Savage Boats
HMS Horsebox
After an inconvenient delay, which the British people utilised to have a good old moan, I am aboard. That’s right.
F*ck land.
I’m on a boat.
Motherf*cker.
But I wasn’t always this enthusiastic. Far from it. I used to be terrified of this very situation. Floating precariously on perilous waters, aboard a huge, metal death-box. At the age of 10, as far as I was concerned I’d be extremely lucky to make it across the sea alive. To my mind, the chances of the ferry sinking like a dead stone to the bottom of the Irish sea was incredibly likely. Perhaps my parents allowed me to watch too many disaster movies as a kid, because my imaginative young mind dreamt up unmitigated disasters for fun, just to torment me. Probably as advanced vengeance for all the shit I was to put it through in future.
The range of my fears were actually quite impressive. Ferries crashing into other ferries was almost a certainty. I thought ferry crashes were as common as M62 pile ups. The Stenaline T-boning the P&O and both ships plunging deep into the murky depths. Failing that, the sharks might get us. That’s right, the Irish sea is densely populated with Great White Sharks. Sharks so powerful that a single bite could easily bring down a huge ship, the shark would then menacingly circle any flailing survivors that were frantically treading water and pick them off one by one until it’s appetite was wholly suppressed. Maybe the engine would fail. Maybe we’d hit an iceberg. It wouldn’t be the first time. But if it wasn’t the boat that would fail, it would almost certainly be a member of my immediate family. I was petrified that someone would fall overboard and drown before my prepubescent eyes, scarring me for life. Another possibility is that sea sickness would set in. It’s not uncommon that a person would vomit so violently that they would expel the entire contents of their skeleton, appendix, adrenals, intestines, everything. You could try and stuff it all back down your throat, but even if you did, it’s difficult to ensure everything goes back in the right order. You’d end up with a bladder for a heart, a spleen for a stomach, a pancreas for a prostate, and kidneys where your lungs should be. So you’re doomed anyway. If I’d known about terrorism at that age I’d probably be convinced that an IRA, Taliban conglomerate would target us and blow us to smithereens, scattering scrap metal and severed limbs all over the unsuspected residents of the Isle of Man.
Even as I type this I’m hearing the safety announcement. It doesn’t fill me with confidence. This announcement suggests to me that even the captain has doubts. Which does very little to reassure me. But if I die, at least I’ll go out using free Wi-Fi. Yeah! I can even update my Facebook status: Sean McGeady is drowningnirsgnadfgdfgsfognsgkl;rst.hs………….
Still, I’m not 10 anymore. I’m 19. I’m over that stuff. I’ve grown up. Besides, my concerns are now focused on a much more imminent threat:
equine mutiny.
The sheer amount of horse-boxes I passed whilst navigating the docks was frankly intimidating and ridiculous. Ballinroe International Horse Transport, Emerald Horse Transport and any number of privately owned boxes. On this vessel, I’d estimate that the horses outnumber us humans by at least 3 to 1. Though that is only an approximate figure. But think about it; it only takes one angry stallion to break out of his box and release his enraged equine cohorts before we have a full scale riot. Horses galloping freely aboard the eight decks of the Stenaline. Horses cantering casually through the corridors of the HMS Horsebox. It would be a massacre. A tornado of hooves and manes. The Irish sea would be red with the blood of pathetic humans.
If they did take over, which they will, I wouldn’t hesitate to submit to their authority. This isn’t Nakatomi Plaza, and I’m no John McClane. And I don’t wish to be. I don’t want to be a hero. I’d willingly develop stockholm syndrome. I’d happily fellate a Friesian if my life was on the line. We all would. I’d to anything to prevent death by trampling or having my throat torn out my the great teeth of a thoroughbred.
If I’m not savagely destroyed by crazy horses I may just smash the glass that housed my whiskey and drive the shards into my own oesophagus before barrel rolling overboard and having my bloody remains shredded by piranhas in 3D. The reason for my suicidal tendencies; children. Or child. One in particular. A child sat behind me, who I suspect was named; Shakira. She’s wailing. Screaming. I hope her mother can read what I’m typing over my shoulder,and I hope she does the humane thing and catapults her kid over the horizon.
You’d think I might empathise with the child. After all she’s probably going through the same unnatural fears that I used to face several times a year. Perhaps she fears all manner of sea-dwelling monsters, or that her mother will tumble over the railing to a watery grave. But I don’t care. Because not only have I grown up, I’ve grown angry. Angry at the world. That’s what age does to you. So it seems no matter what my age or maturity, I’m destined to die aboard this bateau. Which makes it 100 times more thrilling when I never do.
Maybe I’ll cheer up a bit when I see the majestic sun rise above the glittering ocean, casting celestial light in all directions, shining brightly on my sclera as I somnolently sip my tea and greet passers-by with a glorious smile.
Doubt it.
MacTingz
26/08/2010
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