Longhaul is one of those weird things where I reckon you time out from reality. When you do longhaul with the flu, its another thing altogether. A while back I did a trip in which I apparently wrote the following, found this evening on my lappie. I put it up for the hell of it....
Rock and roll flying. The spittle thrown over a microphone and the straining of valves breaking razors n cream distortion through your headphones seems to me to be entirely the right stuff for a long haul flight. I sit in business class among the politesse, the cock sucking damn politesse of the middle aged middle classed and let the music drag me back to something that might possibly register as the rage of living.
The airhostess doesnât want to like me and indeed I suspect she probably shouldnât. I do know me after all. But anyway it took a couple of hours to crack through the permagrin and get her on the Am-agenda. Will I be a screaming nightmare? No mâam. Do I require extraordinary attention and pliation of large amounts of alcohol? Yes I fuckin do.
When I was 17 I went on a transatlantic voyage where we got ripped to the tits on a transatlantic voyage â economy note â where the crew just bibed us up and that was it. Now here I am, several thousand pounds into a return trip to the other side of the flying rock on which we sit and I have to beg for a top up!
So I smiled at Georgia, my cabinista, and it did fuck all. So I fixed her with the Sir Gerald grin which is to say something like a normal grin but with the pre-supposition of purchase power but also most crucially of all the look that says âlisten sweets, lets get an *understanding* going hereâ. Iâm not sure how this comes over on a waggle of the eyebrows but I do seem to reach a decent accommodation with such staff after a couple of hours.
So in the end there we are. Georgia brings me a brandy inna glass as Iâm tooling over Tehran en route Hong Kong. She says âthis is a double doubleâ. I believe weâre talking each otherâs language. Janeâs is playing on the headies - Ladies clink their glasses sending out their signals â amen.
I am a twat heading out to the other side of the planet for a meeting that probably matters not very much whatsoever. But pays.
You you really should have have known. Oh you, you really should have know, just because, just becauseâ¦â¦
Now so itâs 22.45 and Georgia has told me that I should be asleep. When did stewardesses get to be your mum? I got her to fetch me another brandy and contemplated that 30 years ago Iâd probably have sent her on her way with a resounding TWANG on her tush. Iâm not suggesting this would have been appropriate, considerate, reasonable, admirable or in any way advisable. But it would have been fun. Not these days though no.
I hate the fucking Blazer Boys. What is it with Blazers? What is it with the cocking hair loss and chinos? The ingraining of semi-facile brains into a wardrobe of cockhood? You sit in business and itâs honestly like a battery farm of conservatism with a couple of outlier crim suspects. Thereâs these fellas that you look at and think âoh my. Oh my fucking god you must be having at least a *fun* life. What given the scars and the lopsided eyebrows and shitâ.
And the restâ¦â¦. I swearâ¦.. Sweaters, nice fucking sweaters, sweaters marked with geometric shapes and shit. Blazers and pimped out geometric sweaters. Die, die, die.