In yet another blow to the myth of carefree maritime leisure, the NHS has confirmed that the norovirus grip on the SS Albatross of the Seas has finally loosened. Yes, the same floating Petri dish that has been shuttling between Southampton and the fjords of Norway has been declared free of the dreaded vomit bug. But before you uncork the prosecco, take a whiff of the news from the port health inspectors.
They have, in a flurry of officialdom, flagged the cruise line for 'recurring sanitation failures.' This is the maritime equivalent of a Michelin-starred chef being caught with a rat in the kitchen. Or, more accurately, a rat in every galley.
The report, leaked to this desk by a source with a grudge and a copy machine, lists offenses so grotesque they would make a sewage worker weep. Mold colonies in the salad bar. Toilets that flush in reverse.
A mysterious biofilm on the shuffleboard cues. It is a litany of filth that would make a hobo blanch. And yet, the cruise line's official statement is a masterpiece of corporate doublespeak.
They are 'committed to the highest standards of guest comfort and safety.' This from a company whose idea of a luxury suite now includes complimentary viral infections. The SS Albatross, it transpires, has been in a state of microbial anarchy since the maiden voyage.
Outbreaks of shigella, cryptosporidium, and last year, a particularly aggressive strain of athlete's foot that required the quarantine of the entire ballroom. The inspectors, in their infinite wisdom, have given the line 48 hours to rectify the situation. 48 hours.
As if three years of negligence can be scrubbed away in a long weekend. Meanwhile, the passengers who endured the scours are being offered a 20% discount on their next cruise. A golden ticket to hell, if you will.
One can only imagine the marketing pitch: 'SS Albatross: Now with 20% less dysentery!' But here is the real kicker. The ship is cleared to sail again in a week.
Same itinerary. Same chef. Same system that allows the ship to leave port with a clean bill of health and return with a cargo of contagion.
It is a closed loop of filth, a perpetual motion machine of disease. And who pays the price? The British holidaymaker, that stoic soul who just wants to see the Northern Lights and eat a prawn cocktail without spending the rest of the trip hugging a toilet.
But I digress. In the grand theatre of absurdity that is modern travel, this is but a minor farce. The norovirus has been vanquished.
The inspectors have done their duty. The SS Albatross will sail again, its hull slick with the tears of the infected. And somewhere in the corporate boardroom, a man in a suit is calculating the cost benefit of a proper cleaning versus the risk of another outbreak.
Spoiler alert: the shareholders win again.
