All aboard the booze cruise
Well, it's that time of the year when all you good-livin' and hard-drinkin' delegates attending Comdef get to hear about what really happened aboard the definitive booze cruise. The event has a reputation for being nothing but a three-night bender, and Comdef '99 - now intertwined with the rather dull Communications Director Forum - was no exception. There was little evidence that falling margins are having so serious an impact on the channel that it restricted the assembled delegates' ability to shake their booty, although the organisers tried their hardest to poop the party by shutting the bar at the impossibly ridiculous hour of 2am for the first two nights.
And, as ever, we at PC Squealer were proud to be given the chance to report on the hottest stories. Names and addresses will be withheld for the time being according to protocol, but please bear in mind that cheques should be made payable to PC Squealer ...
Dream on ...
The elegantly named Norwegian Dream, pictured above, turned out to be a little less posh than its name suggests. To be truthful, upon initial inspection it was indeed a most splendid vessel - but scratch below the surface and one or two defects emerged. Take, for example, the water that was pouring through the ceiling into a corridor on the sixth deck early one morning ... could that have anything to do with the fact that the ship was 'extended' a few years ago to increase its capacity? A quick taste of the gushing spring was enough to dispel our worst fears. But if it wasn't sea water, what was it? On second thoughts, let's not think about that.
Bet your bottom 1,500 dollars
The onboard casino proved to be a welcome respite from the day's hard work, and was one of the most popular after-dinner retreats. However, one individual lacking in self control got a little carried away and frittered away a small fortune. The question was, how big a small fortune? Indeed, a book could have been run on that very question, as the amount seemed to increase with every drink. Latest estimates put the grand total at £1,500. Ouch! Let's hope that the individual in question had an understanding boss/wife/bank manager.
And from the casino it was a natural progression onto the dance floor, where some by now slightly worse-for-wear delegates attempted to shake their booty.
Admittedly, it was always gonna be hard to strut your stuff on a dance floor the size of a two pence piece, but as one poor guy found out, when you try to go for a tongue sandwich as well it's going to end in tears - or in his case a tangled mess of arms and legs writhing around on the stripped pine flooring. Oh dear.
But tonsil tennis was child's play compared to some of the antics that were observed, but shouldn't really be discussed in a magazine of this publication's reputation. Let's just say that it must have been two stowaways that were up to no good in the ladies' lav - why else would they be doing 'something' in the khazi that is traditionally reserved for the privacy of the bedroom?
You can't blame low budgets on everything you know.
Give it a rest, mate
And some people just don't know when it's time to stop galavanting around and go and take a trip to dozy land. One saddo propping up the bar at daybreak was so inebriated that he didn't know he was actually dropping off every two seconds before waking up with a start. Consequently, his head was bouncing and rolling around so much that it looked as though he was being repeatedly punched in the face by an invisible Naseem Hamed. And we reckon his head must have felt as though it had gone one or two rounds with the Prince the next day.
Chat-up line of Comdef
One bar urchin obviously thought that a weekend away from the wife gave him the perfect opportunity to go on the prowl and rediscover some of that charm dust he used to sprinkle on the laydees. Unfortunately, his assumption that a female dressed in civvies ordering drinks in the afternoon sunshine had to be either a) part of the cabaret on her afternoon off, or b) well, there is no b), turned out to be something of an error of judgement. His quality chat-up line, 'Scuse me luv, are you a singer?' was met with the unexpected reply, 'No, I'm a journalist', and before you could say 'Lawrence Dallaglio',he was gone.
And speaking of the cabaret, this year's gala performance on the final night really was something special. It had all the essential ingredients: cheesy dancing, hunky men with their trousers pulled up 'round their armpits, throwing around women wearing nothing to protect their dignity except a couple of pipe cleaners and a small elastic band, and an old-time crooner schmoozing his way through numbers that no one without a bus pass would remember. But to catch the highlight of the show you would have had to have waited until the very early hours to catch our very own deep throat giving a solo performance on the drums as Animal from the Muppet Show.
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