, somebody, somewhere is getting paid to think up daft names like these. I can imagine the company’s Head Honcho’ car-namepicker calling a meeting to discuss the new name of its latest car.

“Now listen”, fondly caressing his embossed, plastic lapel badge with a

monogrammed HHCNP on it. It must also have an A an O or an I, at the end of its name. Like the Brava or Bravo. Or Lancia, Skoda, Saxa, Xzantia, Puma, and Ka. Or, we stretch to an ‘O’ like Scrirocco and Polo, Mondeo, Punto, Metro, Vento and Volvo. With an ‘i’ at the end like Masserati or Lamborghini, Ferrari, Mini, Maxi or Monki. (I made that last one up—Sorry! I couldn’t resist). Also we don’t want the almighty cock-up made last year when the production line had to be halted for a week, while we changed the badge name from Hkilti to Alti, as the Crown Princess of the ruling Basasoto Tribe in Mintobalululand was deeply offended as it translated into Cut all men’s hair off.”

So now that we have ‘globalisation’ and deliberately he moves in on you, to spoil, what up to now is a perfectly good day. So somebody will get very well paid for thinking up the blandest, ineffectual name a car can possibly have so as not to have a moniker that means ‘Shit’ in two hundred different languages.

Nearly always when buying a ‘new’ car, you will also have one to sell. Herein lies, further self-inflicted agony, sleepless nights and more acute physical pain. Why is it that trying to sell a car effectively negates all the earthly pleasures you were getting from gleefully buying your new one? Well, your local car dealer knows this and you allow him to finally removeany leftover romantic notions that might still exist. Deliberately he moves in on you, to spoil, what up to now is a perfectly good day.

He begins by offering you the best-deal-you-ever-made sales patter on your trade-in car. It starts with an offer that wouldn’t buy a small tube of special offer, Gleamo Toothpaste in a Netto supermarket (Gleamo in Taiwanese means shrunken forehead). And then, in disbelief, you will choke a cool, charming laugh, make a futile feeble excuse to leave, and then take your red faced, insulted business some fucking place else. He

also knows this too. So he’ll tip-off his mates at all the other car lots and tell them to look out for a mug who, wants to flog his 16-year old Ford Fiesta for a 2 year old Audi Quattro 3.5gsi and still have change from an £500 winning accumulator that came up at Royal Ascot last Friday afternoon. I know I exaggerate the point but you catch my drift?

Then blissfully undaunted, it's headlong into the DIY way. So you place the ad in the local rag and innocently wait for the phone calls. They usually go like this.

“Hi. You’ve got a 1.8 Dodgy Throwbak Traillifter FTi for sale. What kind of condition is it in?”

‘Oh you know, it’s kind of, in great nick for its age.’

“Does it have thrump in the gudgeon on the fifth gear of the sliding forging block?

‘Erm, not that I know of.’ I say sweatingly.

“How about the lancing cable connecting to the frusting lasso hunching piston. Is it stretched?

‘Not when I last checked it’.

“So what do you want for it? You’re asking price is way over book price. I guess for a September 96’ model you’d be lucky to get £65. I’ll take the risk and without seeing it, I’ll give you £55. And you’ll hear no more from me unless, that is, if the backslack treeble buncher sits vertically over the rogerised flot muncher and interferes with steering wheel globule pin then I’ll want my money back.”

Finally you find a genuine buyer and begin a very unusual British unaccustomed custom. Bartering. Here, the British squirm factor whacks up to around warp factor 10 point 6. We all know the asking price is inflated and we all know that somewhere in between, what you want and your buyer wants to pay, is a figure of genuine compromise. But he has the power of the buyer in his favour, so he says, “I was thinking more like half

of that”. You say instantly, “yeh okay” and snatch the money off him before he changes his mind. That’s what I mean when I say bartering is not in the comfort zone of the British male psyche.

So now I look out of my little window on the side of my little house and I can see its front end and that little badge of glory sitting coolly on my gravel driveway. I’ve said my sad goodbye to the ageing rot box, the paperwork has all been done, the road tax paid, insurance updated, the banks draft completed and now my neighbours opposite will be treated to the sight of a brand new rear-end car label when they quizatively twitch their net curtains tomorrow morning.

What did I buy?

An Alfa Romeo 156 2.0 TXSi De Lusso Giullieta Pinaninifarini.

“What else!”

I am 53.25 years old and single.I have seasonally affective disorder..

I have post millennium blues..

I am totally hacked-off and bored..

I haven’t been on holiday since I took early-retirement three years ago.

I have booked a Mediterranean springtime cruise aboard the M.S. Red Watch, departing Dover, England to Rome, next Sunday;

First Time Cruise

By Bill Hart

Sunday 12th March 2000. Dover, England.

A chill filled the morning air.

Charnock Richard motorway service station car park at 6-o-clock on a Sunday morning is not my idea of a really good time.

Ian, a friend, is dropping me off at the holiday pick-up point en-route to Dover. Rain has fallen overnight leaving dark ugly puddles on the huge deserted, bleak Tarmacc'ed parking lot. The sun is cutting its usual, tough, familiar, Lancastrian way through thick, patchy morning cloud. Temperatures have yet to improve. In the near distance and out of sight the M6 motorway roared.

Slow movements hit the corner of my good eye. ‘Sights’ began to greet the other one too.Well-worn walking sticks appeared followed by umpteen well-used brown suitcases and half-a-dozen well used blue rinses.

Ian pushed a bright red cellophane packet into my hand. It crinkled as it was pushed to

the bottom of my heavily thermal jacket.

The eldest; bent with a walking stick-held his glare for me. My ‘radar’ sensed he was

about to say something; but not yet. Then he spoke.

"Going on the Red Watch”? he said, with a slight cynical mock to his tone.

I nodded politely as my glazed eyes drifted to the familiar label on Ian’s perplexing gift.

Then he followed up with,

"You're not retired are you? You’re too young.”

Without speaking I nodded politely.

“You look much too young, He frowned.

“These here women have done this Red Watch

cruise seven times altogether, but,” - his smelly breath catching on the downwind -

“it does tend to attract a 'mature type of person'. “

Well. He has just made me feel like a new pup wearing a wet nappy.

Ian is wishing me his farewell. At the same time he is quietly mouthing something to

me which I don’t catch first time,

“I just thought you might need these”.

We laughed together at the shared the moment. I feigned a nervous cough: ugh! ugh!

The thoughts of the next ten days and a foray into the great unknown has now become a mixture of daunting anticipation and the joys of blissful unfamiliarity. Fear was kicking-in. My stomach tightened and slowly churned.

"Please”, looking-up to the heavens, “not-a-blue-rinse-cruise“. Yes, It was a blue rinse cruise”.

Now pulling up in front of us and confirming the already obvious, was our transport to Dover. ‘Bettersby Coaches: SILVER GRAY LINES.’ This is a golden oldies cruise. A trip for the mama’s and the papa’s of my parent’s generation, not, for me, a 60's Child.

Unconsciously, my hand slid into my jacket pocket. I felt the cool, smooth, plastic packet

crinkle between my dithering, clammy fingers.‘Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls’. Slowly, under my breath, I hummed in appreciation the words of Mike Harding’s now wonderfully appropriate song. An unforgettable tune. Proudly, it advocates claims of mythical, extra-ordinary and remarkable ‘curative powers’ of any man and beast.

A North of England, Wigan made, very ordinary, un-attractive, un-remarkable, quite ugly- looking boiled mint sweet”.

“Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls

Keep you all aglow

Give one to your Granny

And watch the bugger go."

I popped one into my mouth as I reluctantly boarded the bus and painfully watched these buggers….a go..go..go! “Pass me the bubble-wrap”.

We eventually arrived in Doverto see the Red Watch sitting handsomely at Port in the late afternoon sun. I have to admit; she was an impressive sight.

There are 800 passengers on board, 350 crew and me.

so farI haven't travelled very well. I feel odd, alone and slightly divorced from all this..I feel that I have mistakenly displaced myself, and I don’t feel the remotest sense of ‘belonging’ here. I have ten days to go until I reach Rome and I feel sick.

We set-sail at 6: 45 precisely.

‘She’ vibrated gently from her berth into a perfect Sunday evening sea. So I set out to discover her mysterious, strange and pulsating hidden charms.

There are it sems, two distinct types of crew on board. The 'command and the important

people' are mainly white; middleclass, Anglo-Saxon and the 'rest' are largely Filipino.

90% of the passengers have cruised before. This first leg is ten days to Rome and is

one of five Fly/Cruise holidays going full-circle round the Med' in 56 days and 10 000

miles back to Dover.

"A wonderfully, restorative spring break, taken before the peak-season crowds have

been sighted “, claimed the brochure.I explored carefully. Restaurants, bars, pools, Jacuzzi’s, nightclub and a wall–to-wall, ram-jammed programme of on-board fun and frolics, day and night.

Dining companions. Sven and Eng-Marie Nystrom from Falkenberg, Sweden. They

took their first cruise almost 50 years ago to New York, aboard a ship that was so

bad it, was found scuttled in South America a year later.

I explored the bars and enjoyed a beer. I wondered around completely disorientated,

not knowing if this end was the ship’s back end or front. The decks lacked people. T

hey were strangely deserted and oddly quiet for a first, exciting night of a wonderful

holiday?Then, slowly, it dawned on me: Of course, it was past their bedtime, its 9 00-o-clock: The ‘golden oldies’ were well and truly tucked-up in bed

“Uncle Joe’s Mint balls keep you all aglow………”

Monday - 13 March 2000.

At sea.

After uneventful nights sail along the English Channel we turned left on the northern

corner of France and headed south into the Bay of Biscay. This stretch of water has a

notorious reputation and even has seasoned mariners holding their breath in horrified

anticipation. Today, it is as flat as a village duck-pond. We are heading for La Caruna

in northern Spain, 643 nautical miles from Dover. I am still trying to find my sea legs

and although we are sailing calm seas, I still feel a little queasy.

Each day, to my cabin, is posted a copy of the 'Red Watch Daily Times’; the official

ships newsletter. The lively, four-sided offering, for passengers and crew alike,

makes the entire ship tick. But today the photocopier has packed-in and Derek, deputy head of entertainments, is under pressure. "A repairman is busily trying to fix it, so meanwhile, have another cup of coffee, or something”. We didn’t have to wait long as the hastily printed copies were being distributed around the ship and now we all knew that we could play 'shuffleboard' at 10 o clock oo the portside deck No 7!

The newsletter said that a 'Singles Party' was being held at 12 noon in The Lightstar

Night Club. Great, a chance to go 'talent spotting’. It took me all of five minutes

to work out that this was a neatly, contrived opportunity for the single traveling,

blue-rinse brigade to meet-up with the ships specially recruited team of 'Dance Hosts’.

Four very fit men of later years and hired by Ted Elson Cruise Lines, specifically to

entertain and tango the socks off these and any other women on board this ship.

There was no reciprocal arrangement for single men. Soon things were a blur of

deep tans, smart blazers, white hair, white shirts, white trousers, white shoes

and flashing white false teeth. " I'm out of' here! "

Tonight is a black tie dinner in the ‘Glenataur’ following Captain-Master Arte Colberg’ ‘Welcome Cocktails Party’. He didn’t attend first sitting but he did the second.

It didn’t matter much to me as I opted to eat in the Garden Restaurant, I couldn't work up a decent appetite for either food or for dressing up and 'showing off’, but hundreds did. Didn’t they all look resplendent in their finery? The men looking, to a tee, like 10-day millionaires and the ladies were glittering like drag queens. They loved it and I cringed.

I retired to my cabin, bushed-out but feeling better. Tonight, I have met some nice, caring people and my small, outnumbered peer group is here.

The adventure is beginning to unfold. For the first time in ages I can feel a tinge of excitement. A feeling I had forgotten ever existed. I have beendown in that ‘black hole for too long. I am now looking forward to this holiday and, for the first time, I will write about my experiences. I’ll pretend that I’m on my broadsheet newspaper’s first ever assignment. Trying to impress my new editor with my brilliantly, dazzling, journalistic skills. Which of course, I do not, in any way, possess.

It is 2 00 am and I have just remembered that GMT is no longer with us. In fact It is now 3 00 am. Placed neatly in the center of my pillow is a tiny foil wrapped milk chocolate.The chocolate's name; ‘Sweet Dreams’.

The First Time Cruise. Day 2.

Tuesday. 14th March. La Caruna, Northern Spain. Arrived 11 00 am.

This is the first port of call and the first of many opportunities to go ashore and explore. A massive ridge of high-pressure sits over Western Europe, so I basked in the early-day spring sunshine. Today is a day of choices: Coach tours, taxi-rides, stay on board or plain, old-fashioned ‘walkies’. I opted for the walk. I spent an hour or so trotting around, but I couldn't get excited about anything so I paused for a coffee in a pavement cafe and found myself sitting next to a group of gossiping, Spanish biddies and their blue rinses.

Back on-board, I had more choices to make: Golf putting, deck quoits, carpet boules, darts, quiz, bingo, library, exercise to music and shuffleboard. 6:00 pm. It is now time to say farewell to northern Spain and head south, 598 N M to Cadiz, the gateway to the Mediterranean. We are to be at seauntil early Thursday morning. Meanwhile, part of the ships entertainments packages are 'celebrity,' guest speakers. One such was ex-Scotland Yard Detective Cliff Smith, who's Crimes; Criminals and Convictions talk is to be followed-up later in the week with a nice cozy chat about 'Jack the Ripper’! Another 'guest' speaker is the ships Chief Engineer Leif A. Dalholt. Over the Public Address system he broadcast an excellent 10 minute insight into the massive workings of a 30 000 ton cruise ship, "Engines of a billion horse-power, generating enough power in a week to send a rocket into space; and, bye the way; let me know if the hair-dryer in your cabin isn't working”.

There is something profound and distinct abstract about the travelers aboard this vessel.

Some are doing the round-trip at the top price of £10 000 (depending on cabin). Others, like me are budget conscious and wait for last minute bargain offers on Teletext. However, for some, they are here for no other reason than they are simply 'running out of time’. I met Tony Gallagher. A Liverpudlian now living in West London. Tony is here with his 67 year-old father Frank. Frank has terminal liver cancer.

I am now examining my own mortality. "Thank you God, for sending me here”.

The First Time Cruise. Day 3.

Wednesday - 15 March 2000. At sea. (East Atlantic Ocean).

I have just discovered that there are only two, one hour lapses, between 06: 30 am and 00: 30 am the following day, when food aboard this ship is not being served. That is 16 hours out of every 24. But, just in case I feel peckis in the remaining 8 hours, I can always call room service. There must be enough food on board to sink a Battleship.

Someone I've met for the first time told me all about food and it's unfortunate, addictive downside, Kerry Earich, a nurse, is 40 and is traveling with her sister Kim Koch all the way from Golden Colorado, U S A. They are virgin cruisers like me.A year ago Kerry paid $26 000 (£16 000) for surgery. Her health and spirit were fading fast. She had her stomach stapled and an adjustment made to the smallintestine. Now she is a trim looking 12 1/2 Stone (170 lbs). She has lost incredible 14 stones (200 lbs).

" I could just not stop eating “, she said. This is one hell of a brave lady, who, having taken such drastic action, has taken control of her life and is now living it to the full. There are an awful lot people on board this ship who could certainly I am learning fast. People on cruises come for the food and the entertainment. They want to dress-up for dinner, eat a good meal, go to a cabaret floorshow and fall fast asleep.

Tonight, is 'Showtime' in the Europa Lounge. We have comedy with Ron Dale, a stand-up comedian from Scotland. His first gag I heard 30 years ago but he made it sound fresh and he delivered his act with experience and style. I liked the one about the ships Captain, ' who spoke to me in the corridor for the first time’. 'He said’. "Get out of my way“.

After the show most people either turn-in or 'hit the bar’. I sat quietly on my own in the 'The Observatory' bar at a table with four chairs. Eventually, a couple of cofin dodgers approached looking for any last remaining seats (This happens all the time to single people). He looked just like an ex-army major who had been forcibly retired 25 years ago. He had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

On board protocol (and off) was by now, well established. Everybody acts like one-big-happy-family and everyone is on first name terms immediately.I asked, "Did you enjoy the show”? A reply wasn’t quickly forthcoming. Then, tertly replied and said, "yes, thank you". Then both he and his wife fell soundly asleep. Ahhhhh.Tonight's show must have kept them awake!

The Captain announced that we are heading 180 degree's due south on the western seaboard of Portugal and dock once more in Spain in the morning. CadizCity, capital of CadizProvince on the Gulf of Cadiz is where, in 1492, Christopher Columbus and his gang of greedy thugs set sail for the America’s. After plundering and pillaging for a few years they brought the loot back to Cadiz; 'whereupon Cadiz became one of the wealthiest cities in Europe' -- Mmmmmmmmmm.

The First Time Cruise. Day 4.

Thursday 16 March 2000. Cadiz. Sth Spain. Arrived 7 00 am.

I awake to some familiar sounds, but not the kind one expects to hear on a cruise ship docked in southern Spain. I have now gotten used to ‘Red Watch's’ rumblings, creaking’s and groanings and in a strange kind of way they have become comfortably reassuring, in that these are the sounds of normality. Like next-doors toilet flush. I have a single cabin, No 406 on portside deck 4. It is roomy with a shower, not a bath, which I miss badly. The bed is not single size, but neither is it a double. It is geographically positioned with my pillow nearest to the ship's bow. To my right are two portholes; below them is a broad

shelf where my T V set, life jacket and beta-blockers are kept. The cabin is as far away from the engine room as you can get and is approximately 40 feet above the quayside.

As I am writing, my porthole windows are being cleaned: "G-Morning”. However, This doesn’t answer the question of what the noisy, banging and crashing is all about? A close examination reveals all. The on-board maintenance crew are in full swing. They are keeping this pretty ship from both rusting and sinking and they started work on my outside cabin wall first. This is like living on a floating building-site.

I took my first dip in the warm, salty outside Lido deck swimming pool. The sun shone brilliantly in the cool, fresh, morning air. Suddenly, and without warning, the ship tilted from starboard to port. The water level dropped about 15 inches on one side of the pool and spilled over the other side’s edge. It was like swimming up-hill and down, such was the

optical illusion. Great fun.

The oil storage fuel tanks were getting their annual spring clean. This, allegedly, entails the removal of 'oil sludge' to prevent it from reaching the oil-fired burners which power the ship. If they pack in, we are going nowhere. So to assist this, the ship is given a 30 000 ton tilt and I still cannot figure-out how they do it.

I had short walk from the quayside, up the picturesque balustrade and into the town centre. I bought a two-day old Daily Telegraph and turned back to the ship to have a good read. Whereupon I met a single guy who once played professional football for Charlton Athletic. In 1947 the team won the F A Cup but Duncan Davies didn't make the squad that day and subsequently, after a handful of 1st team games, he moved on to Leyton Orient and finally Brightonand Hove Albion. This is where he now lives. He has spent the last 13 years trying to get on to Cilla Black's Blind Date T.V. programme. And last year, at 72 years old, he made it! Unfortunately he didn’t meet the girl of his dreams,

but, they remain good friends. He has not given up looking for Mrs. Right just yet. He has applied to Ted Elson Cruises to become a 'Dance Host’.

We are setting sail for Mahon, Menorca at 6 00 pm. The journey to the Balearic Islands takes us from the Atlantic, into the Mediterranean Sea and through the Straits of Gibraltar at 9 30 pm. The sky is pitch-black and the passage most definitely lives up to its promise of being a bumpy ride. Where the Atlantic meets the Med' it was thought by historians to be where the ‘ancients’ built one of their incredible 'wonders of the world’. 'The Pillars of Hercules' was an enormous statue that is supposed to have straddled this stretch of waterfrom southern Spain to Morocco, on the northern tip of Africa. A mere 12 miles apart. 'I think I'll have another beer’.

The First Time Cruise. Day 5.

Friday 17th March 2000 St Patrick’s Day 'at sea’.

We cleared the 'Straits' at midnight. We are now in open, calm seas and have a 616 N.M. hike north east to Mahon to arrive on Saturday at 8 00 am. I have given myself 24 hours to find-out what 'shuffleboard' is?

Most Ted. Elson Cruises are ‘themed’. Both the Red Watch and her 'little sister 'ship, Red Prince, provide us with 'experts' in a variety of 'special interest' fields such as Golf, Ancient History, Operetta, Film Classics, Country and Western Music etc. This cruise is an 'Arts and Crafts Special’. Now seated at my table with Sven and Ing-Marie, in the‘Glenataur’, are Anthony and Anne Mattes, the ships resident lecturers, who are holding Art classes with topics such as 'An Introduction to Drawing and Craft Workshops’. Throughout this leg of the cruise, 'works of Art' can be produced, with the artistic inspiration being drawn from our exotic ports of call”.

“We have never seen so much interest in these classes before. The Lido Bar was packed-out; we couldn’t get any more people in! “, said Tony. Anne and Tony proved to be superb dining companions and this made for a great deal of lively and enthralling conversation. They just typify and, they are, but a small example of, just what makes this particular ship so very special. Brady Hill, Senior Cruise Consultant with Cruise Only of Orlando, Florida, reported from last years Caribbean Cruise. “In my many years of cruising I've never before enjoyed the kind of intimacy, warmth and camaraderie that developed between passengers on the Red Watch. From my experience I would rate it as one of the most romantic ships afloat ." “I will second that!”

Today is St. Patrick’s Day.

One thing I have learned about the Irish is that they are brilliant at marketing themselves.

This is seemingly, the one and only time in the year that the whole of western civilization

joins in to celebrate with them. But, on the other hand. Is it another commercially, manufactured excuse to have one, almighty booze-up? Who cares? This is also a day when the non-Irish do very silly things and the Irish get to laugh us. Irish Stew is served in all Buffet’s, ‘aperitif of the day’ is Brandy Dublin and Guinness is £1.20 a can. Everyone knew it was a 'trick' question and that the 'correct' answer was inevitably ‘Dublin’, but nobody could fathom-out why?

"Because it has the only city in the world that keeps on ‘Dublin’. (Doubling). Get it? I think I'll go for a lie-down and prepare myself for tomorrow morning's game of ‘shuffleboard’.

The First Time Cruise. Day 6.

Saturday 18 March 2000. Mahon, Menorca, Spain. Arrived 8 00 am.

The Island of Menorca is one of four that make-up the Balearic Islands. Ibiza, Majorca and Formentura being the other three. They are ever-popular destinations for thousands

of holiday making Brits such as Richard Branson and the former Lady Hamilton. Who, it is alleged, carried-on a torrid affair here with someone she liked a lot. And it wasn’t Richard Branson.

Mahon's (pronounced, May Hon.) claim to fame is two-fold. The first is that this is the second largest, natural harbor on the Planet; the biggest is PearlHarbour. The other 'claim' is that somebody was getting fed-up of eating boring salads every day so, to try to tickle things up a bit they went away to invent a delicious ‘sauce’. They named it after Mahon and called it Mayonnaise. This is a place of call, which the 'brochure' describes as 'port at anchor’. Which means that, usually, there is not enough room for us to dock at the quay. Therefore, a shuttle-launch-bus-service is laid-on to take us ashore. But on this sunny, spring day and because the early season sea traffic is light, we have docked: but not without incident, Whilst making the 'unaccustomed' docking maneuver, the Red Watch made a simple-enough three-point-turn, but, 'she' didn't get it quite right. She 'smacked' into a moored-up Spanish Naval Frigate and put a beauty of a dent in her own rear-end.

A thousand miles away in London, I could almost hear the sound of the Lutine Bell as

it was reluctantly struck by a grim-faced Lloyd’s official. However, as far as I can see, the slightly damaged Frigate looked deserted and nobody on board her, as yet, had noticed anything amiss. We waited and held our breath. Were we to witness our first bad case of 'sea rage‘?

“Oi! ...What the bl...."

Would Capt' Solberg put a note underneath the windscreen wiper?

" Er. Sorry Senor, I err...” Or would he do a ‘runner’?

So much for the biggest, natural harbour in the Med’. 'Not big enough to park in,

but when you do, you get a bump up the tailgate’! ------ A bit like Tesco’s car park

on Saturday morning.

It is 'that ' time in any holiday that one perhaps thinks of home and the lifestyle we have temporarily left behind. In just a few short days, I have been assimilated and I now live in a ‘time warp’. The only recognizable and familiar features are ‘night, ‘day’ and, everything else is unreal. New friends have been made, the ships delights have been sampled, routines are well established and a billion more of my brain cells have been permanently destroyed. Is it now the time to begin to come back down to Earth and to slightly divorce this floating, fantasy theme park? "No way: I still have three full-days cruising' to go “!

The First Time Cruise. Day 7

Sunday 19 March 2000. Toulon, Southern France. Arrived (Late) 9:05 am.

I once borrowed from a friend of mine, his copy of the 'Michelin Guide’. "France”, it says in the pre-amble,” is quintessentially perfect. When God created this stunning country, he was very pleased with himself. But, he thought, 'I need to balance all this heavenly perfection with something of the opposite’. So hecreated the French”.

Now I give no truck to some disparaging stories that seem to constantly emanate from the experiences of the 'so called army' of 'French traveling' Brits. Words like 'arrogance' and 'rude' spring to mind, but I wish here and now, to distance my self totally from any overt critique about my beloved France.Except, that is, for one thing. On Sunday and, the best part of Monday, I must complain that.. France is shut.

Sunday observance here has still not been dislodged by the lure of the Shopping Mall

and Supermarket (I do not know what excuse’s they use for Monday). This is a shopaholic’s worst nightmare. In Britain, watching T V, American Line Dancing and shopping are the most popular of all our leisure pursuits. Therefore, shoppers will need their fix. They needed not to worry. In downtown Toulon this morning, there is a superb Sunday morning street market, just a French onion's throw away, from the ship. Fresh fruit and vegetables were most in evidence and the cafe bars were also in full swing. A taking a sample, or two, of the famous French ‘Kir Royale’ with my newfound shipmates was a shear delight. We were 'adopted' by several cheerful stallholders whose overwhelming generosity knew no bounds. We were showered with local delicacies of all kinds. Green olives, home made sweets, and local pan-fried baby squid. I thought I had died early and gone to heaven on a plate.

Last night we hit a head-on, storm force Seven and is the reason we arrived two hours

late in Toulon this morning. It was my 'first real testing'. As yet we had sailed a calm sea. That all changed last night. I did not sleep a wink. With my body in the 'bow to stern position' and my head resting on my chocolate kissed pillow, I went to hell.. Now and again, I can enjoy a good white-knuckle ride and love topull 3 Gs for two minutes or so, but this six-hour mother of a jaunt, took the proverbial biscuit. I calculated that, if the ship's bow rises 20 ft above the horizontal and then 20 ft below, then that is a total of 40 ft. If the ship is moving forward at say 15 knots, then my bed will fly in a curve similar to the crest of the Pepsi Max Big One in Blackpool. And it did.

Tonight, however, is a totally different ball game. We leave this beautiful port at sunset and head for Livorno in northern Italy and the penultimate full day. In addition, as if I needed to be reminded, that my journey's end is nearly nigh. Pushed under my cabin door is my 'Interim Account Statement’. Every passenger is given on-board financial credit, so if I want to buy something, I can put it on my account by giving my cabin number and signing a credit slip. I have 33 of them so far and they add-up to the modest sum of £167. 89p. With two days still to go. it makes for great spending convenience and gives Ted Elson a superb way of painlessly separating me from my money. But I still cannot remember signing for seven pints of Boddingtons Bitter, two gin and tonics and a Pina Colada at 3-o-clock last Tuesday morning.

The First Time Cruise. Day 8.

Monday 20 March 2000. Livorno, Northern Italy.

If the French are famous for their cheeses, wines, horse meat, President de Gaul, Devil's

Island and nuclear war-head testing in the South Pacific; then the Italians can boast of pasta, Chianti, Leonardo di Caprio, fat opera singers, the Mafia, beautiful women and fast, exotic sexy cars. It is Monday morning and as in all of my other travels, I have seen and, been in, traffic jams, which make your toes curl: Livorno is no different. Latin temperament sees to it, that everybody gets to work in a good mood but exhausted, by honking your horn, cursing and waving their arms in the air a lot. This is a large shipbuilding town and it vaguely reminds me somewhat of Liverpool; except with sun. Down the road from here is Pisa with its newly counter-balanced leaning tower. Interfering with it, for me, misses the point and takes away the fun of risking a quick climb to the top and back before it falls over. Also, two hours drive from here is Florence. One of the constant dilemmas on this kind of holiday is whether or not, to book a particular excursion. I need to book the trip at least two days before hand, after that--tough. My one regret of this holiday is not to have booked a visit there. Tony and Anne Matts were just two of the many people who later, were to drool to me about it. After spending an hour in Livorno I went back to the ship. Where I spent the rest of the day. Later on, I went to bed and sulked. We have all met them. ust stand in the bus queue, supermarket checkout, doctor's surgery, post office etc and they soon find you! Nudger’s, queue-jumpers, heavy blowers, moaners, fidgeters and tut-tut-tutters. Well, they are here in their dreaded droves; the dreaded Saga-Louts!

Do they hold a special license in fuss-pot-crankiness or what? This ship is as near to a

floating paradise as you will ever get. And they moan and groan. Too hot, too cold,

too big, too small, too long, too short, too...

I have a theory about this kind of behavior. It is a special kind of snobbish showing-off

and is peculiar to the aspiring hoards of the pretencious, ex-worker English middle classes.

They just like feeling important by drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. This however is relatively harmless and laughable. But, never the less, a some-what irritating activity. However, there is a darker, more sinister presence onboard. You see, some, but by no means all these people, are not having as much fun as they would like. They do not want to share their on-board treasures with 'youngsters' like me. Dave and Penny from my hometown, Wigan and are in my age bracket. They brought it to my notice tonight and I shared my experience with them of 'walking stick' way back last Sunday at Charnock Richard services. There is a slight undercurrent of 'reverse ageism' present and as with all forms of discrimination, it is an ugly sight. Mr. Elson, please take note.

Tonight is the Captains Farewell Cocktail Party in the Europa Lounge. I am going to

dinner tonight wearing, for the first time ever, a dicky-bow.

“Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls, keep you all agl…”.

The First Time Cruise. Day 9.

Tuesday 21 March 2000. Civitaveccchia. West-Central Italy.

8 00 am: 'If it's Tuesday it most be Rome’. And it is. We are boarding our Trumpy Tours coach for the two hour ride and 10 hour visit on Tour ‘A’: Roma Aeterna - "The Eternal Rome”. This promises to be the consummate, culture-vulture trip. We are given a tourist type street-map which clearly points-out all major attractions, including, in bright red and yellow, 'M' logo of five of Rome's McDonald’s Burger Restaurants.

The tour is of the 'escorted' type. Our guide is a typically Latin-looking Italian who speaks excellent English. To hushed tones we entered the largest church in the world-St Peter's Basilica. After being inside just thirty seconds an almighty row had broken-out between our guide and an irate Vatican official. The argument was unfortunately conducted in Italian, so I really can’t tell what’s going-on. But we all knew, he wasn't giving him a blessing from the Pope. San Pietro in Vaticano is awesome. Having just walked through St Peter's Square in bright sunshine my keen sense of scale was quickly evaporating. Everything is not just beautiful, it is huge, and I feel very small and insignificant. My eyes and brain are not coordinating all this very well. It’s as if I was viewing it all through a 14-inch T V screen. "Vatican City”, said our ruffled guide, "is Citta del Vaticano. It is an Independent SovereignState within the ItalianRepublic and has been since1929 ."

We went back into Italy and headed for the Coliseum. Only about 1/3rd of the stunning

original stone structure is left from 2000 years ago. Which is not bad going when I think of the years of warring pillage and neglect this building has suffered. Somebody- probably the local City Council and relatively recently - decided that the 80 000 seater-size stadium should be rebuilt in all it's former glory. So they accepted the cheapest tender (as you do!) and set about the remaining 2/3rds. And built the rest in common red brick. All those years ago, of course, the Coliseum, or the Flavian Amphitheatre as it's correctly known, was 'the' definitive ‘sports’ stadium. Thousands of people would gather here on a regular basis to watch deliberately starved wild-beasts and defenseless Christians and criminals being slain or eaten or something.

Most of the Roman Emperor's might have been raving mad but they weren’t

daft and they were certainly well versed in social engineering and human psychology.

So, they put-on this entertainment as an excuse to boast and show-off how

powerful and filthy rich they were. They knew that spilling a drop of 'Claret' gave

the local downtrodden, fiscally challenged, unwashed masses a bit of fun and kept

them under control and servile. It worked well for centuries until the Italians started

playing football.

My final destination in Rome today is a true 'tour d’force’. I am going to the Fontana di Trevi: 'Of the famous Danny Kaye film’,” Three coins in the...” This is a truly awesome, jaw-dropping spectacle. But, most unusually, the Trevi Fountain is tucked away in the cramped and creepy, downtown back streets of the city.I tossed my 3 penny's worth of hope into the water like everybody else here-- now I am fated and destined to one day--return. Winding my way back to the coach I spotted a sign on the front door of local bar.

It read, "Skip the Trevi. Have a bevy”. This bar, obviously, must be run by a Liverpool

scouser. But no way would I have missed the awesome sight of the Trevi, But I'll treasure this well intended message and take its heed for when I get back on-board. Because tonight is my last: So I'll toast the Trevi and have a bevy, or ‘three’, a little later!

The First Time Cruise. Day 10.

Wednesday 22 March 2000.

At port overnight, Cititavecchia. 12 Noon,Disembarkation.

“We all know what you're up to, you know".

...A quiet word was being firmly, but gently, planted in my ear. This was a memoryfrom last Friday morning and the 'planter' was Gordon Samuals a fellow passenger.I am now sitting deck-side; it is 10 am. My mind is beginning to recall some of the most unforgettable moments of the last 10 days. Gordon is one of many people who, having recently lost their respective partners, are traveling lost souls. 'I'm trying a cruise, but it's just not the same without her “.

If there are around 1100 or so people on this ship, that means there are up to

1100 pairs of eyes and that means there is nowhere for anybody to hide. I compared notes with Tony Gallagher; He had had the same experience. We chuckled knowingly.I estimated that the two most popular questions my friends would be asking when I got back home would be:

“Did you meet anyone err, significant?"

And 2.

“Would you go back?"

To the second question the answer is a definite “Yes”. Although never once, did I

make it to play the early morning games of shuffleboard, so I still don’t have a clue

what the hell it is?

And the answer to the first question is "kind of' yes".

So now, I will elaborate.

Love, it seems to me, manifests itself in many different ways. I had two, verydifferent,

romantic encounters. Since I found myself single again, I have asked; ‘What.. is my idea.. of a perfect night-out, as a singleton on my own?’ Well, It would be a comfortable, discrete, sumptuously furnished bar with gentle back-ground music and carefully designed atmospheric lighting “. I have been, so far, unable to find it. At home, my local 'Singles Club' is all disco, pie and peas. So I don’t go there. On this Holiday Cruise Ship, I have found my very own personal heaven on Earth.

I have fallen head-over-heals with a lounge bar--- The Observatory bar’ ‘I have spent more of my percentage time awake in here than anywhere else on the ship. I adore its deep, blue and gold decoration. I love its neck-stretching 270-degree, floor to ceiling panoramic views of the ocean. And I thrill at its mesmerizing, atmospheric, ambience.

And, as if this were not enough, sitting elegantly the middle of this stunning splendor is

Anna-Gina. Playing the grand piano here each night is Ted. Elson’s, delicious cherry on t

he wonderful icing on the magnificent cake that is the Red Watch.

She has musically seduced me every night of this 10-day voyage. She has made me laugh and she has made me cry. From the haunting melody of John Lennon’s 'Imagine' to Blockbuster Movie Themes, classical Chopin and back to Rod Stuart’s, "I Am Sailing'“. She laughs, she chats, she listens, she smiles, she jokes, she flirts and she plays brilliantly-in her bare feet. Hailing from Copenhagen, 'This' Danish lady certainly brings home her own version of Danish Bacon.

My second romantic encounter involves the setting of a dark, exhilarating, stormy night. A touch of champagne, the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea and a rocking and rolling 30 000-ton cruise ship. The taste of cool, salt air hit my lips as my hand gently griped the smooth, cold varnished teak and polished brass handrail. On the dimly lit front deck, the galloping waves crashed the bow as a near full moon shone through a thin breaking cloud. Both, magically hitting the wet, slippery deck in patches of pure, white mist. This is where the forces of nature are powerful and wild and out of control. For a moment in time the waters, winds and moonbeams have met here. Something is happening and I am not alone..

The First Time Cruise. Epilogue

Thursday 23rd March 2000. Back home.

We are all looking for something.

When President Thomas Jefferson was quizzed as to what, to him, defined 'happiness in life ‘. He philosophically replied: "Tis neither wealth nor splendor but tranquility and vocation “.Well, I found the tranquility. Now I search for my vocation. Maybe, I will continue to write things or take cruises and holidays and write about them. And obviously, I will never be able to ‘do’ a 'first-time'-cruise or write my 'first-time'-

cruise diary ever again. But, I can still seek out new worlds and start-out on new

adventures, and write about them. I have found that happy, priceless memories will remain in these words forever and maybe, through them or, because of them, I just might find, what it is, that I am looking for.

Now where did I put the ‘Uncle Joe’s’?

Christmas Day

I spent the day at sister Ellie's boyfriends house.

Anthony cooked the dinner and it was fantastic. Good food on warm plates. His ex-wife’s family was another matter. I love to chat. You know, I talk, you listen. You talk, I listen. We exchange views and opinions. Well I'm afraid there was none of that and I'm afraid I’ve got to be critical. The height of the conversation amounted to "where's the gravy" and "pass the salt." Gerry, Anthony's ex-brother-in-law talked, but only about himself. I tried several times to get things going. I told the Good King Wenslaslas Joke and nobody laughed. Ellie said, "Is that supposed to be funny?" I was fast losing the will to live.

Eating and sharing a meal is one of the most intimate things one can do without taking your clothes off. They were brain dead. I admit to just resigning my self to doing just what they were doing. Expressionless souls. Family's too long together. Married too long. Over familiarity. Grudges. Pain.

Bored. Unhappy. I was the happiest person there and I think they resented me for it. Perhaps they envied my (relative) freedom? No pun intended.

I escaped to the empty lounge on a distended stomach. I watched Titanic. It kept me from falling asleep. Some people left, others stayed. I was stopping over so I couldn't escape. With a tear in my eye I rejoined the others when the film had finished. They were just swilling booze. I hit the Stilton cheese and the Port. The conversation still centered on the banal. Then suddenly we were talking of lost loved one's and death and then these people generally perked-up. I hate depressed talk and violence and here we were talking of tragic deaths and funerals. It was the only topic discussed in 13 hours of festivities. We watched the Vicar of Dibley and then The Royle Family. Both were good but I have a special love for the Royle family. It was a cracker. Both men fell asleep and one snored. Then the woman fell asleep which left Ellie and I to the TV set. A Celtic music program (or is it programme) was showing and I thought it was great. But I was overruled and we watched a recording of the Queens bloody Christmas speech. (I hate 'that' Royal Family. Viva Republique!!).

Ellie made huge ham and tomato sandwiches and the men woke up. The woman had a stiff back from lying awkwardly on the floor; she stretched her ache and went outside for a fag. I drank another glass of red wine. My five-hundreth. It was 00: 45am. Time for bed. I slept on the couch. The couch was comfortable but I wasn't. I had heartburn. Didn't sleep a wink, just tossed.

Gave up trying to sleep, got up. It was 6:00am, made tea. First of five cups as I was dehydrated. I wanted to leave and go home to my bed but Ellie would take umbrage if I left without saying a proper goodbye. I waited five hours for them to get up and meanwhile I read a book called Our Kid. It was crap. We ate toast and said our thankyou’s and farewell's. I was white. I shook through lack of sleep. I crawled into my bed at 2:00 pm. I gratefully slept for two whole hours. Later I gigged in Accrington.

LOCAL EXCENTRICS

I am relating

these true tales because they are wonderful, magical, and English... or is it British eccentricities. We have a shed full of it and it ought to be guarded and saved as a national treasure.

A FRIEND OF MINE has smoked cigarettes all his adult life and some time before it too. He is an extremely intelligent man and a very talented musician. I once unexpectedly dropped in on him at home when he was practicing a piece of a score written by Mozart. It sounded wonderful to my limited musical ears. Steve nonchalantly put down his instrument and said; “they said it was impossible to play that piece on a guitar.”

It is slowly killing him --- the cigarettes, not the guitar. He has just turned 50 and I fear that he won't see beyond sixty. He makes frequent visits to his GP and equally frequently he takes time off from his workplace. So, in an attempt to quit the habit, save his job and save his life, he decided to adopt a new hobby. He has bought a motorcycle! Well I thought, that’s a terrific swap. He has now statistically increased his chances of an early bereavement still further. If the habit doesn’t snuff him out then his hobby will. I suppose there is an inverted logic in there somewhere. If smoking is a slow death then maybe a motorcycle crash will speed things up a bit.

I am relating this true tales because they are wonderful, magical, and English --- or is it British--- eccentricities. We have a shed full of it and it should be guarded and saved as a national treasure.

Here’s another one. An acquaintance of mine is a well-known heavy drinker. In fact he boasts and bangs on about it all the time. What is, I suspect, is a display of what he thinks is alphamale-macho-manliness. However in these parts, excess amongst the masses is a preoccupation and is a normal, relentlessly pursued, social activity. So it is not unusual and doesn’t attract attention from anybody, except probably me, who is finding it a useful subject to write a chapter about. He is in his early forties and he has worked in environmental health all his life. He is an expert in pest control and comes into contact with poisons and lethal toxins, which subsequently, he leaves lying around for vermin to eat and then die in a cruel, painful way. Recently he had cause to visit his local GP complaining about his lower bowel or kidney pain or something. After a variety of specimen tests, he has been diagnosed with a liver problem from reckless alcohol abuse... a totally predictable result given his circumstances. He however, has not boasted about this. In fact he has told certain ‘friends’ not to tell anyone about it at all, so that means of course, everybody including the village cat, knows about it. (How do you think I found out?). So, here’s my question for you:-

‘What does a heavy drinking Englishman, with liver damage, do about his condition, and what does he attempt to do to improve his health?’

Answer:- ‘Buy a Pub’.

I am not making this up. Gavin is the new landlord of the most popular pub in the village and isn’t this an absolutely perfect piece of oddball eccentricity?

IAN HAS become a close friend but he himself doesn’t easily befriend. I remember being introduced to him by Steve about eight years ago. He ruthlessly interrogated me for an hour before he was satisfied that he was going to be comfortable standing in a pub and drinking a pint of Tetley’s bitter with me. I would say he is a bit of a loner and he makes lots of money from his self-employed business in computers to which he is surgically attached to one of them. I met his girlfriend of twelve years, one evening at the pub. Subsequently, a week or so later, I asked politely of her health and well being, just to show I cared a bit. He said, “I finished with her last night’. I voraciously queried him.

“As in, ending your relationship?”

“Yeh, that’s right.”

“But,” I pointed out, “Yesterday was St Valentines Day.”

Anyway, that gives you an idea of what he’s like, so as a hobby, and to get away from his computer for 10 minutes, Ian took-up Para-gliding. He is also a gadget man. He has one of everything. And that means one of anything that has electricity running through it. So for Ian to buy something that is wind powered was, to say for us, eyebrow raising at least. It also induced a lot of furrowed forehead wrinkles, nostril blowing and severe head scratching. In the case of Steve, he lit another cigarette.

This is what Para-gliders do. They seem to feel the need to include people like me and offer unwelcome invitations to people like me, in order to be observered by people like me to be seen doing it. This is just not my bag at all. But I have to keep him sweet as he is my computer guru and when this thing blows a fuse...

‘What does a heavy drinking Englishman, with liver damage, do about his condition, and what does he attempt to do to improve his health? Answer: ‘Buy a Pub’.

They buy an enormous backpack costing and weighing several thousand pounds. They attach it to themselves like an ordinary backpack and pretend not to notice that your combined weight has caused the ground beneath you to suddenly subside by 2 feet. Then you need to find a hill somewhere and climb up it. That is, providing you have managed to escape from your recently made manhole. After you have walked for two hours you reach a spot on the hill and discover you are still only half way up. You walk further up but this time you also begin to walk around the hill too. Now we are seeking a favorable wind direction. An hour later after consulting the local airport meteorologist reports you walk back to the place you were an hour earlier cursing under your breath something like this. “I could have sworn he said wind speed 5 knots from 14 degrees south-south west or was it 14 knots and 5 degrees north-north west?” Have lunch. Wait for wind speed and direction to change again and serenely watch the sleek white gliders from local gliding club effortlessly sweep and cut the clear blue morning sky’s as you remove your boots and check up on the state of your profusely bleeding blisters. Apply surgical spirit and bandage feet whilst making a phone call on your mobile for an appointment to see the practice nurse first thing tomorrow morning. Remove backpack quickly and unpack Para-glider before you finally slip mysteriously underground forever. Unfold the 40 feet by 12 foot Para-glider ‘wing’ as a sudden squall lifts it above your head and places it on the other side of the hill where you had been an hour earlier. Retrieve. Para glider and pilots chair in position. Wind speed and direction all green for go. All instruments checked. Altimeter! OK. Walkie-talkie! OK. Compass! OK. Satellite mapping system! OK. Mobile phone! OK. Launch. Now jump off the hill. Take 10 seconds to glide smoothly down towards the field at the bottom of the hill next to the car park whilst aimlessly trying to catch a weak thermal of warm damp rising air to take you back up the hill to where you took off. Walk back up the hill. It is eight hours since we parked the car down below and it has started to rain. Pack up. Go home. Fill in application form for the Gliding Club. I think that something like this needs a government health warning. Not for the sport, but to protect us from the loons who do it!

I think what it is, that sets us up as a nation of crackpots, also saves us from collective insanity. Like curing a disease with an antibody made from the same offending virus.

I suppose I should be grateful that I am not a heavy smoking, hard drinking, paragliding computer nerd and I suppose also, that you will now be wondering what kind of quirky eccentricities I might possess. Well I confess. It is this thing you are reading now. You have not just to be an eccentric to be a writer, but being English and slightly crazy also helps.

I think what it is, that sets us up as a nation of crackpots, also saves us from collective insanity. Like curing a disease with an antibody made from the same offending virus. I just Luv it!

NEWLiiNE

Words & Music UK

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