Last week. A boot. Changed my life. Hopefully you just sung that to the tune of DJ and last night. As I have been doing all day. Its true though. Last week a boot changed my life. Boot as in boat. Changed as in changed. Life as in outlook. Holiday time. Giddy up. 10 days. Short but long. Not even 2 weeks. Almost 2 weeks. Mighty stuff. Couldn’t wait. Pumped! Although. What do you do for 10 days on a big old boot? Is what I was asked. Which is what I was mulling. As I packed my bag. 10 days. In the middle of nowhere. No phone. Sans internet. 10 days. Jesus. Barely go 10 minutes without checking one of those. 1 day was an unreal laugh before. 9 more? Too many more? Might it be spreading the butter a tad thin. Might be stranded. In the middle of the Caribbean ocean. Not actually sure who’s going either. Ah no. It’ll be dancing. 10 days. Wonder what we’ll do. Quickly found out. 10 days on a yacht. What do you do? You, ehh, have…
Fun! Buckets of it. Buckets and buckets. And I mean buckets. Along with a few buckets more. Maybe with the odd bucket of booze on top as well. No need to worry about excess or anything. Holidays and all. Time to relax. Unwind. Put yourself on ice. Chill on. Like a holiday when you were young. Barely remember kind of young. Memory of eating a Fat Frog ice-cream, kind of young. Carefree. Brainfree. Freedumb. 10 days on a super yacht? Some. Funking. Laugh!
Although starting off ending up in the ghetto backstreets of the island we landed on was a bit dodge. Am I going to get pillaged or buggered kind of dodge. Clueless in the back of a dodgy minivan. ‘Must make a quick detour. Stay in the car. Don’t get out, mon’. We were told. As the cab driver jumped out. In a dodgy neighborhood. At night. And started talking to an even dodgier looking dude. Pointing. Gesticulating. Pointing harder. Oh Jesus. Scuttle on. Let’s get back on the road. Not up for being found in an alley on my first night. At least let me relax first. Then do what you will down that dark alley. At least let me rel… Back on the road. Odd enough. Dodge enough. Details missing. Memory bank. What what?
As In. Really Obscure.
Get to the boot. In the port. Big old boot. Looking mighty. Aw yeh’ing and duu’ing as we realise that that big boat there, that one, the one people were taking photos of, was our boat. Wuu duu. Hop on board. Asked to get back off. Take off our shoes. Hop back on? Dancing. Meet the captain. Crew. Stewardesses. Show us to our rooms. Sharing a room with my buddy Maxwell. Only other guy on board who is either not married or engaged. Stewardess (is that the right term by the by?) asks me if I want my bag unpacked. By who? You? Why so? Oh. Right. I’m to do nothing. Which is when I realised this was full-on 5-star. No, no. I’m cool thanks. My bag is full of sex toys. The really obscure kind. I added. She looked at me. Blatantly did not even consider that I might be joking. Thought nothing of it. Until three days later. Told me that we were the least gay gay couple she had ever met. Ha. Who? What? What what? Couple… ? Yes. Sex toys. Obscure kind… Couple. Max. You? Ha. Oh. Right. Ha. No.
None of that accounted for the change I was on aboot earlier by the way. Back to the boot. Funreal. Downstairs. Cabins. Hotel like rooms. Savage. Shower. Had power. Would bowl over a baby rhino. Moving on. Can you have a ground floor on a boat? Main floor? Outside chilling area. Inside. Living room. Couches. TV. Piano. (As in a grand old funking piano in the room). Dining room. Bar. Full to the brim. Master cabin. Next floor. Reading room (?). Chilling area outside again. More couches. More TVs. Outdoor dining area. Cockpit. Top floor. Sun lounge area. And. On top of all that. Mightiest of cherries… A jacuzzi. Open air. Jacuzzi. Absolutely. Positively. Dancing. Mighty work. Also dragging a 30 foot boat along with us. For getting to land. If we needed to. Seeing as our oil liner yacht. Couldn’t get too close to the shallow waters of the tropical beach areas. Dan. Sing!
So the boat was savage. Even better, the company. Sound folk in every corner. All walks. All sound. Stories flowing. Piano playing. Songs sung. Elton John. Billy Joel. Although my personal favourite was a rendition of Barry Manilow’s Bermuda Triangle. Even better again. To make up for the likes of my tone deaf Irish hooting along, songs were sung by folk who can sing. Folk who might have 17 number 1 hits under their belt. Folk who have won Ivor Novello Awards. Singer folk. Who can sing. Well. Well, very well to be true. Sing on. While I sipped on my Merkatini cocktail. And then join in for the chorus… I won’t go breaking your heart! Dun dun. Dun. Dun! Go on the Elton!
Quality boat. 5 star all round. Chef who looked like Bill Murray. Spoke like Bill Murray. Cooked like a Kingpin. Oh Jesus. Best food I may have ever had. Night after night. New dish. Every night. No way can he beat last night’s dish… Sweet Jesus… Oh no he didn… Oh yes. Bill did. (Lobster and truffle. Almost didn’t want to finish it. Just to make it last. That good). Bill did have an odd old oddness. Noticed it the first morning. Asked me ‘How are you? Hhhhhhhhhhhaaaa.’ Obviously I joined in with the laughter. As what I said had been quite funny. Until I realised I had yet to respond. Bill was merely laughing at his own question. Which would be a running occurrence. As would the stewardess who felt a need to start a story every time I spoke. Fair enough my stories are brutal. But still. Every. Single. Time. Eventually I had to burn back to get her to stop. And then the copy of Randumb I brought with me went missing. And then I heard a splash. Touche.
Run Away Train.
What else was on this magnificent beast of a boot… Celebrity trainer? Tick. Go on the Nick. Trains big time Charlies. Top guns. Golden balls. I am legends. Did not realise how good the training would be. Sans weights. Guilt trip kind of training… ‘You get out, what you put in. All down to you. Your choice.’ Funk. Balls. Can’t fool a fool like I normally do with that kind of talk. Tut. Train on. Pretty savage setting as well to be true. Tropical islands. Castaway style beaches. At one point, the actual beach used in Gilligan’s Island. Roasting hot. Sweating out buckets of fruity cocktails. Booze oozing. Running on a white beach. Surrounded by crystal blue water. Cool kind. Seeing tornados in the distance in the ocean. Savage! Except for the running part. Horrendously savage!!!
Boot. Life. Outlook.
Back to the life changing part. Back to the story telling part. Thank funk a few others on the boot don’t have books out. As my sales would definitely be down if so. Stories of all kinds. Ranging from bizarre to Bourne Identity. This, take that, and the other. Told with aplomb I might add. A lot of… No way?! Seriously. Ah no way?! ‘Yes. Way. Now. Let’s go jump off the top of the boat!’ Anyways. What I realised was this. If you want to be the occupant of the master cabin on a boot, you get to go through an unreal amount of highs. But more importantly. You have to ride out the bad times. And be talented as funk. Hoviously.
Key seems to be though… Plough on. Seeing as when you are telling stories about them in years to come, a bad incident will be remembered as actually kind of funny because it’s so ridiculous. Or that that bad period will merely be remembered as a sentence. Had a horrendous month? It shall be shrunk from 30 days into 5 words – How crap was that month?! Moved on. Ploughed on. Giddied up. Also realised that a bucket of work must be done. To get your own boot. No more hiding. Putting things off. Floating along. Which is why. Now need to get to work. Which is why. Stand-up. Vlogs. Both making their triumphant return this week. DJigging is mighty. Survival is key. Hooks me up with rent. Food. Some other stuff. But not the reason I moved to L-Hey. Blog -> Book -> Sitcom -> Movie. Every man, needs a plan! Sitcom on!
If you’re still reading, good work. Gibber dish rambled on. Et on. My point. Eh. To be master of a boot. Enjoy the highs. Plough through the lows. All while working like a horse. Outlook. Changed. Finally spat that out. And to think. Blogaruu was meant to be all about Smurfs. And about a trip to Barcelona when I was younger. School tour. Savage trip. Came home. My Dad asked how the trip went. Savage. Asked if I was sad it was over… ? No! It was unreal. I’m so happy! Why would I be sad?! … Because it’s over. Called the holiday blues. My Dad informed me. Oh. Right. Well actually. Yeah. Now you mention it. I am sad it’s over? I’m a Smurf! Soulfully singing the holiday blues. My first dance with them. And how I then thought this was going to be my worst dance with them. As hangovers don’t exist at sea. So I expected a bad one back on land. When I put my brain back into my head. But nay. Blues were gone after a day. Motivation levels are high. And that one paragraph. Would probably have been enough. Good work. Thank you. Ramble off. Song on!
I Think I Like It [Tommie Sunshine & Figure Edit] – Fake Blood