TAKING THE MICK

I've been trying to buy a yacht. Let's put it into context though, I'm not looking at anything to rival Roman Abramovitch; just a tiny sailboat.
It is proving surprisingly difficult to find any kind of quality at the restricted budget I am prepared to pay. In search of said elusive value, my youngest son, Jed, my nephew Matt and I went down to Gosport on a maritime wild goose chase. Matt amused us greatly as we arrived at the marina, by producing as his kit bag an Antler suitcase, vintage 1963. "Hey up," I said, "Miss Marples has arrived!"
The boat which promised to be "a nice, well cared for example" turned out to be something that Grimebusters would have paid to have a go at. A cross between a shed and an ashtray, with a couple of sails up top. More importantly, virtually everything on it needed either fixing or replacing. Truthfully, I could have gone home again as soon as I clapped eyes on her on the pontoon, but the boys had come for a sail and I did not want to disappoint. So, after a lengthy coughing and spluttering from the engine, and an even lengthier coughing and spluttering from the owner, we got under way.
Just out of Portsmouth Harbour, one of the supposedly salty owners was laid low puking and remained so whilst we flew westward. As his name was Mick, this provoked all the predictable Cockney rhyming slang gags. Then the engine failed to start twice - once rather spectacularly as we entered the very busy small boat channel back into Portsmouth Harbour. Won't be buying that one! Still, we had a nice sail down the Solent in her, and around the 250m exclusion zone which surrounds the truly awesome American aircraft carrier which was anchored mid Solent, on its way to bomb the fuck out of Mr Ghadaffi.
Jed proved once again that he is a natural helmsman. Matt wandered slightly in a Miss Marples style investigation of the depths, but through characteristic perseverance, came good. Our heartfelt solicitations after the green looking owner lasted only as far as the car park. After that, the imitations of heaving began in earnest.
Pass the bucket.
Miiiiiiiick!