Guest Blog by MR GRAEME DOUGLAS (applause)

You can’t eat airline food with any sort of dignity. At least not while jammed in the cheap seats of a British Airways flight seated next to two old, dead English holiday makers. Well, perhaps not dead, but certainly decaying. Which is why I never touch the stuff.But faced with ten days at sea with presumably nothing but Moby Dick like rations of sea biscuits, whale blubber and wee’s for sustenance I tucked into my foiled dinner on the flight to meet Nick, Patti and Pina Colada in the Canary Islands. However my expectations of living the culinary misery of a classic novel were not meet. Oddly it was more like Return Of The Jedi*.I sat for days like Jabba The Hut in the cockpit of the boat gorging on more or less whatever I wanted. If Patti wasn’t making Spinach and Feta pie, Nick was catching Tuna, gutting the little sucker, pan frying it and covering it in Canary Islands mojo sauce. And, by Christ, there’s enough booze on board to kill six or seven alcoholics. I lived like a fat old Tatooine warlord I tell you. Pity those poor fools that waste their money on cruise ships, with their fancy restaurants, illegal gambling, disco-teks and men in tight white shorts – it’s all on Pina Colada.It wasn’t just the food though. No, the Spanish military were amusing, running up and down the beach with their khaki’s and guns waving their arms and their fighter jets at us. We didn’t want to stay in their perfect little military restricted bay anyway.

The old Germans, ironically, also very amusing. Well, to laugh at. Assuming you find nude obesity funny. They’ve colonized the Canary Island of Furtafentura like a herd of old sea lions, rolling around the beaches with their flabby breasts flopping everywhere. Sausage, sausage, sausage everywhere you look. I came close to dropping my gelato on more than one occasion laughing at their vain attempts to have a good time. Ah Germans, so funny.I know you’re thinking ‘god, so many highlights’, but I haven’t even begun. When was the last time you sat out on the bow of a yacht at midnight on the edges of the Atlantic, perfectly warm, gently rolling along with the swell watching the phosphorescence sparkle in the dark? Or snorkeling around the boat in 30 feet of clear water half an hour after eating fresh, delicious seafood in a small town café? There’s bunch more. A fantastic time had. And aside from their kitchen talents I’ve barely touched on what perfect hosts Nick, Patti and Pina Colada are.As much as I detest sharing, I’m not a selfish guy. But I will say this. While I can’t recommend anything better than joining them for some part of their trip back to NZ, I hate to think they might be overrun by guests, filling all available berths and stopping me from stepping on board again. Which I’m determined will be the Caribbean or Panama. I’ve got dibs on the bed in the bow.

* This reference is in no way meant as endorsement for that shabby nonsense Stars Wars or talent barren one hit wonder George what’s his name.