Monday, May 21, 2018
Florida 2018 - Part 2
Florida 2018 - Part 2
So, I think I should perhaps apologise for my first entry this year which, due to three reasons, missed out some additional pertinent facts about our flight. These reasons are, in no particular order:
3) Very Drunk
1) Drinking Heavily
2) Over Tired
1) Drinking Heavily
2) Over Tired
Alright, I have already mentioned that as we are too poor to ever turn left getting on a plane, for us legroom seats are the best option for us on long flights. And on a 777 it’s proved to be a brilliant option providing acres of space in front of us (and a spare seat next to us as it turns out) with the only - minor - downside being near the bogs. And, of course, near the seats all the parents of young kids pick to have the space for all the shit a small person apparently needs on a transatlantic trip.
Which for young George next to us seems to consist of a carry-on case full of stuff that makes noise, or is soft and cuddly, or can be chewed on, or is a blanket smelling vaguely of sick. I think the bottle of bourbon secreted in there might be for his massively stressed out dad sitting in the row behind him (two of the “baby row” seats are out of commission due to ‘non-functioning’ seat belts...) but wouldn’t put my mortgage on it judging by the glint in G’s eye.
So, we have two things here to attract the plane nutters. 2) A space they think is like Times Square for them to wander about in with abandon and 5) A charming little man, too young himself to tell the nutters to fuck off. We’ve already mentioned the entitled nob who though he could stand in my paid for space like some big time Charlie nobody would dare challenge (boy did he get that wrong...) so now we should introduce our plane’s equivalent to Pontyberry’s Aunty Brenda - who, to protect the guilty, we should call Fat Old Stinky Bitch. This individual is a pink rinsed old biddy with wooden teeth, an original 80’s Sam tracksuit, and a vague smell of lavender, urine and follow- through accompanying her every move. She seems to think her seniority gives her Carte Blanche to approach any child unbidden and accost their cheeks and general personage while muttering inane gibberish whether the parents approve or not.
I happen to make eye contact with George’s mum while this extraordinary performance is going on, and her eyes read “Kill me now..!” but in capital letters. Her patience snaps, however, when FOSB, amongst the gibbering, mutters “who’s a good boy then?” Forcing George’s Mum to shout “He’s not a bloody dog you know!”
This causes two things to happen: 3) FOSB to step back in shock and 7) plant her fat arse in my face. Time often slows down at moments like this. I’ve have enough time to realise FOSB is wearing a pair of M&S’s finest size 18 bellywarmers beneath her vintage tracksuit, and they are in a shade known as 1,000,000 wash grey. Thank God I can’t see the gusset...
As her sweat-soaked tracksuit brushes my lips I shout out an involuntary “Oi!”of terror. She turns round, maniacal wooden grin on her face, and reaches out to squeeze my cheeks as if I’m a child primed for assault. The words “A gagagagaga” freeze on her lips and she recovers to ask “And what is the problem young man?” Fuck me, she must have been a primary school teacher, or Borstal prison guard, by the tone of her voice. “Get your fat arse out of my face!” I shout, resisting the urge to shove it away as I may never get the smell off my hands. “Well I never!” She sniffs, “There’s no need to be so rude, I’m just standing here to stretch my legs!”
“What?” I bark back. “So far, you have assaulted a stranger’s child and stuck your fat arse in my face. How much ruder can I be than that?” She is about to retort when I say “And that area you are apparently stretching in cost me an extra 50 quid so I could stretch my legs, so unless you’re willing to cough some dosh I suggest you piss off!” A look of complete horror on her face she does indeed piss off, shame she didn’t think to use the bathroom first...perhaps it wasn’t sweat at all...
George gurgles something to me which I’m sure was “Fat Old Cow” and we high-five for a job well done.
While here, you may have noticed me says how due to being 6’2” and 17 stone, I like, indeed on a long flight need extra legroom over standard economy class. I’ve mentioned above being unable to afford turning left when boarding a plane, therefore I take the option of paying a few quid extra for an emergency exit or front row economy seat, where the is much more space for my legs, and no tosse in front to recline their seat back into my face. Win-win. It’s just a shame that the 6’4” American footballer behind me didn’t get the memo and seem to think jamming his knees into the back of my chair is the route to a comfortable flight for all. Guess what it isn’t. So, every time he does it, I sit forward, and with the recline button pressed in, sit back smartly. It only took one beer in his lap for him to cease and desist his actions, and a comfortable flight was had by all. Well, me at least. Fuck knows what happened to him, but on a flight with 80 empty seats I assume he moved elsewhere and made someone else’s flight a misery. If he’d just not been such a tight bastard.
Finally I need to mention Mr K Morris esquire and his impressive cowboy hat. It made it all 4,500 miles with us from Swanley, to a night at the Premier Inn, and all the 9hrs 05mins to America on a big aeroplane. So how quickly once we got to had he lost his hat? About 35 minutes by my calculation. I’m pretty sure even Conor Morris would be proud of that...
# posted by Bucko! @ 11:19 AM 
