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So here's a novelty - me involved in a drinking spree.

As is customary on the Aquarius, the crew gang up on... pardon me... select a member of the patronage for their outstanding contribution to merriment onboard, and get them pissed.

As the celebration champagne flows, the victim - sorry, nominee - is asked to don their mask and given a specialised snorkel through which a drink of the dive-masters choice is poured.  Fortunate for me then, we'd run out of creme de menthe and advocat - he had to make do with a tinnie of VB.

The effect of the snorkel is that the beer gets inside you without frothing - it waits until the last drop has passed the gullet then fizzes like a peanut in lemonade. I think the belch which emanated shortly after the ceremony would have sent ships turning hard to port for many miles out at sea.

The Wombat prize is also accompanied by a small furry toy Wombat, an after thought if ever there was one.

So began two extra-ordinary boozy days... that evening we met the crew and surviving passengers at the Cock and Bull to discuss the depravity on board.  The next day, at the captains invitation, Iso and I found ourselves hob-nobbing with Cairn's upper class at the Amateurs.

A special mention is in order for the Grand-Master Wombat - Willie.  The totally incomprehensible broad Scot (to be fair, highly comprehensible when speaking in a mock Jamaican accent) who works on a nuclear powered naval ship for most of the year, and for recreation takes boat trips - when we left him, drunk as a fart and bemusing passers by in the Aquarium bar, he was about to depart for his seventh consecutive 'holiday', on the same boat.  

Some people are weird. Really weird.

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