There are unexpected consequences, being locked up with 2,039 rabid rock fans. Who knew that they would be this old? I spotted a young couple walking defensively along Deck 9, the walking track. They are trapeze artists, in recess as the regular Rhapsody of the Seas entertainment program is suspended for this charter cruise.
The problem is I can’t tolerate being part of this floating orgy of sloth, cut price decadence and loafing chicanery.
I hope civilization hasn’t collapsed. Imagine the Armageddon, where I am marooned on the Isle of Pines with 2,039 of these, and the 912 crew. The locals would hunt us down and eat us. No, they wouldn’t – there is too much of us. A lifetime’s worth, but we are all old, so they have only limited time.
It would make Lost look like Gilligan’s Island. The Walking Dead, becoming the Floating Dead.
I would make a bonfire from the photos in the Eternal Memory Photo Studio, burning all those happy shots of Valma, and Ted, and Shiela, and Bruce. All holding aloft The Cocktail Of The Day (Darling Blue Rita). At least they’re all happy, and that’s a nice thing. The only holdout on this boat is myself, and I can’t tell anyone here that I am not enjoying this.
Aside from the table stealer yesterday, I’m being nice and polite to everyone. Even the drunken German sounding woman who insisted I am Russell Morris last night, preventing my passage down the corridor. I will not wear the Trilby again.
I’m sure things will look up when we hit land tomorrow, and I can get off and wander amongst the mangroves and the dirt tracks on some fleabitten island while the whooping hoards all partake of their pre-booked tours and events.
Vanuatu can’t come quick enough.
This thing only does 25 knots.
Isle of Pines tomorrow is a possible escape path, I’ll have to negotiate with the Village Chief to see if someone has a fishing boat that can take me somewhere with an airport.
Mystery Island on Thursday is just that – no apparent citizens.
We do berth at Vanuatu on Friday, and I do have a flight out of there already booked on Virgin, to Brisbane then Sydney. I have to stay overnight at the Casino, as they don’t fly on Fridays.
Beryl, Pip, Mavis and their retarded niece across the hall will miss me. They’ve been making goo goo eyes and smiling at me. The man eater, Gina Lollobrigida’s grandma, is stalking me after I turned up at Table 26. She had already invited a friend, so my place at the table for two, mandated by the cruise line, was fortunately not available. She appeared devastated at her loss, and has been trying to kindle something ever since.
At the Bistro: Island Feast. By the pool right now: Line Dancing, with Rhonda and Ray. Perhaps I can go and see Angry Anderson In Concert tonight. This is a nightmare.