Monday 13th June

Woke up early to see the ship go into Tracy Arm Fjord at about 0600. This is a big-arsed cul‑de‑sac on the way up north, with a glacier at the end.

Quite cool seeing icebergs floating past, though. It’s like we are in a giant margarita glass, where the mountains are those salt crystals around the rim and our ship is one of those floating decoration.  I wonder if anybody has ever done the maths about how many drinks can be made using the ice from one iceberg, on a per-tonne basis.

The real reason, however, that Sarah wanted to get up that early, is because she was told there would be whales there.

We have now been into and out of the cul-de-sac, and not a whale in sight. Somebody saw some as we entered the fjord, but not Sarah. She waited for an hour after we left the fjord, perched in her now favourite spot in the nightclub, and waited. And waited. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

It’s like wherever Sarah is, they avoid.

Come on, guys, does she LOOK Japanese? She doesn’t want to harpoon your arse!

Speaking of arses.

Everybody I know in NZ is anorexic. Yes, everybody. Even me.

There are a few onboard who would struggle to get through the doors in our house. Some of you may know that we had the widest available internal doors put in, so that we could move Sarah’s dad around in his wheelchair. The house is wheelchair-friendly. Apparently it is NOT Amrikan‑arse‑friendly!

It is not polite to criticise the afflicted, without offering a solution, or at least some insight. I may have found both. I certainly think I know why it happens.

Yeah, yeah, MacDonald’s, Kentucky-F…d-Duck and Burglar-King. That’s a no-brainer, but that stuff is available everywhere. The point is, what is specific to Amrika?

Thanksgiving. No, really. That’s the difference. Think about it.

You know how we always hear that people grow to look like their pets? Same thing.

From a generational perspective, people grow to look like their food. We see “muffin-tops” everywhere, but Thanksgiving is specific to the Amrikan holiday-makers. Why?

Turkey. Thanksgiving Turkey.

Imagine, if you will, a turkey leg, the drumstick. Not our familiar, anorexic chicken drumstick, but the testosterone-powered, steroid-enhanced drumstick. The Arnold Schwarzenneger of drumsticks. The turkey drum.

Now, imagine this drumstick in it’s natural position, knuckle down and meat at the top. Next imagine a second, identical drumstick, parked right next to the first.

Finaly, imagine these two turkey drumsticks, side by side, clad in lycra.

Now do you see what I mean? Obvious really, wasn’t it?

Remember, we are what we eat.

I wonder if the guys at DuPont who invented lycra realised the horror they were unleashing on the world. The fashion philosophy of “if it fits me it suits me” has a lot to answer for.