Omaha beach

Yeah, yeah, Auckland, whatever - first showbiz! Last time I promised you Claire Sweeney and Sweeney you shall have. We are kind of unwitting stalkers, having seen her in Chicago in London years back, and more recently in Shout, a good-time sixties musical that called at Brighton on a national tour last year. True to form, she belted out a medley of Chicago numbers and a couple of sixties hits, but also showed a lighter touch on some slow, slinky ones.

It was during one such number that she ventured offstage to engage the audience. Having picked the worst possible choice (a blind man in front of us who understandably wasn't really aware she was beckoning him forward), her gaze became fixed on James, one row behind and wearing a suitably garish shirt that shouted 'pick me'. Despite insincere protestations he was up in flash, waltzing the pins off Ms Sweeney and joining her onstage, beaming like a remedial Cheshire cat. The crowd loved it, a star was born, but we had no idea how good it was about to get. The show takes place after dinner, and James had loosened his belt once he had settled in his seat. Now onstage, the gyrations of his energetic waltzing had caused gravity to sit up and take notice. All of a sudden James grabbed his pants, not quite like Michael Jackson grabbing his crotch, but with enough ambiguity to raise concerns. Only his laughter made us feel that this was perhaps ok, the rest of us wanted to know why he was seemingly touching himself on stage while dancing with a seasoned West End performer. Claire, as I later discovered, obviously got it, knew what was happening and then tried to pull his pants down. We all relaxed, most thought it was part of the show, and I laughed so much that my skull hurt. James has been dining out on this ever since.

Getting off the next morning at Auckland it was time to meet up with David, once a former member of Lamda, the first London gay football team back in the 70's, along with James who was goalkeeper (one can only imagine). He and his partner Paul live in Ponsonby, a stone's throw from the centre of town, and the city's most bohemian, artsy district. After breakfast on a street where everyone says hello to each other, we head back to their house. Kiwi's like their space, the phrase, 'New Zealand quarter acre' being shorthand for the fact that they all have tons of room. Their place is great, looking down the hill to the city centre and the ocean beyond, and full of David's paintings.

We head off in their jeep to Omaha, a sweeping beach resort of casual beauty surrounded by rolling hills, popular with weekenders and lined with impressive futuristic holiday homes. It's a weekday, but there is a triathlon on progress, something which reinforces the impression that Kiwis are a particularly healthy lot. The sight of all this exertion shames me into contemplating my increasing paunch, and after resolving to rid myself of the demon drink and all associated vices, we head off to a vineyard to do some winetasting.

The Ascension vineyard in Matakana is one of the best in the area. While UK imports may focus on the south island Marlboroughs, this area is rated by Kiwis and it's really quite lovely, especially at $5 for five generous samples. Charged up we head for the adjoining restaurant, and as we walked in who should we meet but Claire Sweeney, who was there as part of a ship's excursion. I'm no believer in fate as a rule, but she and James are obviously some star-crossed scouse lovers who were meant to be together (platonic of course). A good lunch later Ms Sweeney ditched the tour and hitched a lift back with us. Back at Dave and Paul's we admired the view with another glass before cabbing it into town to meet another Brighton refugee, Belinda, now working in media (darling). More drinks were had and it was a familiar tale of overindulgence depite best intentions. No triathlons just yet, then.

In other news the ship now boasts a passenger's choir, who gave their first performance yesterday. It was a roaring success, with a number of solo spots, including a gentlemen who suspiciously just happened to have his backing tracks with him.

This has led me to consider other creative avenues for we passengers, the most popular being a play of some description. The film channel was showing 'Billy Elliot' the other day, an emotionally manipulative tale of poor people with different accents. I hail from those parts and naturally thought I could take the lead role, as well as writing and directing a stage version. Picture the scene, Billy is auditioning for the Royal Ballet school:

Ballet Man #1 (played by any number of posh septengenerians on board): So Billy, what made you apply for the Royal Ballet?

Billy (me, high-pitched voice): I divin na like, I jus cannit stop runnin aboot aal owa the place to popular soundtracks. Its proper mental, like. Oh, electricity an aal, like.

Ballet Man #1: Stop wasting our time and piss off back to your northern wasteland you infernal little boy.

Billy: Aw naw, me Da's gunna kill us.

FADE TO BLACK

I've gone for the alternative ending to add a bit of grim realism, but I need to flesh it out a bit. Any pointers gratefully received.