How the other side flies

Posted on Dec 1, 2012 by headinablender

One of the perks of working in the travel industry, other than cheap holidays, is the opportunity to upgrade on a flight for free. One of the great things that comes with a flight upgrade is the opportunity to get access to the special airport lounges.

Guess where I am right now.

There are a few things I’ve noticed that I’d like to share…

Firstly, I’ve noticed how I carry myself at all times when I know I’ve got an upgrade; head high, acting like I do this all the time, saying thank you instead of cheers…general full on twat behaviour.

Secondly, I feel like I’m undercover and at any moment I’ll be ‘found out’ by the actual paying poshies as a fraud and poshly thrown out. This doesn’t go away even though we know the people at the welcome desk to the lounge who are happy for us that we got free access. Somehow I still feel the eyes of the wealthy boring through my disguise to the pauper underneath.

And let me talk a little about these creatures of affluence; these money drenched drips. There’s a certain kind of style of person that you only find in special flight lounges, and possibly at posh horse racing events. They tend to wear clothing ne’er seen in high street shops, but rather at boutiques named after other priggish pricks with equally pompous names like ‘Whittingtons’, ‘Bletherington Smythe’ or ‘Turtle Kuntz’.

Here are some examples:

Women
– Big fur hats, not unlike those worn by Russian Kossaks, or the guards at Buckingham Palace. It resembles a large sticky doughnut that’s been rolled in King Kong’s pubic hair.
– A poncho/pashmina/tablecloth made of Balinese silk woven by free range gibbons fed on unicorn meat and fairy urine. As a result it costs more than my entire holiday and makes them look like a walking table.
– Huge sunglasses, and I mean ‘make you look like a wasp’ big! They usually have a massive D&G logo on the side, presumably to strengthen the frames to keep their massive fat heads from hitting the edges of doorways.
– Multiple scarves, usually made of satin, with designs ranging from anchors and ropes, to zebras and various animal prints…or are they the actual animals? Probably.
– Hair from 80’s porn.

Men
– Jumper over a shirt

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Oh, and leather pads on the elbows of whatever they’re wearing.

There’s just not enough denim going on.

Still, as I was once told, even the queen has to poo from time to time and it reminds me that these people are, after all, just people like you and me (except with helicopters, swimming pools and under stairs staff on hand to wipe their bums). This became a harsh reality when I used the toilet and had that unnerving sensation of the seat still being warm from the last bum to have graced this porcelain throne.

(Shudder)

I must admit I was tempted to stand up and look in the toilet to see if they really did shit money, but then I realised they’d probably flushed it away, or bought duty free with it.

I wonder who wiped them today?

Hmm…

Anyway, all of this, and I mean every little bit if it, is tolerable because after all….I don’t turn right when I get on board the plane today 😉

To pass or not to pass?

Posted on Oct 31, 2012 by headinablender

Readers of this blog (or my Facebook page) will have noticed that I have the occasional (ahem) issue with the shuffling morons I share my commutes with every day.

There is, however, another type of commuter that I feel needs a mention.

This one isn’t as slow as the others, nor are they as randomly multidirectional as their brethren. These ones tend to walk with purpose and determination, usually at a speed just slow enough to attempt overtaking them, but fast enough to fail. Trying to pass these people means speeding up to a point where it actually starts to become uncomfortable and you look awkward because, well, you’re practically running.

If you do manage to overtake them you then have to decide; do you slow back down to your normal speed (which might make you look a bit stupid as they’ll inevitably walk past you and put you back to where you started), or continue walking really fast like someone needing to poo?

Tough decision.

Unless you actually need to poo.

The Turdminator

Posted on Oct 10, 2012 by headinablender

I’m sat on the train late at night and a guy has just got on and parked himself next to me.

He’s not a small guy. In fact, I’m now getting very intimate with the window as I’m pushed up against it.

But the weird thing about Shrek here is the way he’s breathing. Every breath has that strain like he’s bending out a fresh biscuit in his shorts. His massive, massive shorts.

Any minute now I’m expecting him to shout “finished!” followed by that warm pungent odour of fresh man manure. And I think to myself, whilst wedged up against the upholstery, that by the looks of him it won’t be a small chipolata affair.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not mocking obesity as I myself was a lot larger up until about a year ago, but logic tells me that the more food he puts in, the more poo he’ll put out. Fact.

So what if he really is squeezing one out? What if my suspicions are correct? Then what?

Shit.

Stag do doo…

Posted on Sep 16, 2012 by headinablender

Hangovers. They’re fun aren’t they?

Having just returned from a stag night out in sunny (ahem) Newcastle, I’ve found it amusing just how a collection of hungover guys recall the events of the night before. Well, I say recall, but actually most of us needed it described back to us accompanied by wincing faces, looks of disbelief and the occasional ‘no, really? Awesome’.

In much the same way we call a collection of lions a pride, I shall now refer to a collection of painfully hungover guys as a ‘shame’.

My most amusing observations of the morning (which wasn’t easy through eyes that felt like they’d been dipped in gibbon piss), was when the stag suggested that one of the shame had probably been bumming a chimp at some point. I have to say I laughed so hard I nearly followed through…

…which is my main topic about the morning after the night before. The PAP. Or as some call it, the Post Alcohol Poo.

Us guys, and indeed any shame when sharing a hotel room, like to offer a thin threat of suffocation and toxic choking by announcing that at some point we’re going to need to drop a shit that resembles King Kong’s thumb. This is usually met with nods of acceptance, followed by the occasional “me too”, or “let me brush my teeth first”. I can only assume the last one is due to fear of the brush actually melting in the Chernobyl-ish meltdown that it’ll be subjected to. Plus who wants to put that in their mouth after your mate has dropped off the kids at the pool and stunk out the bathroom….and the bedroom…..and the corridor……

In fact, come to think about it…I could smell it in reception when we left.

And yet, despite there being a mutual understanding that the aftermath of last night’s poorly chosen kebab is soon to make it’s debut appearance in a toilet bowl near you, it’s still met with “faaaarkin’ ‘ell mate! What crawled up your arse and died??”.

I don’t think housekeeping get paid enough.