The Ferry Crossing
by Mark Thomson

We got an email postcard from Mark '92, who has a great story to tell about his ferry crossing from the UK to his home from home, Sweden. He'll be back at the end of the month to DJ at a Reggae club on 27 January at the Bongo club in Edinburgh. He has kindly offered a discount for Skateboard Scotland members (although you'll need to be over 18. KNowing Mark, this should be a good night, so see you there...

Day 1: Cabaret

I wonder if these people find 'Phoenix Nights' funny at all…or does it just spur them on? The best aspect of this den of decadence is the moodlighting. It masks the shimmer of saliva nestling in the corner of the truckers mouths as they hunch in their aqua-green lay-z-boys. It gives the barmaids smiles a shred of credibility and softens the caged look in their eyes as they feign interest in the ramblings of pot bellied Tynesiders. It allows me to observe and write my way through the maze of troubadours and dancing girls undetected. Best of all, it conceals my frown lines as I ponder what the hell a troubadour is anyhoo.

The current band is fronted by a Swede in a cut-off leopard-faux dress and leather boots. On either side, she’s flanked by a gaggle of hummers and strummers, ranked in order of attractiveness. On the far left, you can faintly discern a second division footballer’s perm; silhouetted by the power light on the amplifier. I’m going to go out on a limb and hazard that he’s wearing Adidas Sambas.

On the far right, is a backing guitarist cloaked in shadow. My mind sketches in what the eye can’t see. Maybe he’s a mystery guest, who’s going to erupt from his recluse and claim the stage in a jaw-dropping solo; the only thing stopping you from passing out with sheer adulation is the rich musk of Brut après rasage (pour homme). Maybe.

The only certainty tonight brings is that scantily clad woo-men (and the token camp male in the leather speedos) with inflatable pink saxophones just don’t push the right button.

Maybe three weeks of skateboards, snowboard, reggae music and Herculean speakers have coloured my vision. Perhaps I’m expecting too much. I guess I shouldn’t take it all so seriously.

The room has mellowed. The band is on a break. The bald guy who’s been slobbering over anything vaguely feminine is “helping” the barmaid to collect menus from the table. I guess when they come back, I’ll still be here. It’s the fascination of an approach to life so far removed from my own, yet for all my harsh words; comfortingly familiar. In the end, it’s this diversity in life that makes me put pen to paper. Identifying where I am in relation to others is a nice easy route to further defining my identity, and all the mullets in the world just make it easier.

Day 2: No smoke without Fire

I staggered to my cabin at 2am; exposing myself as an out-and-out landlubber as I fought (badly) the rolling gait of the ship and the double quota of Grön Tuborg beer. I wished I was a sailor, and could neck a brace of rum then march purposefully to my cabin, poised at any moment for a deadly knife fight or a wink from a comely maiden. Again, I prove my ignorance of the seaborne lifestyle. Instead, I fell into a deep slumber; soothed by the rhythmic creaking of my budget rent-a-cabin.

I awoke with that strange sense of reality suffusing my thoughts. Was I awake? Dreaming? Where? The noises around me focused slowly.

“Students…. *!@kin student scum….dirty *!@kin STEW-DENT B@S-TADS…. *!@kin General Niedbley…student”

The voice was coming from directly outside my door; laced with a heavy London accent and scented with Old Spice or something of its ilk. I was the only one awake, but not for long I supposed. It’s not easy to be assertive with a head like an Esso Garage Egg’n’Cress sandwich and breath to match, but I resolved to shut him up.

Then the words hit me. Tourettes Syndrome. If I can’t spell it, I can’t deal with it.

The cabin lurched.

“Filthy student bastards….dirty *!@kin student SCUM”

The man had obviously been traumatised. One too many traffic cones left on top of his car on a Sunday morning had slowly distilled into a quintessential hatred of the student race. As for ‘General Niedbley’, I won’t try to guess.

I wondered how he felt about teachers as I slumped back into my bed in resignation.

After breakfast, I opted to catch up on the sleep so unfairly snatched from me. As my leg twitched, flagging the approach of a deep and dreamless escape, a very deliberate knock came upon my door.

A thin haze of smoke wisped around a hollowed face, which informed me nervously “you’ll have to make your way to deck 6….deck 4 is on fire.”

Awake now. Snatching the words as they hung in the air, I let them seep in as I thudded up the stairs from deck two.

Ascending through deck 4, the smoke became much denser; making it near impossible to breathe. The only people around me were firefighters in surreal gasmasks and orange waders. Awake?

As soon as I was clear, I focused my lens on panicked faces and snapped. Doors were being sealed with a whooshing noise like closing a car sunroof at high speed. The crew were removing all the open bottles of spirits from the bar. A precaution or a wee dram afore ye go?

A figure whispered past me “*!@kin scum students. *!@k ‘em *!@k ‘em”.

I decided on the spot. I’ll fly next time. I’ll take Ryanair, where the only things burning are the ciabattas and the only people with tourettes are the Glaswegian stewardesses.

it's true, and I dont care if you believe me.