The joy that is the airport..

I went on holiday recently and I realised just how much I hate airports. Anything to do with an airport I loathe.
 
I managed to drive my overpriced Saab to the airport in the early hours last Friday. Being England it was pissing down, it was freezing and there were enthusiastic people everywhere. Enthusiastic people wearing ridiculous summer hats. One bloke was wearing a vest and shorts. Why do these people do this? You are still in England, it is 4AM, it is pissing down icicles and you get some twat in a sombrero wearing nothing but a bikini. They all have ridiculously over sized suitcases as well. They have packed everything, from pillows to hair dryers not forgetting Factor 4 sun cream. Factor 4 – do me a favour, you may as well spit over yourself it is going to give you the same level of protection. You get the mum’s handing out Murray Mints – it’s 4AM you fool – who wants a Murray mint at 4AM? We are all waiting for the ‘Pink Elephant’ to pick us up and take us to the gates of hell -Terminal 4.
 
I eventually get on the bus, not before helping some old biddy with her case. I sit down and little Lenny decides he wants to sit next to me. Little Lenny is already on the Tangfastics. Brilliant. A six year old off his head on cola bottles. His mum, who has the world’s weirdest name – Noreen, decides she is going to let Little Lenny continually punch me on the leg. This kid is such a dildo. If he wasn’t so fat I would hit him back but it’s harsh isn’t it…punching the clinically obese.
 
We get to the airport, my leg covered in bruises, and I place my bag on the trolley’s provided. Little Lenny decides he is going to steer for the fat family. Good idea Noreen. Lenny clips my ankle as he rushes along the moving walkway. I love those people who think that moving walkways are an excuse for you not to walk. How lazy can you be? This thing is practically going backwards yet they refuse to move. I arrive at the hub of the terminal.
 
Chaos. Carnage. Terminal 4 we have arrived.
 
I check ‘the board’. When I go away with family we have to get to the airport about 9 hours before the flight departs. ‘Here Stan, check the board’. What’s the point dad? Our flight isn’t even going to be on there we are that early. But check it I always did. I would shout out a letter and then my dad would literally sprint, pulling his hamstring in the process, to the zone we were meant to be in. He doesn’t believe in checking in online. Nor does he believe in using the handy little machines that let you check in without having any sort of human interaction – they should use these in as many areas of society as possible. We would join the queue, they’d always be a queue despite our flight not taking off in decades.
 
Back to terminal 4 and I am using the handy little machine, but there is a problem – it is not checking me in so I have to join the queue. This queue is a Ryanair queue. Ergo, a queue full of delinquents. This queue is so bad that I am tempted to jump back on the Pink Elephant, sack off the flight, and go home. Little Lenny is running a mock, eating everything in site. Noreen is gnawing on a pasty. There is one lady in tears, another with a dog (literally no idea what this guy is even thinking bringing a dog any where near an airport), and some chump is making 9/11 gags. It is carnage. The queue is static. Welcome to Ryanair.
 
People are trying to wedge their bags into that weird little contraption to see if their bag can get on the flight. Clothes adorn the airport flaw as people have clearly spunked their weight limit – those 19 pairs of shoes was a mistake – they are trying to shift the weight into friends cases. Just give up love.
 
Eventually I get to the front. I hand over my boarding pass and my passport to a person who I am going to nickname ‘No Face’ – she is brutal. I am then asked ‘has anyone packed anything without your knowledge’ – is this a trick question?! If I didn’t have knowledge of it how do I know if someone has packed something? ‘Have you got any sharp objects in your bag, for example a knife’. Ah shit they’ve got me – I have got a massive carving knife in my bag. Idiots. If I did have a knife I’m not going to choose that moment to say ‘Oh you know what, I do have a massive blade in here…should I take this out?’ Twats.
 
‘There’s a problem with your boarding pass’
 
Here we go…
 
“What seems to be the problem?”
“You have put your name as Stan Fred Bennett”
“Which is my name” I say
“But your passport says Stanley Fred Bennett”
“So”
“I am afraid we can’t accept this. We will have to print you off another one”
“Seems a waste of paper but ok”
“That will be £40”
 
You know what, for a minute there, I thought No Face said that will be £40.
 
“What?”
“40 pounds please”
“Are you having a laugh?”
 
40 quid to print a boarding pass? They can’t be serious! Ryanair are the Nazis of the aviation world. 40 quid? A face transplant, which is what she so desperately needs, is going to cost much more than £40
 
“I am sorry I refuse to pay that. This is ridiculous”
“Then we can’t let you on the plane”
“Then I’ll hijack it”
 
In retrospect the choice of the word ‘hijack’ was a mistake. They did not appear amused. There was gasps from the growing queue. I wasn’t moving. I am getting on this plane. Minutes passed without anyone speaking.
 
Silence. Deafening silence.
 
Then the silence was broken…
 
“Do you want a cola bottle?” asks little Lenny
“Fuck off little Lenny”
 
Shit I have said out loud what I meant to say in my head. Noreen is FUMING. The pasty has hit the deck. Lenny is in tears. Tangfastics litter the floor. The dog has been released from it’s leash. The 9/11 gag makers look appalled by what I’ve said. No face behind the desk almost chokes on her rules…police surround me due to my hijacking reference and my trip to Aberdeen, well my trip to Aberdeen is in tatters…

Facebook offenders

I am on Facebook. Stan Bennett – search for me but don’t add me.
 
I have over 400 friends. I honestly don’t think, and I mean this, that I care about 380 of them. Literally I couldn’t give a shit. I can’t understand how I have built up such a collection of people. They are such a dry bunch of people as well.
 
You have those that update their status every 4 minutes telling you what they’ve eaten for breakfast, for example – Ian ‘I have just eaten mango for breakfast…yum’. Unbelievably Ian has got 4 ‘likes’. Why the fuck are people liking this? All Ian has said is that he has munched on some Mango. You always get the same people commenting and liking Ian’s Facebook status. He has a core group of ten that no matter how shit his status update they will without fail boost his numbers in the hope that Ian will then ‘like’ one of their statuses. As I write this Claire has commented on Ian’s status ‘I had pineapple num num’. Cheers for that Claire. ‘Num num?!’ What does that even mean? What a complete tool.
 
You have those that invent statuses just because they are comment whores – let’s look at Steve for example ‘I am on the tube (all his statuses occur when on the tube) and a woman has just got on at Angel (how you writing this status update then Steve?) wearing nothing but a bin liner’. It has been up for 4 minutes and has already amassed 7 ‘likes’ and 4 comments. You know Steve is so happy with this record comment haul. Jimbo is straight in there ‘Lol man, that is so funny. ROFL’. Jimbo is a twat. The first clue is the fact he calls himself Jimbo. The second clue is that he writes ROFL (Rolling on floor laughing). Let’s take a minute and think whether Jimbo is literally on the floor rolling around laughing. Even if that was true why would he tell us that? Jimbo belongs in a mental asylum. You then get the smart kid – Tom. He has cleverly worked out the status is bogus. Tom considers himself to have outstanding wit and also thinks he is the only one who has worked out that maybe, just maybe, a woman has not got on the tube wearing nothing but a bin liner. Tom writes a witty retort on Steve’s status. You can tell Steve is gutted as he writes nothing back for a good 10 minutes (Steve is the sort of person who is on Facebook every 9 seconds to check for updates). Steve then attempts to deflect attention from Tom’s comment by suggesting they meet for a drink as they haven’t seen each other for a while. Steve doesn’t want to meet Tom for a drink. Steve thinks Tom is a chump. Steve is just trying to protect himself and ensure that the steady flow of comments do not suddenly dry up. Alan is next to the party. Alan thinks he is incredibly funny – Alan is not funny, far from it. Alan comments ‘I bet that was a rubbish journey’ cheers for that Al. Alan is a ‘mutual’ friend – I would love nothing more than to bin off (see I can do it too Alan) Alan but alas I am not popular enough, or cool enough, to start Facebook culling.
 
You then get the deep and meaningfuls. Gemma comments ‘I miss you so much. I know you are looking down at me, smiling. I miss you my friend’. To be honest ‘Gem’ the friend is probably looking up. And whilst we are being honest the friend is certainly not smiling. The friend is dead. You’ve achieved nothing. Why oh why would the friend be smiling? Also why write a status update telling us this? Only one person cares that your friend is not in this mortal realm anymore and that person is Raquel (Raquel who is 25 but has a 71 year olds name). Right on cue Raquel pipes up ‘Awww babe. I am here for you. We all are.’. Not true Raquel. I am not here for Gem, nor is anyone else. You are also such a good mate that instead of picking up the phone or walking the 4 meters across the road to see your friend ‘in need’ you decide that a Facebook comment is of sufficient comfort. You’re a true pal. Well done.
 
You then get the inspirationalists – Clive decides that we need a bit of inspiration in our lives. Clive writes ‘When did the world become so bad? People should smile more’. Nice one Clive. You know what, I am going to take heed of your advice, walk out of my door and start smiling at everyone. Oh wait. Clive has a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. I am not sure Clive even knows how to smile but he has clearly had some effect on Brad ‘So true man. So true’. Deep words from Brad, Brad the lorry driver. Who you going to smile at then Brad?
 
You then get the chainers – These people that think if you write a status update that includes certain words then in some way your family will never die. Kev falls in to this trap, it’s a shame as I thought Kev was better than this but the status tells us otherwise ‘The next person you see tell them what you think of them. Copy and paste this into your status and get 10 people to write it as well. If you do then your family won’t die of kidney related complications’. I am sitting next to Housham, I am tempted to take on board the status and tell Housham ‘Housham, you’re a prick mate’. I resist the urge. Instead I promise myself that I will never speak to Kev again.
 
Once you’re done with the status lot you then focus on the pokers. Who pokes? Seriously what are you doing? ‘You have just received a poke from Steph’. If I am Steve in this situation I am thinking ‘what does this mean…does Steph like me…shall I send her a message…shall I poke back?’ The irony is is that Steph is in a relationship with Kev. You know this because it appeared in your news food ‘Steph and Kev are in a relationship’, shame. It means no more Malia/Kos/Ibiza albums where Steph is wearing nothing but that black bikini. Instead it will be her and Alan doing couple things and feeling the need to upload a photo of everytime they hold hands.
 
With the Pokers accounted for we have the serial photo uploaders. Ah man these guys need to get out more. ‘John Muroz has upload a new album entitled a funny walk to the seaside’. Really John? The even more tragic thing is that you get people trawling through all 64 photos that John has uploaded to his new album. The album title should be a clue that this is not going to be a classic. John Moroz has 94 photo albums. I guarantee you that Karen has checked out every single photo and commented on every album. Karen I have some bad news for you – no matter how many comments you make John doesn’t like you.
 
‘Mike has just got 100 points for shooting a sheep’ Mike is playing some shite farm game. Get a life Mike. Seriously mate, just get a life.
 
I haven’t even mentioned the sad cases that upload a Youtube video every fourteen minutes or those that ask us to ‘check out this song’ or the sad pathetic bunch that are in such desperate need for attention that they say ‘Please check out my blog’. You then arrive at said blog and it is a pile of shite. Your heart goes out to those sad saps.
 

Fancy food

I’m on a date and we are going to a fancy restaurant. It was her idea not mine. I would have loved nothing more than a Pizza Express – Garlic Bread, a Margherita with ham and a glass of milk – nothing fancy, nothing pretentious, just good old fashioned food that we could wharf down in an hour and head straight to a bar and get lashed. But alas here we are at Le Poisson Rouge. I am horrendously out of my depth.
 
This girl that I’m on the date with is horrendously out of my league. Before I left for the date I thought about joining the Facebook group ‘Britain’s all time punchers’ – at best I am a 4 out of 10. Yes I have the odd good gag in me, yes I can even tell a decent story. But I have a weird nose, my eyes are permanently bloodshot, my cheekbones (despite rumours to the contrary) are in no way defined. I have shit hair. My hair looks like I have just woken up after sleeping in a cap. Rach (I am not convinced I am cool enough to call her Rach but I am going to) on the other hand looks pristine. She is a 9 out of 10. Unprecedented. People are checking her out as we walk in to Le Poisson Rouge and thinking to themselves, as I am, how did this chump snare a date with this? Here I am wearing a hoodie, Vans trainers and jeans that haven’t been washed in over four months. Rach on the other hand has dressed to impress. The contrast is massive but to be honest I didn’t care, I was more worried about Le Poisson Rouge.
 
We arrive at this desk and I say sheepishly that we have a reservation. Some poncey guy with a fake French accent looks me up and down. For a minute I didn’t think I was going to get in because either I was too underdressed or I was too ugly. Rach says ‘anything wrong?’ to which Vincent (what a prick) says ‘non, non, madame. Follow me s’il vous plait.” What a complete tool. He is clearly from Basildon but thinks he can impress Rach with his French accent. “Merci” I say. Have that Vincent you mug.
 
We get taken to our table. Vincent pulls the chair out from the table and lets Rach sit down. I was going to do that (I wasn’t). Big Vince is cracking on to my girl. Vincent then gives us two menu’s. One has a woman on it and one a man. I politely enquire what the difference is. Vincent explains the woman’s menu has no price on it. The man’s does. From that moment on I hate Le Poission Rouge.
 
I scan the menu…the prices!! Unreal. A bit of steak (kobe beef – no idea what that is) is £90…and that doesn’t include fries. Just for a slab of meet. £90 for a slab of meet?! Did Obama shit on it or something? I scan the rest of the menu – not a sign of chips. Every dish is some fancy French shit that is bathed in weird creamy sauces. It may as well be bathed in Matey bubble bath cos I am not going any where near it.
 
Vincent brings over the bread. He tells us where the bread comes from. Who gives a flying fuck Vincent. Just give us the bread and do one.
 
I go back to studying the menu. I am secretly praying that Rach will have the Veal Chops at a measly £20. I am desperate to show her the menu and the prices but I think better of it. On the table there are around 7 forks, 7 knives and 4 spoons. Why so many? Which ones should I use? I can’t even hold a knife and fork. There is also a gay rose and a candle. A guy with a violin comes over, you can sense Rach loves him. I on the other hand am desperate to stick my 7 forks straight through his violin.
 
He starts playing away and Rach gazes into my eyes. It is a real magic moment. Vincent is no where to be seen. The violin player is playing some Italian shit that even I like. Rach is looking outstanding. Is this the moment I lean over for a kiss? I decide it is too good an opportunity to waste.
 
I lean over, and as I reach out to kiss her I knock the candle on to the table. Wax slides down the edge of the table. The wax has dribbled on to Rach’s fine leg (not in the cricketing sense but rather her good looking leg). Rach screams in pain and jumps out of her seat knocking 3 forks into the air. The man with the violin is then hit with one of the errant forks. He screams. The table catches on fire. I panic and grab a clear drink from Table 9 and throw it on the table. It turns out the man was drinking a double G and T – this only leads to the inferno growing worse. The bread has hit the deck in the commotion. The table is literally ablaze. The sprinklers come on and I look left only to see Vincent in tears.
 
Rach has gone to the toilet, she is in agony. Rumours of a second degree burn are not without foundation. The violin man claims he will never play for Le Possion Rouge ever again. The sprinklers stop, the fire brigade have been and gone and Vincent has angrily moved me to a new table. The whole restaurant is staring at me. I feel their wrath with an intensity that is stronger than the flames that burnt table 4 to the ground five minutes ago.
 
Rach walks back, with a limp, and sits down. I desperately try to apologise, she is fuming, absolutely fuming. She is also in a serious amount of pain. I ask her if she wants to go home but she wants a meal as she is so hungry. That gives me two hours to save this date. Gregory walks over to us (Vincent has been sent home on compassionate leave) and asks us for our order. Rach has already hinted that the Veal chops will be her chosen meal which is of great relief to me. However, Rach has a massive change of heart…
 
“Yes I will have the Kobe beef, with the potato and vegetable option and a glass of house red”
 
I am stunned. Stunned. She hasn’t got the prices on her menu so doesn’t know how much it will cost me but basic arithmetic tells me it will cost me in the region of £150. Gregory walks away.
 
Rach says “I can’t wait for this beef, my leg is in agony, let’s hope it makes up for it”
 
Silence
 
“Rach, I don’t know how to ask you this. But can you change your order to the Veal?”
“Why? I want the beef”
“But the beef and the wine will cost me £150”
 
Silence.
 
I have never seen a girl look so angry, so scary and so fit all at the same time.
 
Rach gets up, limps over to Gregory. Happy days she is changing her order I think. However Rach keeps limping on past Gregory. Rach walks out of the restaurant. Now I don’t know all the first date signs but I am guessing this is not good. A minute later and a giddy Vincent (who is now back in the building) arrives with a slab of kobe beef…Le Poisson Rouge, how I hate you.

A decent set of cheekbones

Another day another leaving lunch. I stroll over to our local pub where Raymond (we have been told we are not allowed to shorten his name…I hate him) is being showered with gifts and given a novelty sized leaving card. No one likes Raymond, eveyone is delighted he is leaving but we still have to chip in to the collection. We still have to write a witty message in his leaving card and we have to go this pub to say goodbye tot he fat prick.

There must be thirty people in this pub, all of them sadder than the next. Housham stands up. Here we go.

“Raymond has been such a terrific servent over the years.”

No he hasn’t. He has only been in the team for 14 months and he is being made redundant because he is shite. Seriously shite.

“We will miss Raymond’s wit”

No we won’t. He has no wit. I have never heard the sad little man ever crack a gag.

“We will miss Raymond’s integrity”

Who’s written this speech? Integrity? He would kill his own mother (if she was alive) just to get on in life.

“Raymond is such a great team player…”

Team player? The fat shit doesn’t know any of our names. He doesn’t even know he is in a team.

“We will miss Raymonds generosity”

This needs to stop. Generosity? A collection went round for Lynn who’s husband had died and the so called generous one putin a pound only to take 50p back out. He put 50p in for the collection. I mean I don’t like Lynn but 50p, come on man, have some class.

“To Raymond. Wishing you all the very best in whatever you do next”

His name is fucking RAY. Who makes you call them Raymond? I hope he fails and fails big at whatever he does next.

Now that the speech is over I can mingle with the rest of the muppets in here. A guy comes over to me, his name is Mike. I barely know Mike. Mike works on the 3rd – at best we know each other well enough to say hello, blood brothers we aren’t. Mike comes over and…

“Stan I have wanted to tell you for a while now that I think you have the best defined cheekbones I have ever seen. You have an incredible jawline as well”.

Silence.

More silence.

What on earth do I say to that? Mike, who I barely know, has just walked over and said I – me, Stan – have incredible cheekbones? What does that even mean? Who comments on cheekbones. Why is a man telling me this? Why is Mike telling me this? Why not say hello Mike? Why have you told me this Mike? Focus. The silence is going on too long – I have to say something. Say something Stan. Think man. Say something. Anything.

“Thanks Mike, you too”.

That wasn’t the line Stan. Such a bafoon.

Mike’s face has lit up like a fruit machine. Is Mike gay? Could Mike be coming on to me right now? Shit, have I just told gay Mike that I think he has incredible cheekbones? I need to get out of this situation. I need to be saved. I play the fake phonecall card. I quickly get my phone out of my pocket and put it to my ear.

“Hi, yes, no sorry I can’t hear you. Let me pop out and I will be able to hear you then”.

I walk out the pub and then I run. I have never run faster in all my life. Back in the day I represented the borough for 100meters (I tell mates I represented the county. I tell Girls I represented the country) so this was no small feet. I was pounding through the streets of London. I get back to my desk, sweat dripping from my brow, blood filling my shoes. I unlock my machine and check my email..

“Mike Baffy (I know – such a ridiculous name)
Sent: 14:11
Subject: Drink
Body:
Hi Stan,

I think you have left the pub. Just wondered if you fancied a drink tomorrow night?

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

No. No. No. Mike, gay Mike, wants to go for a drink. Mike is putting kisses on the end of his emails. What do I email back to him and say? I have already told him he has incredible cheekbones. This is a disaster.

After much deliberation I decide to write back and tell him that whilst I am flattered, I am actually with someone and so can’t go for a drink with him. That way Mike doesn’t get hurt and I don’t have to share a Baileys and cherryade with gay Mike.

Mike mails back. Mike is crushed.

“Mike Baffy (the name seems more ridiculous each time you see it)
Sent: 15:19
Subject: Drink
Body:
Hi Stan,

That’s a real shame. But thanks for being honest. He is a lucky guy.

Mike x

Sent from my blackberry.”

Mike still thinks I am gay. Mike thinks that when I said I am with someone he thinks that means that that someone is a man. By not denying this, by not telling Mike that I am with a girl, I have effectviely been outed. This news will then travel through the office. Me and my cheekbones can kiss goodbye to any hopes of that drink with Steph. The tragic thing about all of this is that I hate confrontation that much that I will let Mike think I am gay. I will let the office think I am gay. I will just watch Steph from a far. When will I man up (unfortunate choice of phrase) and for once tell someone what is going on in this head of mine.

Raymond stumbles back into the office. Pissed as a newt.

“Do you like my cheekbones as well Stan” says a smug Raymond.

I lean back on my chair…

“Why don’t you do us all a favour and just fuck off Ray” looks like the process of manning up is underway…

Two DJs and an awful lot of waiting

I am in an awful way. I slipped over and my arm is more bent than Sepp Blatter. As soon as I slipped and hit the deck I knew I had broken it. Whilst the pain was unreal it was nothing compared to the next four hours of my life.
 
I ring my dad. In my dad’s youth he thought it would be a good idea to spin the decks and so created a DJ partnership with his mate Paul Graham. Paul and my dad (whose real name is Malcolm) decided they needed DJ names. It is worth pointing out that Paul Graham is not a cool man. My dad is not a cool man. And the names they gave themselves are, unsurprisingly, not cool names. I will never understand, until the day I die why they gave themselves these names but Malcolm and Paul Graham, from 1970 onwards, would be known as DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when they had their DJ name conversation. How did DJ Leeds ever get mentioned? Who thinks to themselves that DJ Leeds is the name that was needed for big Malc to reach his DJ potential. As for the great Ray Dane! His name wasn’t Ray, he didn’t know anyone called Ray. How on earth Paul Graham arrived at The Great Ray Dane only he knows.
 
Unfortunately for Leedsy and The Great Ray Dane the DJ career was over before it begun – they put the amicable split down to artistic differences. Leedsy still played the wedding circuit but something was missing. The dancefloor was emptying quicker than it used to. The laughs, well the laughs had gone. The music appeared to have died. It has been said the moment The Great Ray Dane walked out of the partnership was the moment DJ Leeds fell out of love with being a DJ. He should have sensed the writing was on the wall after the Massacre that was the Eastwood Community Centre 1971 – he couldn’t get anyone up and jiving. Leedsy by 72 had completely lost it and 18 months too late, decided to hang up the headphones. There are rumours, only rumours at this stage, that DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane may get back together for one last hurrah. Let’s hope the rumours are false and that we never see DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane in the DJ Booth for one last performance.
 
 
So I have rung my dad (Leedsy) to come and pick me up as I am in agony with my arm. He arrives and takes me straight down A&E. Leedsy had to get going (negotiations were in an advanced stage between him and The Great Ray Dane for a one off appearance at the nephews christening next week). So I struggle into the hospital with my arm looking blue and at an angle that makes even the most mentally tough want to gag.
 
Sweat is dripping from my face yet I am desperately cold. I shiver at the best times (I am incredibly weak and skinny) but my whole body was in spasm. The receptionist behind the desks asks ‘What is wrong’. What is wrong? I am no nurse, but I know my arm is completely fucked. You don’t need 7 years on a degree to work out that I may have an ‘Oowie’ on my arm. “It is my arm, I think it may be broken”. She looks me up and down, with disdain I may add, and says ‘Right fill this out”. She then chucks over a clipboard with a form.
 
This is ridiculous. My arm is about to fall off, literally about to fall on the floor and nurse Ratchet wants me to complete a form. A form so thorough that it seems to be asking questions like my favourite colour, my mum’s favourite meal, and my 2nd favourite N64 game. They also cleverly have a pen on a chain (presumably so no one runs off with it) which means I have to try and stretch and get the pen, which means I can not support my arm. I shriek in pain as I reach out for the pen. She then tells me to be quiet. It is at this point that I almost tear my arm from my socket and throw it at her. Fat bitch. She’s that shit a nurse that she has been demoted to sit behind some crummy desk. I somehow manage to complete the form and give it back to her. I secretly hope that is she picks up the paper she gets a massive paper cut but alas she doesn’t. She tells me to go over to the waiting area and that I will be called within two hours. Two hours! Two hours!! My arm is hanging on by a thread, I feel sick, I look like a smurf and I am sweating and shivering at the same time and she tells me it will be two hours. “That’s fine” I say. Why didn’t I kick off? Why don’t I tell what I really think? It is because I am a pathetic human.
 
I stumble over to the waiting area. My word…
 
It was like the Somme (although I have never actually seen the Somme or participated in either war this is how I imagined the Somme to be).
 
You’ve got screaming toddlers, people in wheelchairs, people without legs, bloodied bandages covering fucked up faces. If that wasn’t hellish enough we’ve got Loose Women on the TV and the vending machine is out of order. If, come judgement day, you get sent to Hell – this is what the waiting room for Hell will look like.
 
Everyone is looking at my battered arm. I am looking at a guy who has a – a werid tumour thing in his throat – it is HUGE. I can’t help but look. I avoid staring at the drunks. I begin to try and read ‘OK’ magazine – tears streaming down my face.
 
“Stan Bennett”
 
Yes. Yes. I am being called early. I go into this little room. The doctor instantly fills me with confidence…oh wait. “Which arm is it son” Take a guess you idiot. “It is the left”. “How did you do it?” He asks. Who gives a shit, just give me some drugs and get this thing into plaster. “I slipped over and it happened when I put my arm out to break my fall”. “Ok let’s see if we’ve got any movement” is he MENTAL? Movement! You move it pal it will fall off. You move it and I will cry and bite your ear off. He proceeds to move it. I wail in pain. I have never experienced pain like it. I imagine child birth but a whole lot worse. “Ok if you go back into the waiting area we will get the doctor to look at it…it will be about a two hour wait”.
 
A doctor? A two hour wait?
 
So all that has happened is that I have been taken into the pre waiting room – it is still a waiting room but it is smaller. They are so sneaky – they tease you. They make you think you are being seen to. All that is happening is that they move you from one waiting area to another. All they do in the smaller waiting area is find out what arm hurts and then send you packing back into the warzone. You then get called in by the next guy who then asks the exact same questions as the first. The only difference is that he is wearing a lab coat and makes slightly more notes than the first, his handwriting is invariably scruffier. In all the experience he has built up over the years he then makes the incredibly difficult, intelligent, decision to send you for an X-Ray. Cheers mate – I have waited over two hours for some chump who looks like a ghost to tell me to go and get an X-Ray. 7 years at Uni really has paid off. Unbelievably I then have to wait at the X-Ray area for another 45 minutes.
 
Hospital’s are just a series of waiting area’s. When you think you are making progress you realise you are just in another queue, in another waiting area. I hate them. I hate them so much.
 
Just when I thought I could take no more, just when I thought my pain had peaked, just when I thought this day could not possibly get any worse – I get a phone call…
 
“Me and the Great Ray Dane are back together” …
 
No amount of waiting had prepared me for this phonecall. The pain I felt in my arm had now completely subsided. I felt a new pain, a new sense of dread. DJ Leeds and The Great Ray Dane back together.
 
“Stan Bennett” I get taken into a room
 
“If you would just like to get a ticket Mr Bennett, the radiographer will see you when your ticket gets called”. More rooms, more waiting. This time I don’t mind. The longer I am here, the longer I wait, the longer I go without having to hear Leeds and Dane…

A long day

 
Why do things go badly wrong so consistently?
 
You’ve had a long day at work, Housham has inexplicably called a 5PM meeting. Housham is a complete tool. He is one of those that loves office jargon, he loves saying ‘across the piece’, he loves the phrase ‘quick win’s’, he doesn’t ask you to do something, oh no, he asks you to ‘action’ something. He loves ‘touching base’ – what the hell does that mean by the way? He has created a chart called ‘Best Practices’, he calls us into ‘flexi’ rooms to have ‘one to one’s’ and ‘edge conversations’. Basically this guy is a twat.
 
Housham has to do things his own unique little way. I once went to toilet and he washed his hands before he went in to toilet but once he had done destroying cubicle one he walked straight out without washing his hands. Not even a pretend wash, not even a token splash of water. I mean who washes their hands before they do their business but not after?
 
I have been sat on an ‘audio’ all afternoon, it is basically a weeks catch up of our ‘milestones’. Ah man it is dry. People rattling on about ‘slipped deadlines’. I literally could not give a shit. The meeting finishes at four, not before ‘AOB’ and the standard nothing question from Andy. Andy what’s the point in asking the question, even you don’t care about the answer. Andy is trying to brown-nose. I hate that guy.
 
So, the meeting has finally finished and Housham arranges a follow up at 5. Do me a favour Housham. We sit through the pain and at 5.45 we are finally let out the office. I press the button for the lift to go down, the button has clearly lit up. Sue comes along and also presses the button. What’s the matter Sue don’t think I pressed it properly? The button was lit Sue, you saw me press it Sue. Why, Sue, why do you still have the urge to press it? I get in the lift and no one is following basic lift etiquette, we are squashed in like sardines and you’ve got BO, farting, inappropriate chats, flirting, the whole lot going on. I just want to get home. Of course the lift is stopping at every floor and every fat person in the building thinks they can squeeze in. My face is now planted against the glass mirror, I am practically licking the glass. Could be worse…could be licking Sue. I hate Sue.
 
I begin to negotiate the tube and I push myself on at London Bridge. I literally can’t breath but I am on. You then get the idiot who decides that even though the warning sounds hear and the door begins to close, that he will attempt to squeeze on last minute. For some reason he didn’t fancy squeezing on 10 seconds ago. Oh no, he decides to play a little game, have a little fun, and attempt the squeeze at the last second. I get a knee to the balls for my trouble but at least he is on the tube ok. What a great relief. We get stuck in a tunnel, he decides he is going to attempt to read the Evening Standard so suddenly I have print all over my face. We begin to move and get to Elephant and Castle. A disabled man, in a wheelchair is outside. This is brilliant. I am desperate to get home but we’ll have to get the ramp out, rearrange the carriage, get ‘wheels’ onto the tube and then 15 minutes later be on our way. The beauty of it is is that he is only going one stop. I’m sure if we rallied round and pushed him hard enough we could roll him to Kennington.
 
Finally I get off of the tube, I walk up the left hand side of the escalator and tut at those who do not walk at the appropriate pace. I go to touch my oyster card but the man in front of me clearly has not topped up properly or has some problem with his oyster – the gate is not opening. Instead of moving out the way and letting the masses through he decides he will keep on trying. Look mate, it isn’t going to work. Do the right thing, step aside. Oh no, he keeps tapping away. He taps one side, flips the card, and taps with the other side. He gives it the lucky rub, he breathes heavily on it – all to no avail. He calls the guard over, he doesn’t go over to the guard, oh no he calls him over. I am so close to erupting – I have already had Andy and his stupid AOB, I’ve had tosspot Housham and his last minute meeting, I’ve had Sue, fat bitch Sue. I’ve had Kick me in the balls and Wheels. And now this chump. Finally the guard lets him through. I am on the home straight. Only Tesco to negotiate.
 
I am an experienced shopper. I know the supermarket layout. I know where milk is, I know where bread is, I know where the Jammie Dodgers are and I am fully aware of the Ready Meals aisle. I get my items, swiftly, efficiently – without incident. I scan the checkout area, I think about going to the self checkout but I know I’ll start to use it and will inevitably have to call for assistance as those things hate me. Either that or my milk will not scan and because I know I am too lazy to ask for help I will just decide to go the evening without the milk I so desperately wanted. A new cashier opens up, I spot the opening in the distance and manoeuvre myself to the queue. I am behind an incredibly old lady but she only has a pint of milk, some butter, and a yoghurt – let’s hope she isn’t lactose intolerant. This is great. I will be home soon.
 
I arrange my items on the belt, I am aware of the supermarket etiquette so I put my items into a tight pile so as to allow maximum belt space for others. I place the ‘separator’ onto the belt, behind my compact pile. I hope I’d get a thank you from the burly man behind me but alas it was not to be.
 
The old lady has just had her items scanned. What was concerning was that she was not packing as the cashier was scanning. I’ve always been an excellent packer but she was in no man’s land. She was not having a conversation with the cashier and she wasn’t packing. The cashier announces to the old lady that it will be £2.34 for her goods.
 
“Bit steep isn’t it deer. It never used to be this much in my day”
 
I am desperate to say something. I am desperate to tell her that £2.34 in her days is the equivalent to almost £300 pounds in today’s market. I bite my tongue.
 
What the old lady does next will haunt me for the rest of my days.
 
She gets out her cheque book.
 
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was £2.34, cheques have not been seen in public for decades. It was £2.34. You know what’s coming next – the cashier has not been trained on cheques. Superb. I think about quickly leaving the queue and going next door but I am in far too deep, my items are next in line, I am pot committed, I am going to have to wait it out. The supervisor comes over. She hasn’t got a Scooby either. The manager is called.
 
Four minutes in and I am seething. The old lady is now ‘The old bag’ in my eyes. I hate her.
 
I am so desperate I break my silence – “I don’t mind giving you the £2.34 for your items” I say
“Oh no dear. We got taught to pay our way” she replies
 
You Slag. Fortunately I didn’t say that out loud.
 
What was really getting to me throughout all this was that the old lady still hadn’t packed up her items. Come on love. Finally the manager comes racing down. It is a stupid looking 20 something who is in desperate need of prescription medication for his spots. They are truly awful. Give him his due though, he manages to guide ‘the old bag’ through the cheque process. It took him 9 minutes. I was beyond fuming. I think ‘the old bag’ needed a good rest and a sleep. I end up getting so irate that I am now packing the old bag’s bags. These sort of people need to be put down.
 
I eventually get out of Tesco to arrive home. I dive into my wallet, I begin the search for the keys. I don’t see them. This is bad. This is very bad. The rain begins, the frantic search continues. Nothing.
 
It’s at this point I think about ending it all. Instead I opt to sit on my seat, drink my milk and eat my Jammie Dodgers whilst the flood waters around me begin to rise. I get a call…It is from Housham.
 
“Stan, I have just found a set of key’s. I picked them up earlier but forgot to mention it. Any idea who’s they may be?”
 
 

Oh to be cool and good and looking

I wish I was cooler. I wish I was good looking.

I am out in a club, a club that is has one of the real edgy one worded names ‘Mineral’. I look up at the neon sign and I look at the smokers, I look back at the neon sign. I look back at the smokers, the lads are all decked out in the latest gear, wearing Sunglasses. The chicks are wearing ‘jeggings’. I look back at the neon sign. Mineral is not my natural home. I am not comfortable in this crowd. I know that. They know that.

‘ID?’

The bouncer looks like he was born in a tin, he literally has no neck and some of the most tightly compacted shoulders I have ever seen. My mates are cracking gags with the smokers. Mitch has started chatting up a girl in the queue. I am desperately fumbling to try and find my passport. I have a passport because I don’t drive. I don’t drive because I am not a cool man. I have a passport as my ID. I have a passport as my ID because I am not a cool man.

I’m in. I’m in Mineral and the ‘tunes’ are blaring. Everyone seems to be going mental to this song.  And I have absolutely no idea what tune it is. I look left, Mitch is casually tapping his foot to the beat, 2 girls are hanging off him. He loves it. Good luck to him. He is looking ridiculously smug and he has right to. These 2 girls are absolute dreams. Me, I have to focus on the ones that look like little pugs. Pugs are the ugliest kind of dogs. They look like deformed dogs. They are the retards of the dog world. I seem to attract pugs, they are all I attract. I look for a nicer breed but there’s no point in setting the goalposts high. I just accept if I pull above a 3.5 out of 10 I have done bloody well. If I pull above a 5 it may even warrant a Facebook status. If I pull above 6 even I won’t believe me. Mitch is loving it, a couple of eights draped over his shoulder. Lad.

I look to the right, Ray has his hands in his pocket and adopts the head bob – a move he pulls off so well. He takes his hand out of his pocket to sip on his pint. I do the same and take some Smirnoff Ice up through my straw. I choke on the Ice. Mitch and the chicka’s look around, this is not a good moment for me. Mitch goes back to tapping his foot, Ray goes back to the headbob. Me, well I cannot begin to even find the beat. I know none of the words, I find it all too loud. I am desperately hoping that Whitney or Bryan Adams come on but somehow I think ‘Mineral’ may be to ‘good’ for Whitney.

God I hate this place. The phrase fish out of water springs to mind. At least a fish can survive for a minute out of water. Me…me I am a dead man. I died as soon as I walked into shitty ‘Mineral’. I look around, desperate for a lifeboat when all of a sudden, right on queue, a little pug appears.

This girl is atrocious. Absolutely atrocious. You could do time if you get with her she is that bad. She looks like she belongs on one of those extreme channel 4 shows – ‘The girl who ate her own face’ or something equivalent. Has she no pride? How can she leave the house looking like this? For the first time in my long career I mentally hand out a negative rating. Unprecedented.

Still I’m not a proud man…I crack on to it.

The breath on this girl. My word. It gives halitosis a bad name. She has definitely shat herself as well. She had smells coming out of both ends. Mitch looks over to me, I can sense he wants to save me but then at the moment he begins walking Ray pushes him, proceeds to bollock him and persuades to get the camera out instead. Normally that would be ok as Mitch’s Casio is broken – broken in the sense that the zoom doesn’t work. Unfortunately for me no amount of zoom damage is going to prevent her from appearing. She is that big that the default camera setting will be too zoomed in.

The shame of me. Still desperately trying to find a beat, decking the Smirnoff (Ice) in the hope it will make her look more attractive. All the while trying not breath for fear that her odour will make me be sick in her mouth.

We start speaking, she sounds like she smokes 50 a day, she smells like she hasn’t heard of the word toothbrush before. I ask it what it’s name is (solid first line). ‘It’ starts to speak, (I am now calling ‘her’ ‘it’ as my memory has just caught up with how rank she was), ‘it’ responds – ‘Pat’. Pat?! Who at the grand old age of 24 is called Pat? I can only think it’s a nickname – like ‘Pat the dog’. We then begin a hideous conversation, ‘it’ tells me that ‘it’ has just got back from travelling the world – surprised the airline let her on. ‘It’ couldn’t have been allowed baggage as well…no way.

The convo continues, the shame deepens. In the end the 3 bottles of Smirnoff (Ice) catch up with me. I make my move, I close my eyes, I go in for the kill. ‘It’ recoils.

“What you doing” ‘it’ says,
“Sorry I thought you wanted to kiss” I retort,
“No. Sorry. I have got a boyfriend”
“Surely not” I say without thinking
“Surely not. How fucking dare you. Have you taken a look at yourself? I felt sorry for you that is why I came over” and with that barrage of abuse ‘it’ just walks off.

Ray and Mitch are in tears. Facebook has no doubt already been updated. I have just been rejected by negative 0.8, who’s name is Pat, who eats her own shit for breakfast and then doesn’t bother to clean her teeth. I’ve seen the term FML banded about before, never really understood it…until now

The horrors of the tube

Clapham South tube station on a Monday morning is like being in Hell’s waiting room. I am now an experienced ‘commuter’ and I know what carriage gives me the best chance of getting on. I know what carriage empties out at Bank – just 12 heinous stops away.

There we all are, packed in like a tin of sardines on this sweaty Monday morning. I place myself behind a man who is on his Blackberry. On his Blackberry. It’s Monday morning you sad, pathetic man. I shimmy up behind him and tactically place myself in to a position whereby I am able to read the Metro that a large lady dressed in orange is wearing. A tank of man tries to outflank me on the left but I am too shrewd for him and I carefully drop my rucksack in the gap that he wanted. I see a woman with a pram walking towards my group. Come on do me a favour, there is no way she is getting a pram on the tube. How naïve is she? A Chinese man ambles along the platform with a huge suitcase in tow. This Chinese man must have an ambitious streak in him if he thinks he is getting that case on to our tube.

‘Please stand back, the train is about to arrive’

The tube pulls in. You get a sense of how busy it is going to be by looking at the first carriage and seeing if there is space. If there is space then my carriage should be ok, if there is no space then my carriage will be carnage. As the tube rolls past me I see a wall of black, men in suits are pushed up against the door. Their faces are smack on the glass, their tongues literally licking the windows. It is a warzone. Still I am running late. The push begins.

The doors barely open such is the volume of people in the carriage. Blackberry is on, he has pushed his weigh past a stocky bald man who almost looks as though he is acting as bouncer for the tube. I managed to push my way past Metro Orange and the tank on my left. I am half on the tube half off. I see the lady with the pram take the safety catch off. Is she mental? You can’t get a pram on here! You can’t even get a baby on here let alone 4 wheels, two kids and her. I look behind me, panic is setting in. There is a man on a bike, on a bike?! Who brings a bike on to a rushhour tube? Here’s a novel idea mate, why don’t you ride the poxy thing once in a while? It’s at this point I wish I had a set of crutches on me. If I did I could legitimately make a claim for the disabled seat.

‘Bang’ I’ve taken one to the groin. The tank is on, how he has managed that I don’t know. But I am down. I am bent over and I am winded. From my bent down position I see Metro Orange make a move. You can’t be serious Metro Orange! She pushes in to me, which then drives an old lady back in to a young man. The carriage then rise as one.

“What are you doing, there’s no room, stop pushing”.

People think I am doing the pushing, they don’t realise Metro Orange is the one who has literally knocked over an old lady. Chinatown now fancies some of the action. He pushes his way on, his suitcase off. You can’t be for real Chinatown? There is no way you’re getting that on there. He yanks it up, straight on to my toes. Agony. What has he got in there?! The weigh is so great that I actually think two of my toes may be broken.
Blackberry bends down and helps pull the pram up. What is he doing? Can he not see how much trouble we are in. Get back on your mails you idiot.

The pram is a third in, 2 thirds off. The children are crying. The mum has a focus in her face that I’ve never seen. It is at this point I realise this pram is coming on to this tube.

‘Please mind the doors’

The pram goes straight into my knee. I’ve now taken one to the groin, my two toes are broken and the pram has struck my knee. The kids are standing on my feet, my poor toes. The doors close, blackberry helps push the mum in and they we all are. In a space no bigger than a toilet cubicle – Metro Orange, Blackberry, a pram, two kids, Chinaman, a case, the tank, an old lady, a young man and a bike. I have beads of sweat dripping from me, I feel nauseous from the blow I’ve taken to the groin and by the Tank’s halitosis.

My face is planted on the door, unable to move, I have an itch. Oh God the agony, I need to scratch my back, I need to scratch it now! I start rubbing my back against Metro Orange. I fear Metro Orange will cry rape but alas I do it anyway. Sure enough she let’s out a huff. I accept the huff, it could have been so much worse, and sure enough my itch had now passed.

What the heck is that? Blackberry smells it, Metro Orange smells it, the mum smells it.

“Mummy what is that?”

The kids smell it.

The tank has dropped one. It is hideous. Absolutely hideous. My word what has he had for breakfast? Smells like he has puked up a shit. It is rank.

“Sorry for the slight delay, we will be arriving to Clapham Common shortly”.

This is horrendous, I’ve got a bike up my arse, a pram in my nuts and a fat man’s poo particles up my nose. I am sweating out last night’s vodka and I’ve got two little idiots playing a game of eye-spy. It is so obvious the answer is pram.

“People…”
“No”
“Passenger”
“No”

Unable to take it anymore. Unable to take Chinatown’s case resting on one foot and a pram on the other. Unable to take the God awful music coming from Lance Armstrong behind me. Unable to take the gut wrenching smell. I flip out. I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it.
I cry out ‘Pram’, it’s ‘Pram you idiots’. They start crying, the mum starts shouting, the old lady gives it ‘well you wouldn’t have seen that in my day’. The carriage as one judge me. I can feel Chinatown’s sense of disappointment. All of a sudden Blackberry isn’t emailing anymore. Metro Orange has put her Metro down. The music stops from Lance.

We roll into Clapham Common, the sense of hatred building.

“Please mind the gap”

The doors open. I am almost pushed out of the tube but I somehow stay in. It is at this point I look up to see what fresh hell awaits me from Clapham Common. As I look up I see a man in a wheelchair…with a carer. Game over. Wave the flag. Sign the Armistice.

The disabled toilet

I appreciate there are few perks involved with being disabled – car parking space aside, there is one massive advantage as far as I can see and that is the disabled toilet.

For those who brave the staff communal toilet and I salute those who do, when you sit in the middle cubicle flanked either side by your manager and by your apprentice you know you should not make noise. You know you should stop yourself from releasing almighty groans. You know you can’t explode like what you can at home. The reason is that you leave that toilet and you have to look your manager and your apprentice in the eye knowing they have just heard you struggling to releive yourself, they have heard your satisfaction when the deed is finally done. How do you look them in the eye? How do you ive with yourself knowing that your manager heard those ‘special sounds’.

Eerie silence fills the toilet until big Chris, the manager, cannot take it anymore and lets rip. You can hear the relief, like machine gun fire the noise gets greater, until a deafening creschendo fills the cubicle of floor 4. The apprentice cannot take it anymore, he has his alibi, he knows I know that Chris has gone. The apprentice can time his sweet relief to coincide with Chris’ ecstacy. The smells are now filling the air, I gasp for breath. Desperate to get out of the warzone but I fear that the innocent bystanders at the urinals will think it is me causing this destruction if I get out of the cubicle first. I have to bide my time. I have to wait. Chris finishes up, the apprentice too is done. I
sit, pants down, waiting for them to leave. I am desperate for oxygen. I promise myself never again. There must be an alternative. I can’t take the smell anymore, I pull my pants up. I listen out – coast is clear I can leave the toilet.I have still to do my business but I know that there is a disabled toilet on the 3rd floor. The disabled toilet…my mecca

I struggle down to the third, fearing sudden movements could prove costly. I get into the disabled toilet and let me tell you it is a palace. What a toilet. A fresh smell oozes from the 4 air fresheners that adourn the walls. The paper is ‘Tesco Finest’, the seat has a cushion, the mirror is full length, there are two sinks, there are multiple ways in which you can dry your hands, there are magazines and fancy soaps, there is toothpaste and handcream. Disabled people have it bad in so many ways but disabled toilets is where they win their money back.

I sit down, door locked, magazine in hand and do my business. I am in the zone, I am at total peace with the world when ‘Hello, is someone in there’. Silence. ‘Hello is anyone in there’ says the anxious man on the outside of toilet. Here I am with the ultimate dilemma, play dumb and hope his disability prevents him from realising that I am in the toilet. Or come clean and admit what it is I have done. ‘I really need the toilet, please hurry up’. Panicking I have a quick wipe, ditch the magazine and head for the door. I know there is a blind man who works on the third so if I can crack open the door, I can sneak out and he never need know it was me who was doing the dirty in his palace. I go to unlock the door and open it. It is stuck. The toilet door is stuck. There is a disabled man outside busting for the toilet, I – able bodied – am in the
disabled toilet and it is stuck.

I panic, I tell the man I am just finishing off and will be one minute. I am desperately trying to get the door open. The man is beginning to moan with pain. What if he has a kidney condition? What if he dies because of me and my need to avoid communal toilets? I am frought with panic. I look around and see that there is a red cord next to the toilet ‘pull if you get into difficulty’ sensing the man may not last much longer I pull the cord. A siren suddenly penetrates the air. You can hear the panic of the 3rd floor. A man comes over the intercom in the toilet ‘are you ok? Someone is running up to see you now. Do you need an ambulance?’ Someone is running up to see me! Do I need an ambulance! This is a nightmare! A bloody nightmare! A voice from outside ‘sir, sir are you ok? We are just getting the door open. Can we do anything for you? Please, please answer’. What do I do now. I stutter and reply I am ok.

What will the disabled man think, what will floor 3 do to me? Here I am, preventing a disabled man from using his toilet. Here I am causing receptionists to run to my aid. Here I am causing panic to ambulance staff across the city of London.

The door opens.

There is a crowd of around 20 people. The smell from my poo wafts through the air, the disabled man is bent over double desperate for the toilet, the receptionist is sweating, people are now gagging from the heinous smell. I do the only thing that I can do in this situation.

I feign a mental illness.

Just when I think my life cannot get anymore pathetic I decide to try and pretend I am mentally handicapped to get out of my tight spot. No one cares now about the blind man bent over double, they are just concerned with my fragile mental health. I make a vow to myself from that moment, as I start deliberately slurring my words and playing the part of a man with learning difficulties, that I shall never use the disabled toilet again. At least not on the third floor anyway.

Strange lands and stranger people

I am writing this from the west coast of America, I am on holiday and I am in a land where the people frighten me.

The whole holiday experience is a bizarre one. It starts with the airport – ‘has anyone packed anything without your knowledge’ – what am I meant to be, clairvoyant? The clue is in the question – ‘without your knowledge’. I wonder how many people at this point turn round and say ‘oh yes, Chris apparently planted a bomb in my case but I only heard that second-hand so I could be wrong’.

I then walk through the scanner, now for some reason I am always horribly nervous at this point. I know for a fact I have no knives on my person, I don’t carry a gun nor do I house explosives in my pants but as soon as I walk under that scanner I am filled with enormous worry. It beeps, I then get the angry man who hasn’t had a bit in years start touching me up. What’s he going to find I think, what have I forgotten to remove. Alas it was only my belt. Hank is fuming. ‘Can you not read, belts are to be placed in the bucket’. He orders me back through.

The mutterings begin, I know they are talking about me. I want to say something but I fear the wrath of Hank. I undo my belt and place it in the bucket. My trousers promptly fall down. The reason I wore the belt was to keep the trousers up, remove the belt and the trousers will obviously fall down. The crowds that had built up behind me give me wolf whistles, I am a celebrity – I lap it up! I pull my trousers back up comically high and then let them hit the floor again ‘this guy is crazy’ says a member of the gathering crowd. I am crazy, I love my audience and they love me. ‘Yo, asshole – walk through the gate’ Hank swiftly brings me back to earth. Like most celebrities my fame is short lived. I now get on the plane.

I always sit next to the idiot on the plane, without fail. The guy who wants to talk to me. The guy who has no life so decides he will try and ruin mine for the next 9 hours. He is not interesting nor funny. ‘Hi I’m Steve’ he says. At this point I just want to get off the plane and head home. Why do people feel the need to be friendly just because we are going on holiday. I don’t jump on the tube and promptly introduce myself to all the chinese students aboard my carriage. Steve and I will never meet again, we obviously live far away from each other. He is
considerably older than me. The only thing we have in common is that we are going to America. I wanted to sleep, watch my films and maybe throw peanuts at the cabin crew and see if I can get away with it. Steve puts paid to my hopes and dreams.

11 hours later we land. Steve has lived a sheltered life, he wants to meet in LA – not going to happen Steve. I know everything about Steve. 4 cats – Bill, Ben, Jack and Jill (an insight into Steve’s character). He has never married, nor does he have kids. Steve rents his flat in paddington London. Steve has recently retired due to ill health and Steve thought he would try America before his time ran out. In 11 hours of flying and 11 hours of talking to Steve I realised there was not a single thing I liked about him. He smelt awful, ate like a chimp, had no social awareness and did not realise that I hated him. Why is it just because I am on holiday I have to make an effort with this chump. If I was at home he would never have spoken to me. I like that, I like the fact I can pick and choose my friends rather than them being dictated to me by seat number. Steve is the sort of guy that when the Airline announce boarding he begins queuing. We have seat numbers Steve, you can sit down – they won’t fly without you. Why do people insist on doing this? obviously because Steve stood up and started queuing the herd of sheep behind him did the same.

Still I was in a fresh country, the sun was shining and despite it being less sunny and less warm than home I put my sun cream on – something I have yet to do at home. For some reason in my head I am more likely to burn abroad than at home despite it being colder. I am doing this trip on a huge budget and have therefore booked into a hostel. This is a huge risk for me. All I want is a bed – I won’t be in the hostel for long, I just want it for sleep. Of course as I enter my room the cast of Cats decide to introduce themselves. There are about 6 people in room 102. All of whom are duller than the next. But they are ‘travelling’. They are finding themselves, they are making life long friends – just because they have no chance of making friends at home most likely down to the fact that they are in fact insanely boring people. That is why they decide they must rent a bike and cycle the city, go and do some handglinding and hike wherever possible. They then arrive in a hostel and say ‘oh this is nothing like Sydney, I met this girl called Puma, she was Swedish and like totally crazy. We went on like the most epic bender and then I shagged her and her 3 mates’.Firstly this clearly didn’t happen. Secondly stop using the word ‘like’ and thirdly Who gives a shit. Why can’t these people keep their boring tales to themselves.

I haven’t left the hostel yet – I am being bored by the outback, Africa and Tubing. This holiday of mine could be good, it can be great providing people remember the rules of home. We don’t speak to strangers, we don’t care about the lives of the random, if your unpopular at home don’t try and make up for it out here. Just let me enjoy my holiday, let me eat my steak in peace, let me lay on a beach, I don’t want to go for a walk with you, I don’t care if you’re 70 next week Steve. Just because we are in a different country doesn’t mean all these people can all start acting so differently. You are travelling – so why don’t you just do that and leave us all alone to do the same. I am fed up of this room, I am fed up of these people – I want to see America.