This was an email I received from my girlfriend earlier today as she waited for her flight back home. Posted, amazingly, with permission.
Now, I don’t mean to sound misanthropic or arsey before my time. I am a reasonable, tolerant, some might even go as far as reserved adult. I have patience and understanding for my fellow man. This, however, is suspended upon arrival at the airport (henceforth “holding pen without the welcome inevitability of death”).
Firstly, to the woman with the engorged blue tits in the check-in queue. Breastfeeding your farting infant is not cool. I don’t want to witness its purple face clamped upon your nipple. Yeah, it’s natural, and the kid has to eat. But please don’t tell me you shat out your last scrap of dignity along with its curiously-shaped head. Use a shawl, I hear they make those now. Or here’s an idea: plan ahead; using a bottle once won’t kill it instantly. Is this an unfashionable viewpoint? Will La Leche League hunt me down and drown me in lentil-scented colostrum and lanolin? Just to me (and quite possibly the other 123 passengers of flight LX395) it was really quite unpleasant. Breast-feeding’s like having a shit or a shag: unless you’re an active participant, there’s no reason for direct involvement.
To the kind and patient souls who man (wo-man? Dubious, although she was very polite) the security area: please take down the signs telling me the “increased security measures” are for my “safety and comfort”. No, they’re not. Foisting me through a glass vestibule like some parody of 1970s sci-fi has no positive effect on my comfort. Security, fine; safety, fine. All acceptable words to use. But don’t lie and tell me hanging out in the pit of festering resentment for forty-five (45) minutes improved my levels of comfort. It brought to mind an ill-fated school trip to an industrial farm: there was even a bleating child with a bloody nose. He was the veal calf with the weak knees, the collateral damage, the one who didn’t make it quite as far as the electric floor.
I voiced my displeasure at the queue to an English friend, via the medium of text (I know, I know: right underneath the “No mobiles” sign – daring, eh?). He told me the English are good at queuing. No, they’re not. I had a large man quite literally forcing his hot salty breath down my neck as me craned over to read my messages, see my iPod, and possibly check out my tits. Incidentally, unlike Woman #1, I do not whap these out for all and sundry. A fiver, a Whopper with cheese, or a bottle of gin (see below) might change this, I’m open to negotiations.
Travel Tip: if your crotch smells like halibut, have a wash.
I do not wish to walk through the duty-free shop on my way to the gate. Your overpriced shit is still overpriced. I now smell like a whore’s handbag and have a craving for gin. Take note, fatties: the aisles are narrow. Do not lumber through the centre of these. Stick to one side, m’kay? I realize your undulating waves of lard flap dangerously close to the (overpriced, shit) displays but I do not want to be ricocheted into a wall of Chanel as I ping off your fourth belly like a fly off a windscreen. The last thing to go through its head as it hits the window? Its arsehole. My last thought as you bore down on me like a frigate: “I regret nothing! Except not buying the gin, goddammit! It’s £4 cheaper than my hypothetical off-licence purchase! Not that I could drink it until I arrived, anyway, and they still do free booze on the flight. Oh, free booze. Things are looking up. Out of my way, grandma, I’m on a mission! And please go buy some larger pants.”
Travel Tip: don’t dress your four (4) year-old child in high heels and tracky-bums with “Juicy” on the arse. Everyone knows plane-spotters are invariably pedophiles and that’s just cruel.
On a lighter note, empirical research has proven the soporific effects of two (2) Syndol and a glass of Chablis last precisely two (2) hours. Selfless investigation. I am a less ulcerated Dr Marshall. I expect the invitation to Sweden and the cheque for a million buckaroos in the post any day now.
Toodlepip. If I don’t make it, tell my mother hello.
PS: With said £1 squillion, I shall buy a private jet. Fuck you, aptly-named cattle class and your brown nipples. FUCK YOU.