Somehow this week felt wildly eventful, despite the fact that objectively nothing happened – just another week of life on a superyacht creating micro-crises I invented myself.
Emotionally?
Turbulent.
Physically?
I fought with a bedsheet and walked 6km at my desk.
Spiritually?
I achieved transcendence via George Michael.
Which I imagine must feel exactly like this ↓
Here’s the recap none of us asked for but all of us are getting:
(PSA – for context, if you’re new here, I work on a superyacht, so my colleagues are the crew I’m referring to).
🎤 Life on a Superyacht: WHAM-Gate 2025
So I’m standing there in the evening, chatting with a couple of crew, being my normal festive November self, when someone very innocently asks me:
“Do you like Christmas?”
I blinked.
Once.
Slowly.
Good Sir… I am wearing festive Christmas nail stickers in the middle of November and have been loudly talking about Christmas since I got back on the boat 3 weeks ago.
Do I like Christmas??
Does Rudolph s**t in the woods?
Does Mariah Carey defrost annually?
Why are we asking obvious questions?
Anyway, he starts talking about this Christmas song his old crew used to play non-stop, and he’s trying to remember the name and who sings it.
Him: “It was always playing on the UK radio channel they listened to.”
Me: “Last Christmas on BBC Radio One and Two. Yes, I am familiar.”
Him: “Yeah! Last Christmas… It’s by someone called Whammed or something.”
WHAMMED. OR SOMETHING.
Now – to be fair – he was close.
But still.
WHAMMED OR SOMETHING??
I momentarily left my body.
I saw my ancestors.
My soul packed its bags and walked into the ocean.
All five stages of grief in three seconds.
I had to very gently say:
“Sorry… did you just refer to Wham and Mr George Michael – the George Michael – as Whammed or something?”
Sir.
The legend.
The icon.
The man who single-handedly carried British culture on his back… reduced to Whammed or something.
(And before the “well-actually” crowd arrives – no, we are not giving space to any man on the internet called Nigel whose profile picture is a car selfie taken from his lap to correct us about British music history.)
Anyway, Christmas justice had to be served right then and there.
I immediately opened YouTube and played him George Michael performing with Queen at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert, aka the greatest cultural event of the 1990s.
And honestly, this whole situation reminded me of another moment of cultural disrespect recently, when we were watching Pirates of the Caribbean during lunch, and someone pointed at Keira Knightley and confidently said:
“Did you know, that’s the lady from the Woman in Cabin 10 on Netflix.”
I just stared like:
“Did you just refer to KEIRA KNIGHTLEY – national treasure, face of a generation – as ‘the lady from the Woman in Cabin 10’?”
Because apparently this is a trend.
It must be a generational thing – the same way someone last year referred to Queen Sandra Bullock as “that lady from Birdbox.”
I’m sorry, but no.
That is Sandra Bullock, Oscar winner, Miss Congeniality, The Blindside, The Proposal, mother of cinematic excellence.
Respectfully, keep her name out of your uneducated mouth.
Anyway –
Education delivered.
Christmas spirit restored.
Peace returned to the land.
🛏️ The Great Fitted Sheet Conspiracy
Let’s talk about my bed. Not romantically (sadly), but logistically.
I’m on the top bunk, and my mattress weighs roughly the same as a small car.
The fitted sheet I’ve been using since day one is custom-made and labelled specifically for my bed – and yet every single week I’ve had to fight for my life trying to get it on. I’m talking:
- sweating
- swearing
- dangerous levels of athleticism
- considering hiring external contractors
- trying to bribe my team with snacks to make it for me
- bargaining with God
The sheet never fits. Ever.
The corners just vaguely sit near-ish the edge of the mattress, like two acquaintances who got paired for a group project and both want to go home – zero commitment, spiritually elsewhere. Basically, fake eyelashes at 3am energy.
So every Monday, I’m doing deadlifts with a top bunk mattress, where there is not even enough space to sit up in bed. It’s a full-body workout and I don’t need to go to the gym that day.
Everyone has always told me:
“No that’s the right sheet, it’s definitely for your bed, maybe you’ve got it the wrong way round”
So apparently, I am the problem?
Me?
Wow okay, gaslight me harder.
Then this week, my roommate (also a very good friend of 10 years), who BY THE WAY, has been watching me struggle for MONTHS, casually says:
“There’s a spare sheet under my bed for your mattress, maybe try that and see if it’s better?”
Excuse me?
A what?
I try the spare sheet.
I swear on Sir R. George Michael himself, it slid on perfectly.
No shouting, no sweating, no putting my lower back at risk.
Just – done.
SO FOR MONTHS I HAVE BEEN WRESTLING A SHEET THAT IS technically mine – just aggressively, offensively poorly fitting.
Despite being SPECIFICALLY labelled BY THE SUPPLIER with my actual cabin number and bed, it clearly wasn’t cut for any mattress that has ever existed on this earth.
Everyone thought it was just me being dramatic – and while that’s correct – this time I was RIGHT.
I told the entire team about Bed-Sheet-Gate at our end-of-day meeting, and my roommate just sat there laughing.
I hope she feels bad.
I will be accepting written apologies in calligraphy or monogrammed stationery only.
And yes – I will ONLY be using the nice sheet from now on.
I’ve put the other one away, never to be used (by me) again.
🚶🏻♀️ Desk Treadmill Era
I have a treadmill for my desk, which since I got back, has been folded up in my cabin. After three weeks of saying “I’ll set the treadmill up tomorrow” (a mantra that became a lifestyle), I finally committed tonight.
So I dragged it back up 3 flights of narrow stairs. And by “dragged it back up”, I mean I called a friend for backup and the two of us carried it up the stairs like Ross, Rachel and Chandler trying to move the couch.
There were so many more stairs than I remembered.
Got it set up and immediately walked 6km while working – genuinely more than I’ve walked all week and I felt like an athlete once again.
Steps tomorrow? Astronomical.
Self-esteem? Sky high.
Energy? Borderline unmanageable. I am better than everyone else.
Downside: I now have zero chairs in my office.
So whenever someone pops in for a chat, we are back to sitting on the floor like preschool children waiting for story time.
Honestly, life on a superyacht means if I want movement, I have to engineer it myself – hence the treadmill era.
💅 Nail Sticker Drama
I bought these Christmas nail stickers weeks ago, and in my head they were going to look phenomenal.
Sleek.
Chic.
Like an artist had delicately hand-painted festive masterpieces onto my nails.
Reality:
They look like… well… stickers stuck on my nails 😂
I painted my nails and applied them at the weekend — from afar, they were giving 10/10 ✨
Close up?
7/10, because one sticker was slightly crooked but I committed… and it has since peeled off.
nd my choice of regular top coat did not perform the way it did in my head.
Could I have used a gel top coat to seal them like a professional?
Absolutely.
Did I want to battle for 45 minutes to get it off next weekend?
Absolutely not.
We are choosing peace.
We are choosing laziness.
We are choosing realism.
🔮 Delulu Prediction for Next Week
Manifesting:
- 15K steps minimum per day
- Zero sheet trauma
- A full set of intact Christmas nails
- Nobody EVER AGAIN referring to Wham as Whammed or Something
Amen. 🎤
Alright, that’s all from my TED Talk about nothing.
For more extremely serious commentary on extremely unserious problems,
the Delulu Diaries continue here 💗
Otherwise, explore the rest of the blog below – enjoy 🥂
PS – I love my crew. They’re my emotional support sitcom cast, and yes, I say all of this to them directly.
