People. Airports. Pee-fucking-pull and Air-fucking-ports. People and airports. People in airports.
Two significant sources of annoyance whisked together, poured all over me and baked at a low heat for 15 hours - all because good old Christmas-time is here again. Not that Christmas bothers me, I actually quite like it but the journey home is so much of an inconvenience that it’s almost an outright deterrent. 15 hours all alone – well, alone apart from all the annoying bastards everywhere.
So, here I am, trapped in a flying metal phallus with an intriguing array of curious characters. Every minute spent in here is torture and my journey’s just beginning; I’m tired and irritable and my misanthropic thoughts are in danger of turning into wanton acts of mile-high violence as I slowly become acquainted with my fellow passengers...
First up is an over-worked young banker-type, run down from ‘living the dream’; quickly coming to realise that living the bloody dream involves little more than getting up at 6am and working like a dog to impress some muppet who in turn is getting raped by his superior – all to make money for some nameless, faceless asshole who wouldn’t even piss on him if he was on fire.
Maybe he’d get along well with the prissy little bitch who’s thoughtfully scrawling in her ludicrously expensive diary, elaborately decorated with butterflies and crystals and the obligatory little lock that keeps inquisitive on-lookers at bay – on-lookers that would need to be both deranged and perverted to have any interest whatsoever in discovering more about her world.
Next we have the mowler with the crumpled chinos, tailored grey sports jacket and shiny black shoes – all beautifully complemented by the Liverpool jersey that he proudly wears to complete the dashing ensemble. Although, to be fair to him, the ‘St.Michael’s GAA’ gear bag that he’s carrying his Christmas presents home in is a lovely seasonal blend of red and green.
The loved-up young couple are here too, of course. The guy saying all the right things. The girl beaming from ear to ear, reveling in the attention and the fact that she has him wrapped around her little finger. Not that he minds and he dutifully trudges up and down the aisle hoping to find a place for her ridiculously over-packed rucksack – while the people in the queue forming behind them are growing increasingly restless and frustrated, audibly tutting and shuffling on the spot, willing him to snap under the pressure and to shove the bloody bag up her stupid fat arse. (Or maybe that's just me...)
Then the too-sweet-to-be-wholesome air steward makes his announcements, carefully enunciating all his syllables and urging the passengers to “feel free to contact myself as I pass through the cabin should you wish for anything”. Such subservience is music to the ears of the smug, chubby middle-aged man sitting across from me and with 330ml cans of Heineken costing a mere €5 he’d surely be a fool to miss out. He’s a sophisticated adult and he always likes to have a little treat when he’s flying, regardless of the cost. It’s his little present to himself to help him unwind and enjoy the flight. After all, he deserves it.
At the top of the cabin we have the horse on stilts standing with her arms behind her back, desperately trying to look professional and eager to help but her mask is slipping. Another inch of make-up flakes off with each forced smile and she’s there in body only - her tiny mind is away in the clouds, plotting her escape. Maybe this will be her year; after all, she’s Miss February in the Ryanair Babes calendar – all she needs is for the right guy to see that and pluck her from obscurity and make her a star. Well, a porn star at least.
My train of thought is interrupted by an important announcement made by an enthusiastic Finn who advises everybody that some self-important shit-head has made it known that they are allergic to nuts and nut products and could all passengers please kindly refrain from eating these… and at that exact moment I wanted nothing more than to stuff a big bag of dry roasted peanuts into my mouth and to cough and splutter everywhere, hoping that the fucker would be dead by the time we landed. Or, well maybe not dead - it is Christmas after all - but at least itchy and bloated and in need of urgent medical attention.
Now, I'm no stranger to hating every last member of the human race when the mood is on me but this is bad, even by my standards, so there and then I vow that next year, to save me from tears (and a possible court appearance), I'll have to avoid airplanes.
I'll stay away or get the train or walk or something. Maybe I'll try hitch-hiking - Chris Rea sounds like he might have a seat going a-begging...