As you know, I went home recently for my daughter’s birthday and while I was gone, I left a certain person in charge…..yep……my assistant Calvyn Sean Champagne Martens. Now, overall he did a great job but I made a huge mistake…..I gave him the key to my cabin. Now let me explain why this was a mistake.
On Friday, I will fly home for two nights to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. I made a promise to her after missing her first and second birthdays that I would not miss another and thanks to the beards, I will head home on Friday and providing Ryan Air doesn’t fly me into a mountain or poison me with their in-flight sandwiches, I will return Sunday morning to the ship.
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Let me ask you a question. Why the heck do people who I hardly know put an “X” at the end of their emails? I have never kissed these people and never will. You have never had rumpy pumpy with these people yet…….they finish their emails with a kiss. Most people now seem to feel that it’s the law to send electronic kisses, not only to people they work with, but everyone else as well. It used to be that “best wishes” sufficed but now routine messages, even to someone you have never met, must end with an electronic tongue down the throat. I would guess that nine out of 10 women who write emails to me from Carnival’s land and sea operations finish with a kiss. And this happens so much that I worry that an email without kisses means this person is angry with them.
Stephen James Caulker asked:
Heald: Urgent!!! On my cruise on Carnival Magic there were no workers checking IDs to get into the Serenity area and I know for a fact that there was a family who was next to me who had a son who was 19 and you said in today’s blog the minimum age to get into Serenity was 21. I know he was 19 because they were talking about what he wanted for his 19th birthday. There must be deck boys checking the ID of all the passengers so that it is 21 which is what you said in your overinflated blog today!!! The sign should say “Teens not allowed!”
I have done many boring things in my life. I’ve seen the musical Mamma sodding Mia. I have played Scrabble. I’ve sat through a three-hour training session on board about safety shoes and how to pick up a box. I have been in an all-day marketing meeting where beards utter words like “blue sky thinking” and “raising ideas up the flagpole and seeing which way the wind blows” and I have watched Sex and the City 1 and 2. I am therefore an expert on boredom and how deeply it can affect my ability to stay calm and not want to poke my own eyes out with a toothpick. Some people are able to fall asleep when they are bored. But not me, I just get frustrated and for some reason when I check my sugar level and I am bored, it goes up. When I am bored, I get mad — mad at the man who dreamt up these ridiculous marketing words and the plonker who thought it would be a good idea that a movie about three women and a horse who live in New York and have rumpy pumpy with their bras on. (more…)
There are many ways in which you can tell you are getting old. The forest of hair in your nose and ears for example or those weird noises I make now as I get out of a chair or off a sofa ………. aggghoooo. However, these past few days I have experienced two situations that make me think that 47 is the new 73. Firstly, while at home last week a friend called me at 9:30pm and asked: “I didn’t wake you, did I?” Bloody hell! Is that what people think of me? Do they believe that I have just had a cup of cocoa and am in bed asleep, dreaming of a nice retirement home in the country at 9:30 at night? I felt like telling this friend who called that actually I was in the middle of “a little action,” but he would rather than think I meant some rumpy pumpy that a “little action” referred to a good bowel movement.
I remember when the mail used to be fun. Not email, not the offer of a larger thingy which, by the way, I decided to apply for and for my $45 I received a magnifying glass…..no, I mean real mail, the stuff the mailman brings. You know, back before e-mail, when I would receive a birthday card and check. Or even better, a birthday card with a check. There was nothing better than opening that white square envelope knowing that inside there would be money. It was such a letdown when it was just a card except when it was from my Uncle Norman who I knew was a cheap bastard and that the card would be as empty as Frenchman’s soap dish. Mail used to be exciting because every day was a new opportunity. You never knew what you were going to get. A handwritten letter, an invitation – maybe there would be a postcard from a friend on a Carnival cruise. Now, the only postcards that arrive have ads on them. Do I want a pizza? New decking? I have been used to getting emails for a larger gentleman’s sausage via email but yesterday I actually got a got a card in the mail offering me a bigger one and the handwriting on it looked very much like Heidi’s.
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The race for the republican nomination is over it seems and that’s big news here in the UK where American politics still sets the tone. Mitt Romney it seems is your choice to challenge President Obama. Now don’t worry, I am not going to lob a huge dollop of my political beliefs at you this beautiful Wednesday morning but I have to say………..he is a bit ummmm…….robotic…….and may I say ummmm……a bit boring as well. And what’s with the hair. Surely he must know that his sculptured hairstyle is far to perfect. If I was him I would wear a crash helmet an hour before going on stage because look how perfect hair helped that John Edwards chap.
For reasons that I don’t need to mention, the words Italy or Italians have these past few months been mentioned mostly with heads bowed so it is important I think that we talk about this beautiful country in happy tones once again and remind ourselves about this incomparable….and I really mean……incomparable country and the people who live there.
It’s amazing how a beautiful sunny day where the birds are singing, the sky is blue and my hemorrhoids are not itching can instantly turn into a crappy day. And what did it for me yesterday was something that turned the skies grey and made my hemorrhoids feel like someone had poured sawdust on them. Heidi had asked me to “poop to the supermarket” as she was busy waxing her legs or watching Desperate Houseb****es of Orange Jersey and so off I went like a good husband would.
