It's wasn't so much the whispering and occasional outburst of muffled teenage giggling I minded, it was the thought that kept nagging away at the back of my mind - who the bloody hell eats crisps at two in the morning?
That was to keep me awake for another hour.
I was aboard the floating lunatic asylum that is the MV Hrossey, heading from Kirkwall south overnight to Aberdeen. I had settled in the "quiet lounge" where some of us were trying to get a bit of sleep in not very comfortable reclining seats that didn't recline to any great degree.
The pig "farmer" had boarded a couple of hours earlier and taken a stroll around the ship. Disappointed to find no game of deck quoits in progress, he retired to the bar for a nightcap and possibly to hob-nob with fellow passengers.
"Yer see, yer've got tae chin him afore he chins youse," said the 5ft 4in bundle of pent-up aggression to his new best mate who was doing his bit for cordial Anglo-Scots relations by grinning stupidly while hanging on to short-arse's shoulder to stop himself falling over.
"I know mate, you've got to stand up for yourself. You've got to be the man. . . the man!" he blurted, spilling his rum and coke in the process.
The pig "farmer" revised his hob-nobbing plan and sipped his beer at a table in the corner before retiring for the night.
The girl who had insisted on holding a lengthy mobile phone conversation with her (I assume) boyfriend about - among other things - whether she should have breakfast in McDonald's was silenced partly by the intervention of the other middle-aged curmudgeon in the lounge, but more by the fact we'd sailed out of T-mobile range.
An hour later the two lads at the back decided they were peckish, the rustling started and a troubled pig "farmer" drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of Gary Lineker.