Put your ear to my ear while I’m spending 10 hours trapped over the Atlantic with no wifi, and this is what you will hear…
1. The experience of a long haul flight is a lot like trying to tell someone you like that you like them, in that it involves a lot of preparatory time hanging around doing absolutely nothing but fretting about all the stuff that could go wrong, then sitting in silence for hours, feeling utterly out of control, too nervous to breathe or live or think about anything other than the broiling rumbles through your bowels. And at the end of it, you’re either puked into an arrivals hall or out of a Wahaca, and that desperate stink of sweat and panic is not going to get anybody laid.
2. The genesis of that metaphor, and the reason it makes entirely no sense, sits across the aisle from me; a genuine hunk shucked from another dimension made of that bit of the early nineties when men thought that the gender juxtaposition of hooped earrings in both ears and a long, shimmery fountain of freshly-conditioned womanly hair pouring over their bare bulging chest muscles would make any girl just shut up their yapping and blow them already. Aisle-hunk orders two mini-bottles of red to go with his super-heated airplane slop of “suggestion of beef and sadness”, and secures my interest. He then calls back the steward with an equine swish of his sadly tethered mane for another bottle, and steals my heart and soul. By the time he requests a fourth bottle in lieu of post-slop caffeinated liquid heartburn, he’s the greatest hero of our times, a true altitudinal legend, and we are galloping together across the cloudy plains, the upper atmosphere crystal clear, the stallion thundering passionately underneath our entwined thighs, the pure sun glinting off our gleaming naked torsos, there’s dragons everywhere, and my boyfriend elbows me sharply in the ribs and barks “I can hear you muttering “Oh Khaleesi, my Khaleesi” over the bloody jet engines, shut the fuck up.”
3. Going to the toilet on a plane is only fun if you wait till there is the beginnings of turbulence (or, as I like to call it, fuckoffy-air) and bolt into the bog, locking yourself into what amounts to a mirrored coffin, and look at yourself dead in the eye in as many reflections as you can as you danger-piss through a simulated earthquake which could result in you plummeting 37,000 feet into a vast uncaring ocean, all the time remembering that in the incredibly unlikely event that anyone ever finds your corpse, the one sure fact that they will be able to take back to your grieving friends and family, the one crumb of truth to give them comfort as they consider your abrupt and violent removal from their lives, is its pants will be round its ankles.
4. The trouble with listening to the rich and sonorous tones of them bloody talented blokes on the Regular Features podcast in an oxygen-rich environment like the inside of a Boeing 777 is that one moment you are near hysterical over the in medias res opening of a tale of the Zeno’s paradox of lowering one’s buttocks onto a non-existent toilet seat, and the next you suddenly wake up and jesus christ are they pretending to be Philip Seymour Hoffman and reading out an obituary or suicide note or something and is that still funny or are you crying because it’s sad or you just love these boys so much that it’s probably a bit tragic but they’re so funny so funny but there was that one time you met them and lost your shit completely and came across like a demented stalker with a bad vocabulary and that was a terrible thing so you should be crying you are awful and you should feel awful.
But then you realise that it’s probably just the 100% oxygen high. Still, Regular Features. Four men shoot the shit in an entertaining and amiable way and will, knowing them, one day cover the various permutations of literally shooting the shit. 10/10.
5. ”As I lie here on my deathbed, and images from my life drift past like dandelion heads on the breeze, I see many beautiful things; I see the warm glow of sunrise over the skyline of Tokyo, I see the shy smile of my beloved on our wedding day, I see the dazzling colours of the first MS Paint collage I ever made. And I would have seen the stark and brutal beauty of a thousand square miles of untouched Canadian ice-bound plains but at that moment they came round with ice creams and I pretty much drop-kicked a toddler out of the way to race back to my seat to claim one, so. Never mind eh? Can someone get me a Cornetto now, actually? Sticking to 5:2 is frankly pretty pointless at this point in tiBEEEEEEEEEEEP”
- *ten minutes pass*
- she’s still watching it. Look at her. With all that mirth she’s flicked her perfect severe black asymmetric bob right into her perfect ironically red lipstick. The meta-Inception bullshit of the hipster watching hipsters taking the piss out of hipsters is so wink-wink self-satisfied cackled laughter over brunch in a place I would never get a table in, I want to hulk-punch straight through the bulkhead door. Godammit I’m so angry.
- *two minutes pass*
- it does look quite funny though.
- *three episodes of Portlandia pass*
- OK must google Fred Armisen’s address when we land. And that should be *just* enough blood to scrawl an oath of eternal love on this handy sickbag! *sucks on suppurating wound on own palm*
Damn. Portlandia is funny.
7. An equation to summarise other AV fun enjoyed during this flight: the total sleekness quotient of all the hair in The Good Wife x the decibel rating of the creakiness of late-season Buffy x how little I care for the matriarchal bitch-fight bore-off of August Osage County = one millionth of the sheer mesmerising power of the four most significant breasts in American Hustle.
8. DID I JUST SING OUT LOUD TO GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD
9. Flying is the worst and I personally despise every sufferer of any disease in human history for distracting science’s attention away from the development of a painless teleportation system or liberal attitude to ether comas.
10. On the other hand, it’s lucky I’m a rich, middle class, London-based, Generation Y irony-drenched volume-control-deficient attention-stuffed but love-starved wah wah crybaby know-it-all one-woman mission to paper the whole internet in pseudo oh-so-spontaneous-by-which-I-mean-take-20 pseudo self-loathing-but-pixel-perfect selfies self-aware self-aggrandising self-centred wankhole, because that’s the only type of person who could possibly think that having to get on a plane and be inconvenienced for less than half a day, or even think that being given a comfortable seat on what amounts to a metal tube full of Netflix and unlimited booze and stunning vistas over unspoilt miracles of Earth’s purity on a vast unimaginable scale would even be an inconvenience, is something that is acceptable to screech and whine and ball their fists and stamp their pre-scuffed Converses over.
I am the worst person in the world!
11. But I am the worst person in the world in CANADA!
And at least travel doesn’t make me histrionic.