|BBC.co.uk? Just putting you though...|
Monday, 8 February 2016
Tuesday, 3 September 2013
|Groom, Dear Lady Wife and Groomsman in spitroast shocker.|
|Insert caption here...|
Thursday, 29 August 2013
When I last left you I had cleared security and boarded a flight to Australia. This was largely un-eventful with the exception of one issue which I refuse to let pass. Sadly this post involves toilet humour.
Strangely, just like the last post, this is in fact a queuing issue. So, at the back of our plane where we are sat there are two toilets. As the plane is wide, there is a middle bank of seats, resulting in queues naturally forming for the toilets on either side of the plane. These queues are managed by an old-fashioned thing called good manners. If you are at the front of your queue, then you are facing the leader of the other queue across the width of the plane. If a toilet becomes free then either you, or the person you are facing grabs a toilet, depending which of you was there first. Does any of the above sound like rocket-science beyond the grasp of the average tool-wielding chimp, let alone human?
|The Nirvana we dreamed of|
I have reached the front of the queue on my side of the plane. This position is by an exit door, so I spend my time watching nothing in particular whilst I wait for nature to take it's course in front of me. The lady facing me who shall be named
Superbitch Lady A is, based on the system outlined above is after me. All is well in the world.
At this point the toilet in question becomes vacant. The door opens, someone leaves, avoiding the carnage that is about to ensue.
S uperbitch Lady A stares down Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B. Words are exchanged. S uperbitch Lady A wins the war of words, taking the cubicle with her. Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B, remains stoically in front of me, intending to take the second available cubicle.
This is too much, at this point I have choices. I could make a scene, which would be a much larger scene as she has no intention of backing down twice, or back down. I choose a third option, being that we are close to landing, which is to wake the Dear Lady Wife from a deep slumber to tell her all about it. She is not amused.
Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B has not finished with me yet. When the plane lands it transpires that Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B is only sat a couple of rows in front of me. I am in the process of dis-embarking, about to pass the seat where Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B resides. She has not as yet retrieved here hand-baggage (which I presume to be a broom-stick and a very angry black cat) from the overhead storage lockers. Undoubtedly spying me with her third eye, she decides to start this process whilst I am parallel with her. She does this by throwing her not inconsidable body mass in my direction, propelling me into the right hand row of seats as she retrieves her items.
When I recover, and rejoin the shuffling ranks exiting the plane, I find myself behind her and her family. She only stops to talk for ten minutes to each flight attendant she passes on the way out of the plane, deploying that body mass in such a manner that means she won't be passed. I wonder whether urinating down her skirt is unacceptable behaviour on a long-haul flight, as I still haven't been.
|Ah, this will be the luggage|
Eventually we clear
Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B and security and spot her and her brood once more awaiting the arrival of the luggage. Our cases emerge first, a small victory, but you have to hold on to what you can. As I leave the baggage area I spy a long item of luggage which definitely isn't a case wrapped in brown paper retrieved by Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B... Yep that'll be the broomstick.
Myself and the DLW are now in Australia. Who knows what will happen next. More soon Dear Reader.
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
A dear friend is getting hitched in Australia, which provided enough excuse for me and the Dear Lady Wife to finally make the journey from the UK to Sydney. This was an interesting journey, dotted with notable events, some of which I will attempt to recapture here.
We begin at Heathrow Airport, Terminal 3. We have arrived unfashionably early, as we have many important supplies to acquire at the airport. The intention being to breeze through check-in and security leaving us two hours to eat and purchase the essentials for the trip.
You may have encountered a device like before, it is called the tensabarrier. This device, linked to a huge number of it's friends are deployed in airports throughout the world to control tired and irritable travellers at check-in and security to stop riots from occurring. Sometimes, they are deployed for a bit of a laugh, which was the approach of the airline here. So, the check-in queue, which already resembles the world's largest conga line has spilled beyond the control of the tensabarrier colony currently deployed. We are currently queuing in the "beyond the conga line" part of the queue. A representative of the airline addresses the area "beyond the conga line", excited we think more of the numerous currently empty check-booths to our left will be opened and this is where we were going. We were wrong. A new colony of tensabarriers had been hastily assembled to control the area "beyond the conga line". We were now part of the "outer conga line". There is a gap of a couple of metres to the "inner conga line", this is the "conga-less zone", an area so riddled with unseen danger and peril that an airline attendant has to guide people across it. You can imagine my amusement.
Several months pass, during which time we cross the "conga-less zone" without incident, and approach the end of the "inner conga zone". At that point another attendant of the airline asks if anyone on the several flights preceding ours are in the queue. Several people behind us stick up their hands. I initially presume they are going to be told that they are too late for their flight and settle in for the wailing, shouting and fighting to ensue. Image my horror when it transpires they were being allowed to "conga line jump", thus further delaying our journey. By this point I was ready to have them shot.
A mere week later and the queue jumpers have been
shot checked-in. We made the front of the line. As always, at this point all check-in desks are populated by family groups spanning five generations, all of whom have, unbelievably, considering how long they have been in the "inner conga line", not got their documentation to hand. I wonder whether tossing imaginary hand-grenades in an airport is an act of terrorism.
Then a gap, and we check-in. This takes less than a minute, which leads to question it was taking so long to check everyone else in. Never mind, we are through, to security, anyway.
I wish I could say this bit was easier, but I am not that good a liar. The signs on the walls make it quite clear what you must do before going through security. Strip down to bare essentials, no belts, shoes, whips, concealed hand-guns etc. Also no liquids, everyone clear on what a liquid is? It is the sloshy stuff that isn't solid. Why am I always waiting for someone to throw away three gallons of the sloshy stuff? Why do they always have to re-pack their hand luggage as a result of doing this? We clear security, leaving only twelve minutes to board. Just about enough time to have a meal and buy some magazines and make last call for boarding feeling thoroughly sweaty and bedraggled. It can only get better.
More soon Dear Reader.
Thursday, 1 August 2013
- Dear Lady Wife (from this point forward DLW) has parked in a car park on a Monday, purchasing a weekly ticket. She has a fractious history with the car parking attendant
- DLW departing car park on Monday on a hot day with windows open encounters a mischievous gust of wind, ticket flies out of window. All should be good, as the receipt has not suffered the same fate
- On Tuesday DLW displays the receipt, assuming that this would be sufficient proof of ticket purchase.
- Receives a parking contravention ticket.
- On Wednesday DLW displays the receipt again, assuming that this would be sufficient proof of ticket purchase.
- Receives a parking contravention ticket.
|Come on, do your worst!|