Mother Keeper Loser Weeper

In my defence, you have to understand that it was not that I didn't trust my mother. Far from it. My mother is an amazing person (woebetide anybody that says otherwise). She's funny, supportive, considerate, intelligent, beautiful, and generous. She's all heart; that's what she is. It was most certainly not that I did not trust my mother. It would never be that I did not trust my mother.

No.

It was every fucker else that worried me.

Looking back, I should have known summat were brewing. There'd been too much giggling over WhatsApps when we should have been watching Gladiators. I should have known it were going to be summat big, too, because nothing incidental could detract Mum's attention from Phantom's thighs. I got to say, though, credit where credit's due, beyond the tittering, she kept her tinder pretty dry, which, in itself, should have been my first red flag. Typically, when summat "large" was going on with Mum and her mates, large enough to get her giggling through Gladiators, the whole bleeding world knew about it. I really should have twigged sooner because it were suspicious from the off.

You know, she only mentioned a word of it the week before she was due to depart. Yep. There we were, Mum and me, washing up after Sunday lunch. I were drying, not that that matters, but it gives you some context. She turns to me, casual as you like, soap suds all over her pink marigolds. "Pass me that roasting tin, would you love," she says, smiling away, nudging a tress of her blonde hair back over her shoulder. "I'll put it in the suds to soak." Then she says, "Oh, and have I told you I'm going on a cruise with yer Aunty Carol next week."

No, Mum, you have not, thinks I. Somehow, I reckon I would have remembered that minor detail.

I passed her the roasting dish, calm and open-minded as you like. Didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Where you going?" I enquired, as you do.

"Caribbean." She beamed.

"Oh. Wow," said I, "What's brought that on?" We live in a two-up two-down in the middle of Bumblefucknowhere; cruising the Caribbean wasn't summat that you did every day, you know what I mean?

"Well, love," she began, that smile of hers hiding a thousand sins, "I'm nearly fifty now, so's your Aunty Carol, so we thought, why not? It's not like I need to get a babysitter for you anymore, Daryl." She laughed.

"I fuckin' hope not. I'm twenty-five!" I laughed with her. Why wouldn't I? Nothing wrong with her and my Aunty Carol setting sail to paradise for a bit of sunshine and dancing. Be nice for them, I thought. Good luck to them. That's what folk do, isn't it, you know, when they get to an age? They cruise about, looking at shit with an all-you-can-eat buffet.

At face value, it all seemed pretty kosha. We talked about how I used to love Jamaican gingerbread when I were a kid. I suggested she bring some of the real stuff back with her. It all felt quite wholesome.

Then, after the washing-up were done and all the pots were back where they should be, I got to thinking. Why's she kept this so quiet? Surely, she should be shouting about this trip of a lifetime from the rooftops, not casually dropping it into washing-up chitchat.

Something was off. I could feel it.

Later that evening, when she was nodding after a couple of cheeky Sunday gins and back-to-back Bridgertons, I sneaked her phone and checked her emails to get the low down on this cruise of hers. I found the tickets. Booked three months ago, would you believe? No wonder there had been so much giggling; this adventure had been on the burner for a while. Add to that, this was no Saga holiday they were planning. Far, far from it. This was the Seventy Thousand Tonnes of Heavy Metal Floating Rock Festival. After I'd reacquainted my bottom jaw with my head, I clicked on the attached brochure for further information, whereupon it was revealed that alongside round-the-clock headbanging, the other main USPs for this cruise were bars that stayed open twenty-four seven and the opportunity to hang out off your face, in hot tub soup with drunk ageing rockers.

Dear God, thought I, Mum and Aunty Carol had booked themselves a week-long bender. Just the two of them and two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight heavy metal piss artists. Smashing. What the fuck were they thinking?

I remember looking over at her, spammed and catching flies on our grey chenille sofa after only two small gins and thinking, bless her, she ain't got a clue. Seriously. On the odd occasion that she went out uptown with her pals, she was completely clueless about what went on behind the scenes to keep her safe.

Luckily for her, uptown, I know a lot of the gang that works the doors. They keep an eye out, you know, for local dickheads, and they know to anticipate the need for taxis to get her and her mates safely home. I also went to school with most of the crews that work behind the bars, so I can always, you know, keep tabs. Should she and the girls get a bit giddy with the shots in the early hours, then all my pals know to start swapping the sours for cough syrup. None of her mates can tell the difference. It makes me laugh how they all think they can handle hangovers better now than when they were younger and how taxis seem to be ten a penny. It creases me; it really does.

Out there, though, floating about in international waters, with alcohol flowing every which way, women in g-strings, and men on a desk-jockey hiatus trying to recapture their youth... Jees. Mum and Aunty Carol didn't stand a chance. I were not about to stand back and let nature take its course. Nope. And I knew there was only one way I could play it. It were the only hand to be had. Mum and Aunty Carol are free women, able to make their own choices in this world, and I am not their keeper. It was a no-brainer. Within five minutes, I'd booked myself a ticket. What she would never know would never hurt her. I, too, could play that game.

You'd have been impressed if you'd seen us in action, both of us hiding our secrets from each other while getting ready for the cruise. I reckon, though, if awards were to go out, I would get the Oscar because as much as she put on a good show organising her own lift to the docks and pretending to look at tours of St Lucia, she leaked tells of what was actually going on. For example, I'd come home from work, and Alexa would be playing The Choir Boys, Extreme, or one of the bands due to perform on the cruise. Or, I'd be pegging out the washing, and there'd be an old denim miniskirt in the basket. Apparently, she had laundered it to take to the charity shop. Yeah, whatever. It all got to be quite amusing, and I played it so dumb that I impressed myself. I was like a double-bluffing demon. She had no idea that I knew her game, and she had no idea what I was doing to look after her.

It only got a little dicey on the day of departure. Mum, as ever, was running late, and I had to hang about pretending I had nothing better to do than watch her faff. It took all my reserves of patience not to throw her out of the house.

"Daryl, you won't forget to water the plants, will you?"

"Daryl, there's a meal plated up for you in the freezer for each night I am away. I labelled them."

"If the window cleaner comes this week I have left the cash for him in the cupboard behind the Anadin."

Honestly, I had to bite my tongue. Of course, all of these bases were covered. Who did she think I was? I'd got our Dave to stay over for the week while we were both away, and he had very clear instructions.

Finally, after an excruciating age, she flounced out of the house in the tightest jeans, with the stabbiest stilettos, the loudest denim jacket and the biggest hair I had ever seen, well, until I saw Aunty Carol's bright red mane, which was simply extraordinary. The two of them looked like they were about to get on the back of a Hell's Angel Harley, not into the back of Uncle Geoff's Ford Focus. There was a little more faffing, double-double checking of the suitcase for essentials, you know, passports and hair straighteners. Then, finally, they were off... and so was I. Within a whistle, my rucksack and I were legging it around to Dave's, who was ready and waiting, with the engine running, to take me down to the dock.

That was when the plan did start to unravel. You see, I ain't never been on a ship before, and as much as I had read the check-in instructions and seen the pictures, none of it had prepared me for what greeted me. Turns out seventy-thousand tonnes of metal is a fucking shit-tonne of metal. I got out of Dave's VW and looked at the ship, feeling like I was on the set of Independence Day or summat. The ship's colossal rear end filled the bleeding sky, and it cast a shadow so long and dark that the tarmac leading up to it, at just after noon, looked to be in the middle of the night. If that wasn't enough, inside that shadow stood lines and lines of inebriated metalheads with suitcases, all chomping to get on the mothership. I knew they'd take one look at me and know instantly I did not belong.

"Shit." That was my summation of the moment as I stood in front of Dave's car, staring at the gauntlet before me.

Dave practically pissed himself laughing before slapping me on the back and hot-footing it back into his car, "Good luck, mate, gotta go; I've got an Xbox to play and some plants to water."

He thinks he's a funny fucker. I hope my Mum's plated teas choke him.

Never have I felt as exposed as I felt standing on that tarmac in my smart black shirt and chinos. I swear, even the fucking seagulls started to laugh at me.

As soon as I had flashed my passport at the guard, I raced off to the Gents for a piss. I figured if there was one place Mum definitely would not see me, it was there. Of course, once there, I realised that there was only so long you could remain inside a toilet stall before folk started worrying about you, and it turns out that metalheads are quite community-spirited that way. Who knew?

"Hey there, son. Are you okay, fella? Only, you've been in there a long time." The voice behind the stall door owned by a man wearing Dr Martins sounded genuinely concerned.

"Yes, thank you, I'm fine." I lied as calmly as I could.

There was a pause, and then another voice chimed in. This one had cowboy boots. "It's ok. I'm here for you, man; I'm a mental health first aider."

"Thanks." I squeaked, "Really, I am ok."

Cowboy boot man sat down on the floor outside the door. "I'm just gonna stay here, fella. We've all had tough times. I'm here."

I mean. For fuck sake. What would you do?

"I'm just having difficulty having a crap," I said, my voice sounding all high and twisted. The geezer outside probably inferred that I was fighting back tears because I pretty much was.

"I shall sit by the taps and wait, don't worry. I've asked them to close the facility while we chat."

"I don't wanna chat, pal," I said, cringing like I was thirteen and my Mum had found me with a wank mag. Then, after a moment of quiet, I said, "Ok look, I'll come out. Honestly, I am fine. I shall explain."

I flushed the loo. I don't know why; I hadn't even used it. Sheepishly, I exited the stall to find a man in biker leathers, cowboy boots and long grey hair looking at me like some Gandolf the Grey Hellraiser hybrid. "Listen," I began, "you look like a man of the world. I am just here to look after my Mum. She and Aunty Carol booked this cruise, and, well, they don't get out much, so I got myself a ticket to make sure they came to no harm. You know? Anyway, I hadn't figured how open-plan this boarding malarkey was, and I felt like I stuck out, so I just came in here to lie low, you get me?"

Gandolf Grey Raiser nodded. "So you are telling me you are here to spy on your mother in case she has a good time?"

I nodded. I mean, it wasn't quite like that, but I was relieved he had the gist.

He turned, walked to the door and yelled, "Fellas, we got one!!!"

"Erm?" I was about to say summat fly like, "This ain't Ghostbusters," when ten burly men looking like Grateful Dead extras surged in and proceeded to pick me up and carry me out like some crowd-surfing sacrifice.

I didn't see too much as they carried me onto the ship, sky mostly. Frankly I was too worried about where they all had their hands. But, in the blur, I did get a glimpse of Aunty Carol's mane, and I thought I heard her shout, "Yeah, that's the little fecker; you have our permission to drown the shit!"

So anyway, here I am, in some makeshift brig. My charge, apparently, is "nosey-fucker", and I am waiting to hear what my penance is. Ridiculous, isn't it? Oh, wait, here comes somebody. Oi, fella, hey, what's the score now? Err... hello! Oi, stop that. What do you think you are doing? Get off me. You aren't allowed to do that. What do you mean it's all in the terms and conditions? No, I didn't read them. I had other things on my mind. What the hell do you mean by "Pirate rules on party ships?" Also, no, I am not your son. Hey, why are you turning away from me? Where you going? You have got to be joking. I am not walking a plank. Ok, jokes over. Where's the camera? What? Oh my God, for fuck sake, what do you mean you have my mother's permission? Are you serious? Shit, you fucking are!