I had a vision of hell last weekend. I was in Liverpool for a couple of days, and took the ferry each way. Owing to the number of knackers and howling children that seem to regularly populate ferries, this in itself is a fairly horrific proposition, however, my meagre finances wouldn't allow a more salubrious means of travel. The outward leg of the journey was fairly uneventful, with a clear blue sky and calm sea making for a pleasant stay above deck. Returning home was an altogether different story. Somewhere along the north coast of Wales, the sea became noticeably choppier, and peoples faces paler. It wasn't long before the first retch was heard, and stewards patrolled the aisles handing out sick bags and spraying air freshener. I wasn't in the healthiest shape myself, having consumed a bellyful of alcohol the previous evening, but my stomach somehow managed to behave itself sufficiently for the duration. So, a few people threw up and I felt ill for an hour or so - big deal. Well, the clincher that confirmed that this was no simple boat trip, but some Boschian nightmare came when I paid a visit to the bathroom. At this point I was still feeling pretty woozy, so the pool of vomit I had to step over in the doorway severly tested my resolve; as did the young boy throwing up in the sink. Gathering all the will I could muster, and trying to block any orifices, I took up my position at the urinal, thinking things could get no worse. How foolish I was. In mid-stream, as it were, two men who I had thought were waiting for cubicles, lunged forward in unison to puke into the urinals on either side of me, as if the starter gun in the World Speed-Vomiting Championships had just sounded. I returned to my undulating seat and spent the rest of the journey with my head between my knees.