Dear blog reader;

By popular demand, our esteemed guest reviewer, Mrs. Myrtle Ethel Lardburger III is back to regale us with another of her- ahem- uniquely incisive reviews.

Here, she reviews the cuisine sampled aboard a recent mega ship cruise somewhere ‘out there’. So, without any further ado- it’s over to Myrtle… 


Our guest reviewer was not moo-ved by the on board food…..

Hi there folks!

I am so diluted to be back here to share my considerisms on cruise ship food with you all!

We’d best start with breakfast in the buffet restaurant, I guess. Really, these plates need to be bigger, I’m afraid.

By the time I had put on my bacon, sausages, ham, toast, hash browns, eggs, waffles, jelly donuts and ice cream, the damned plate looked like a sculpture of Mount Everest. Then the ice cream melted and ran all over the bacon. Some damned fool tried to plant a flag on top of it and then claimed it in the name of some banana republic. Didn’t even have the courtesy to offer me a goddamn banana, even.

Well, I can overlook lots of things, but those kind of bad manners are most definitely not to my taste, let me tell you!

We tried the so called special new ‘Chinese breakfast’ one morning, and this took forever. We ordered the Chinese style Corn Flakes. It’s damned hard work picking up milk with chopsticks, let me tell you.

One day, we had lunch in the main dining room. I asked for the Vichysoisse to start with.

This was disappointing, sorry to say. Had to ask three times for them to take it back into the kitchen and heat it up. Waiter didn’t understand simple English. And I’m often assured that my spoken English is very simple, indeed. Go figure!

They had Angel Hair pasta on the menu. Herb always says that my hair makes me look like an angel so, of course, I ordered it.

Sad to say, that pasta was a disasta. Damn thing looked like something that had crawled off the top of Donald Trump’s head. I stabbed it with a fork and it scuttled off the plate, ran clean across the room, and crawled up the inside leg of some guy on another table. Guy sat there for the rest of lunch with a stupid grin on his face. Wasn’t grinning when I bitch slapped him across the face with a slice of Dover Sole, mind you. Myrtle one, pasta thief nil.

One night, we got to have dinner in the very posh, extra pay restaurant. I think it was called Il Tarantulato, or something like that.

Well anyway, it started very badly. The Maitre D’ was a real snob; the sort of guy whose nose is so far in the air that he sneezes on low orbiting satellites. Had the nerve to demand that Herb cover up his wife beater and take off his best Steelers cap. This, of course, did not bode well for the evening.

Jesus, the menu was bigger than Pavarotti’s ass. I kid you not, people. And everything was written in this kind of fancy foreign scrawl. Who knew that there were so many different ways to write ‘Burger’ in Portugonese, for crissakes?

Anyway, I decided on the Gateaubriand for a main course. Piece of cake, you might think. But no. Not with this troupe of clueless clowns.

Out comes this whole slab of roasted cow, wheeled out on a trolley. I knew just how it felt, poor thing. After five margaritas, I usually have to be wheeled out on a trolley, too. But I digress.

When I pointed out that this was not what I required, I was informed that ‘my pudding will follow’. Well, that is a disgraceful way to describe my husband! Herb may be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, and he may be a touch flabby around the jowls, but referring to him as a ‘pudding’? I at once went and made an official complaint to Captain Speaking, of course.

His reaction was to start repeatedly stabbing himself with his fork, while banging his head off the table at the same time. I get it; if I had such an incompetent Maitre D’ to apologise for, I’d bang my head off the table as well.

So no, this kind of dining left us definitely wanting more, I’m afraid. We were not impressed with either the food or the service. Damned waiters were all like extras from The Walking Dead. I’ve seen more animation at an undertakers’ convention.

We are sorry, but we have to give this one the thumbs down. Safe travels, y’all- we’ll be back with more real soon.

Love, H+M




Never allow an evil entity to rock your dream boat

Never allow an evil entity to rock your dream boat

There’s always one, isn’t there? That special, drooling, demonic entity that can suck all the joy out of a room simply by walking into it. The kind of eminence grise that even rabid piranha will swim away from in maddened droves.

I’m not suggesting for one moment that they are more prevalent at sea than on dry land. But wherever encountered, the negative energy radiating from these walking near death experiences can do more than just rain on your sunshine; they could, in fact, ruin your holiday completely.

So, best not to let them then, eh?

‘How does one accomplish such a feat, without resorting to the expense of an assassin?’ I hear you cry. It is, indeed, a terrible expense. For a start, you’ve got to pay for an extra cabin for your hitman/woman of choice. But you don’t have to go to such drastic measures. Just refer to the simple list below.


It may well be that some of the more terrible creatures only emerge at night, presumably because they spend the day hanging upside down from a coat hangar in their wardrobes. These are the ones that never order room service or a turn down of any kind. They never use the drawers in their rooms, for fear of coming into contact with a bible.

You might see them gorging on what you might first take to be a Bloody Mary. In actual fact, it’s probably the strained and purified blood of six young virgins. Don’t be fooled.

Just carry a small crucifix, but remember that it might set off the metal detectors when coming back on to the ship from dry land. Might be best just to carry a clump of garlic bread then, and hope for the best.


A small, elegant solution for dealing with people who cut in line, or for deterring the satanic, snot sucking little savages that insist on cannonballing into the adults only hot tubs. Application is deft and easy and leaves no marks. And remember; on a cruise ship carrying three thousand passengers, an overly amplified band and an out of control tannoy announcer, no-one will hear one or two little screams. Highly recommended.


Touch my chocolate and you'll die screaming. Fact.

Touch my chocolate and you’ll die screaming. Fact.

By this, I am not inferring that you bring a semi literate quarter wit as a travelling companion. Though God knows, some do. No. I mean, bring an actual wooden plank, and carry it everywhere with you. That way, when someone is really annoying you, you can simply put your plank out over the railing, and put your tormentor on the plank. Apply your electric cattle prod to a tender part of their anatomy. It’s one quick splash, some very happy sharks, and you can go back to your Margarita in peace. Nicely done.

Helpful hint; a large wooden plank on a cruise ship can be somewhat conspicuous. Perhaps cunningly conceal yours under a beach towel?


A great one for sea days. Keep open a wary eye for the horror of your days as he/she/it patrols the deck like a mosquito looking for a target. At the moment of approach, open the book at any page and fall into it as though you are devouring it. Feign an attempt at rapt, studied concentration and, hopefully, your grey eminence will simply not disturb you.

Helpful hint: make sure you are not ‘reading’ the book upside down.

Second helpful hint; make sure it’s not a book by Katie Price, or that Kerry Katatonic. Otherwise, you will see swarms of people part like the Red Sea as you pass them.

If only cruise ships did dungeons...

If only cruise ships did dungeons…


See the general comments above. No-one in their right, left or, indeed, centre mind will approach you if you wear this kind of thing. You’d get more social interaction if you put on a swastika armband and goose stepped to the gala buffet.

So; there you have it. I hope these simple, quite elementary steps help to smooth out the course of your cruise. But always remember, dear reader; true evil never really dies- it just changes it’s frock and applies fresh lipstick.

Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.


By popular demand, guest blogger and bon vivant, Myrtle Lardburger, returns to regale us with her impressions of the family’s first cruise to Europe. Over to you, Myrtle….

Herb had a lot on his plate on this trip

Herb had a lot on his plate on this trip

Hi there again, folks! Herb and I are just back from our first cruise to Europeland, and we’d like to share some of our impressions with those of you who might be thinking of going there in the future.

This time we were on some damn big boat again. I think it was the Highland America line? Anyway, that’s not so important. We had so much fun, but it wasn’t all plain sailing, I’m afraid.

For starters, I didn’t like Monte Carlo. More like Monte Carloff, if you ask me. Those waiters are so snooty! And the size of those food plates… honestly, I’ve seen bigger dimes. Not our fault the damned waiter had to bring us five each. Jesus.

Still, it was very sad to learn about Will and Grace. Princess Grace apparently died in a car crash, so then Prince Will had to go to England and marry some broad called Cruella Carpet Bowles. Such a sad story.

I did quite like Greece. The Grecians are very friendly but boy, nothing happens quickly in that country. They still don’t have an elevator in the Acropolis, and it’s been five thousand years. But we loved the Parthenon. Just get that roof fixed, get a nice carpet laid inside, and it’ll be fit for a king. Long as he’s not very picky, mind you.

We had been so looking forward to Venice, Herb and I. But when we got there, the whole damn place was under water. Whole damned place is falling apart. And -I’m not being rude here- but the local women really should learn how to shave. Some of them could really do with visiting Italy, and getting some lessons in style from those people.

We didn't care much for Monte Carloff

We didn’t care much for Monte Carloff

Istanbul was pretty, and they told us beforehand all about the story of the Orient Express? Well, I’m sorry, but Istanbul is not at all oriental. And I sure didn’t see any express.  But we did buy a nice carpet from a tattooed lady in the local bizarre. She told us it was a really good carpet. And I believe she was an expert. She looked like the sort that had been on a few carpets, if you catch my drift.

It was lovely to go to Barcelona, too. It’s the first chance I’ve had to speak with the locals in their own tongue. I spent four months learning to speak Portugonese especially for this visit. They call the locals ‘Catalans’ (just think; Catalogue) and the local dialect is something called Catatonic. Great city, but you’ve got to stop going on about that Columbus guy. Like, it was 1492, you know? We’ve had Elvis, moon rockets and American Idol since then, for crissakes.

Anyway, our last stop was in Southampton, England. What a bummer. When you see this place, you realise why so many people swarmed aboard the Titanic. 

We were invited to go ten pin bowling here and, of course, Herb played the game of his life.  Took down skittles quicker than a hooker’s drawers on Fleet Week.

Well, whup my ass and call me Gertrude! I haven’t had that much fun since Aunt Arlene’s naked Nazi hot tub party. Least, not until Herb’s final strike.

Boy, was it a beauty! He scattered those babies like ninepins. Came down with one hell of a crash, mind you.

Turns out the locals were not best pleased. Apparently, he had knocked over something called Stonehinge? Apparently, it’s older than Zsa Zsa Gabor’s babysitter, for crissakes, but the candy assed Brits made such a big deal of it.

Things move kinda slow in Greece.

Things move kinda slow in Greece.

Don’t get me wrong. We had a lot of fun. But Herb and I were kinda glad to get checked in for our flight at Deathrow Airport. Who thinks of these names? Don’t the Brits have any sense of decorum?

Next time, who knows where we might go? I was thinking about some place called Polynesia, but one of the passengers on the ship told me that it’s just a load of old parrots suffering from memory loss. Something like that.

Stay tuned. That’s all I can tell you. Maybe one of these days, the Lardburgers will be coming to a town near you.