Get Me The Hull Out Of Here

Get Me The Hull Out Of Here

Sun Herald

Sunday January 14, 2007

David Whitley

David Whitley throws caution to the winds and boards a North Sea ferry to Belgium.

'MEEEESTER Wheeeetley. Your coffee is ready!"

Please no. Say it can't be time to get up. I've had about 11/2 hours' sleep, and it appears as though there is an immovable layer of fur on my tongue.

A quick glance across the cabin makes things even more bleak.

My fellow adventurer has taken the whole situation a lot worse than I, and is busy rocking backwards and forwards with his head in his hands.

"Meeeester Wheeeetley! Your coffee!" This private hell is a direct result of one of the worst ideas in history. Instead of flying directly to Amsterdam in less than an hour, we have decided to take on the North Sea ferry crossing from Hull in north-eastern England to Zeebrugge in Belgium - unquestionably two of the grimmest cities on earth.

The process takes 131/2 hours, and any savings in cost are dwarfed by the amount of money you throw at the barman to keep you amused.

Before boarding, we were informed that it might be a rough crossing, and they weren't joking. Staying upright is tough enough irrespective of the tequila shots, while the poor onboard entertainers are having a torrid time.

One is a man dressed as a walrus in a sea captain's uniform, and he's been reduced to doing clog dances every time a distinctly unimpressed child tells him that they are Dutch. Does this constitute racism? Not sure - time for another drink.

The band is worse. These desolate souls do this for a living, continually completing the lonely sea crossing. They're half-heartedly cranking out old classics to an audience that is divided along the lines of the completely uninterested and absurdly drunk.

With the swells rocking the ferry somewhat, the singer has a hard job keeping the microphone stand from flying into the keyboardist, while the drummer will probably be a candidate for canonisation by the end of the voyage.

Given this backdrop, there is no real option but to make everything far more interesting via the medium of strong alcohol.

Held captive, it's a case of suffering in silence or drinking to the point where attempting to breakdance seems like a brilliant idea.

"M ster Wh tley!"

Once the helpful attendant has been punched and thrown to the sharks, three fuzzy, dehydrated heads find themselves on land, surrounded by shipping containers.

The easy option of the bus is foregone in exchange for the short walk to the train station.

Carrying heavy backpacks, crying out for water, the "short" walk takes just under an hour and is almost exclusively uphill; a legal form of torture.

Everyone is blaming each other for everything.

Just before arriving, we pass a sign - "Zeebrugge Bad".

We know it's referring to some kind of bath or spa, but it's hard to disagree.