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Friday, October 08, 2004

Flight DJ266: A knocking shop with wings

Fantastic I thought, my connecting flight from Brisbane is not delayed. No hilarious antics from Virgin Blue ground crew to put up with. I march across the tarmac whilst being alert for any suspicious lurkers, union reps, teenagers and terrorists and approach the plane. Ignoring, as usual, the soft porn logo on the front of the plane ("Syndey Slapper" I think the name was on this one) I march up the stairs. Before I continue, let me dwell on the soft porn aspect of the plane. What would be Bransons opinion if it was suggested that it was a sex object? "Tasteful", I imagine his reply would be. "Tasteful" is usually a word used to hide an embarassed woody, or an excuse given if your wife/girlfriend/fluff on the side finds a hidden stash of pornos, as in "But they're tasteful Jeanette". What would be the arguments against having a semi naked bloke on the front of the plane called "Darwin Diggler"? "Well its a bit poofy", or "Women are more beautiful". Now what gender would come up with these arguments? Anyway, I board the red throbber and take my seat. As usual my boss rings me, hence announcing to the other passengers that I am a dickhead who was not turned his phone off. Much shaking of heads and tutting. Forget JI, the real threat are those Scandinavian fundamentalists Nok i Ah. SPECTRE like genius has made sure that everyone carries a device that can blow up petrol stations, make you drive like you've sunk a keg, and crash planes. And if that doesn't work, you'll end up with a brain tumour. Then the fun begins, "Let me introduce my crew, Megan is from Salt Lake City. She has lost her accent but is still into polygamy. Any intersted blokes should approach her". Cue raucus cheering from majority male passengers. Oh I stand corrected, Virgin Blue are not sexist there's something for the ladies too, it appears that the male crew were former members of Manpower so we are going to be treated to Shannon clenching his bum muscles. No cheer from the blokes for that one, but I heard a squawky titter a few rows back. Give me strength. I've tried striking up a conversation with the blokes next to me, one who looks the result of an unholy union of Christopher Shiel and Tim Blair, and another who looks like he's going to give his wife a bit of rougher than normal treatment when he gets home. The sort who says, "Oh go on, your sister did". "So, what do you reckon will happen tomorrow?" is my opening gambit. Wife basher says, "Who knows, but at least the media have been impartial". Tim Sheil says, "I don't know, it will be close but Howard has a good record." Fucking magic I think, not only have I stepped on board a flying Rooty Hill Leagues Club, I'm sitting next to two brainless sheep. (Pause as I turn my laptop and dim the screen so that Chris Blair can't see what I'm typing.) Still they have come a long way since I left my book on a plane and had to go to the wittily named "Luggage Blues". The conversation went like this:
"What was the book called?"
"Baudilino by Umberto Eco"
"Albert who?"
"B-A-U-D-I-L-I-N-O U-M-B-E-R-T-O E-C-O'
"Ok, (on the walkie talkie to the gate) We have a passenger who's left a book on the plane. It's called Bodyline by Albert Cow"
other end of walkie talkie
"Bordello by Englebert Humberdinck?"
etc etc.

Shit, I better stop as this guy next to me has finished reading the job ads in the Fin Review and his eyes are wandering. Anyway, I'm sitting here waiting for my scotch and coke and I'm looking forward to the next act "Bendy Wendy".


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