In a development that has sent shockwaves through the double-glazing demographic, a cruise ship has been transformed into a floating pandemic parlour game, with over a thousand British passengers now locked in a maritime love affair with a particularly virulent strain of norovirus. The vessel, whose name I shall not dignify with repetition, has become a microcosm of everything wrong with modern leisure: the desperate pursuit of gaiety at sea, the forced jollity of the entertainment staff, and now the shared experience of projectile vomiting in a corridor that smells of lavender and regret.

Maritime authorities, in a fit of bureaucratic arousal, have launched an inquiry. One imagines a panel of stern-faced men in epaulettes brandishing clipboards at the horizon, demanding to know why people persist in congregating in floating hotels where the central feature is a buffet that could best be described as 'biologically active'. The inquiry will no doubt cost millions, take years, and conclude that norovirus is 'unpredictable' and 'requires further study'. Alternatively, they could just admit that putting 4,000 people in a metal box with recycled air and a shared stair rail is a recipe for a medical apocalypse.

Meanwhile, the trapped passengers are reportedly 'being cared for' in their cabins. This is PR speak for 'confined to a small room with a toilet that is rapidly becoming a biohazard zone'. The cruise line, ever eager to spin tragedy into a sales opportunity, has offered a 50% discount on a future cruise. Because what every survivor of gastrointestinal Armageddon wants is the chance to do it all over again, at a bargain price.

Let us pause to consider the typical cruise passenger. They are the same breed of person who buys a timeshare in Benidorm and complains that the fish and chips aren't as good as back home. They have come to expect a certain standard of bacterial infection, but this new development is frankly unacceptable. The compensation demands will be epic: free drinks, a refund of the port fees, and maybe an apology from the captain. And perhaps a medal for surviving the ordeal without soiling themselves in public.

This is the state of modern Britain. We have become a nation that seeks leisure by boarding a floating prison, eating from a trough of lukewarm gastro-hazards, and then expressing shock when nature takes its course. The maritime inquiry will convene, the lawyers will circle like fat seagulls, and the cruise line will blame the passengers for not washing their hands enough. And somewhere, a norovirus is laughing. It has found its perfect vector: the British holidaymaker, armed with a sense of entitlement and a weak stomach.

In the meantime, I shall raise a glass of gin to the trapped. Not to their health, because that would be a lie. But to their patience, their endurance, and their remarkable ability to find a silver lining in a cloud of their own making. God save the cruise, and all who sail in her.