The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

Jolly Boating Weather – Part 1

That’s bloody great, he thought, a luxury cruise round the Caribbean, all the food and drink he could get down his neck, a different port every day and no doubt a fair selection of dusky, bikini clad maidens on hand. Oh yes, he’d have some of that, thank you very much.

Then that word ‘family’ pulled him up. “Don’t tell me we’re taking the old git along, are we?” He whined and slumped his shoulders. Sadly, for Damien, his parents confirmed that they were most certainly taking his uncle, and perhaps even worse, Damien’s girlfriend Susan had been asked as well. “Oh that will be nice,” he said through gritted teeth, thinking he could have done with a break from the nagging mare. Then another thought occurred to him. “Still, what with those cruise ships being so big, we’ll probably hardly bump into each other the whole time we’re on holiday.”

He had almost cheered himself up with that statement, but his mood darkened again when his parents started giggling as they thrust the holiday brochure into his hand. The glossy front page did not carry a picture of a luxury ocean going cruise liner, but instead a slightly more modest vessel in the shape of a quaint little cabin cruiser. This was depicted wending its way past a picturesque little village, a cloudless blue sky overhead, so typical of the English countryside.

Damien crumpled, “That’s just fan-twatting-tastic, ten days crammed together with you lot in nothing more than a floating caravan. What bliss!”

In the background, Donald started up a chorus of the Eton Boating Song but Damien hissed that he might want to shut the **** up as he certainly had never been anywhere near Eton, let alone a rowing boat.

“Now, now laddie, no need for that that kind of language,” said Donald. “And I’ll have you know when I was in India I was dab hand at sculling a skiff, even got a place in the Rangoon Rowing Club’s Coxless Four. Got a mention in the papers for me pulling.”

The glare Damien got from his mother as he was about to open his mouth told him his reply probably shouldn’t make any further reference to ‘cox’ and ‘pulling’, so he settled for a venomous dig and a long drawn out “whatever” instead.

But he couldn’t resist saying, “I bet the nearest you got to rowing anything was using a swizzle stick to swirl ice cubes in the memshahib’s drinks. The old boys down the Legion reckon you were nothing more than the gin and tonic wallah when you were in India.”

Donald seemed completely taken aback by this comment, and Damien sensed that remark might have hit a nerve, so quick as a flash he continued.

“Although, thinking about it, you should be good in a boat, as you’ve certainly had enough practice at sticking your oar in things while you’ve been staying here.”

With that witty riposte he turned and left the room, giggling inanely, leaving a red faced and spluttering Donald being consoled by Damien’s mother.

As the days wore on, Damien’s parents tried their best to sweeten the pill. His girlfriend was coming along, they said, and he and Donald could go fishing as much as they want, (like that was some sort of bonus – not). When that didn’t work they pulled the guilt-trip: “It could be our last family holiday together,” routine as he was all grown up now up and might soon be flying the nest, (not so bloody likely, thought Damien, my life’s too cushy here and I can do enough nesting away from home) and Uncle Donald wouldn’t be around forever, the old git, (been around too bloody long already, more’s the pity, thought Damien).

Finally, Damien succumbed, but it was going to be on his terms. To start with he would need some new, specialised tackle for fishing off the stern of the boat. This was news to Donald, who protested that he’d never heard of such a thing, to which Damien replied that it just went to show that the old git didn’t know everything, and things had moved on from the days when Donald used to do his Cap’n Ahab routine and try to harpoon mahseer up the Ganges or whatever.

That was red rag to a bull time for Donald, who jabbed his pipe stem at Damien and spluttered through an acrid cloud of blue smoke. “Let me tell you laddie, when I was in India, only the locals went spear fishing. Being gentlemen we used proper tackle to catch masheer, twice the size that they catch now and…….”

In order to stop yet another of Donald’s interminable Indian rambles, and in an effort to keep the peace, his parents quickly agreed to buy Damien whatever it was, within reason.

“Spoilt brat,” muttered Donald, tamping another wad of shag into his briar.

And while he was on a roll, Damien insisted that if it had been a ‘proper’ cruise it would be all-inclusive, so he wouldn’t need to pay for any food or drink, would he? Again, he got a grudging agreement. This boating lark may not turn out to be too bad after all, he thought, as he left the room, not forgetting to give Donald the finger on the way out, of course.

The nearer the holiday got, the more Donald was slowly turning into Cap’n Birdseye, and much to Damien’s annoyance he was spouting nautical terms at every opportunity. ‘Main braces’ were often being spliced, the height of the sun over the yard-arm was questioned every few minutes, and Damien was regularly referred to as a ‘Scurvy knave who deserved to be keel-hauled’.

One morning, Donald was going through the daily rigmarole of tapping his Weetabix on the kitchen table to make sure there were no weevils, as was the proper seafaring practice he constantly reminded anyone who would listen. Damien finally decided that he’d had enough maritime goings on for one day and that it was time to put the old git in his place. He leaned across the table, and motioned the old boy to come closer.

“By the way,” said Damien, “did you know that the old biddy who fancies you at the over 60’s club is into boating in a big way.”

Donald seemed a little bashful on hearing this news and his eyes widened. “Oh really laddie, she fancies me, you say, which lady is that then?”

“You must know her,” said Damien. “The old boys always call out ‘Avast behind’ when she waddles past….” Damien almost didn’t finish the sentence as he was giggling so much.

Donald let out a “Hrrrmmph…..!” The veins bulging on his bulbous nose.

“You cheeky young pup; you need to show some respect for your elders. I’ll have you know that lady is a poor, lonely old widow with no family to speak of, whose only pleasure in life is to come out to the club once in a while for a bit of company.”

Nicotine stained spittle was flying everywhere, along with the ashes from his pipe as he banged it on the table.

Damien looked suitably admonished by this outburst, until Donald added, “But do you really think she fancies me, laddie?” And with a gleam in his eye, his gnarled fingers started curling an imaginary moustache.

“Oh per-leeeese, behave!” Snapped Damien, as he screwed up his eyes and winced, desperately trying to block out some very unwanted images from his mind. The thought of ten days afloat with Bluebeard was rapidly starting to take the gloss off this holiday ….