Unloading our equipment at Portsmouth beach. Heading for the ferry, stormy sea, all ships are heading in! On board we settle into our room and head for the bar to make plans for the next day. James struggles to drink one pint, which he's been advised is fine taken with sea sickness pills by a medical chum. The boat takes an age to reach the Isle of Wight, by which time there's a fair bit off bobbing about and a howling gale on deck. James, who is happy in a coracle, is not so suited to the tempests of the Channel/la Manche.
A terrible, apathetic pop duo is followed up by a mime slash magician who must be French but is in fact a scouser. The crowd thins as the kids are told to evacuate the dance floor and one of Jame's compatriots starts to belt out Robbie and Frank Sinatra numbers. He's actually not bad, but the crowd of truckers don't seem to agree. "Does anyone like Tom Jones?" "NOOOOO, we bloody hate him!" Can't be easy plying the vocal arts on the high seas. As James and Mike leave, mike asks them "Do you lot like anybody? What about Neil Diamond?" To which they reply, "Yeah, he's alright him."
