Rubbish at gayness March 28, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: flying, gayness
Girls, you don’t know what you’re missing out on by me being in the gayers.
Though I might make a rubbish het too.
I am shit at decisions. Yesterday, I flew. A chap asked me to check one of his bags on for him so he wouldn’t go a gazillion kilos over his limit. I wrinkled my brow as that was the rudest thing I could think of at the time, but as we stood in the queue for 80 years together, and sort of hit it off, and after he’d showed me the contents of his bag, I said, yes, I’d check in his bag and felt naughtier than when I threw a rubber spider at Mr. C_ in second year juniors when I told the check-in gent that, yes, I had packed my own bag, no, no-one could have tampered with it and, oh no, no-one had asked me to check anything in on their behalf.
I’m now writing this from a Thai jail.
Flying has become such a pain. I loathed it already. But all the security measures, queues, queue-tension, non-thrown-in expensive food and booze and the worry that I am about to die any second just make it that much worse.
Yesterday’s flight seemed to be going vaguely to plan. Apart from being asked to smuggle a drug-smuggler’s 20kg of narcotics in my name to Berlin, it was being relatively smooth. But the check-in queue snaked to the North Pole and back, and I hadn’t packed anything wintry, and by the time my smuggling pal and I got to the front of the queue, the word, “Berlin,” was already being hollered by the you’ve-got-to-get-a-move-on harridan. Then it was very visible queue-jumping to get through the striptease stage, much to the fury of some effusive Spaniards, and then dashing planewards, whereupon my smuggling pal and I took up our seats and got on with becoming best friends.
My pal was awfully nice. I’ve got a feeling he might be a megastar one day, if he isn’t already. A groovy musician – I’ve got a website I’m too scared to link to – and I was chuffed to bollocks at being able to keep up with a groovy type in conversation, which involved lying and saying, yes, actually I’m in the music business myself. Yes, I produce Madonna. Oh yes. She’s awfully nice, actually. Guy’s a pill.
“Ja, zis is Herr Kapitän spreching. Very many Entschuldigungs, aber it looks like ve’re going to have to sit on ze tarmac for an inexplicably long time. Ja, ve are slot-los.”
The smuggling musician and I got on with consolidating our friendship as we waited for our slot. “Elvis was an awful pain,” I went on. “I used to say to him, ‘Look, Elve, if you don’t stop all this drugging – the smuggler cast a furtive glance at his hand-luggage – you’re gonna end up croaking on the john.’ But he wouldn’t listen…”
“Ve are now slot-voll. Ve vill be taking adwantage of our wunderbaren slot in just a tickety-boo.”
“Bach was one of the trickier composers to manage,” I dribbled on. “…do you think we might get some free booze?”
“Ja, ladies and gentlemans. Your Kapitän Fritz-Felix noch einmal. Several, several Entschuldigungs, aber one of our computers is total kaputt and if we take adwantage of our slot, there is the possibility zat we all completely dead will be.”
“That Moses didn’t know a thing about music,” I glistened further.
“Ja, again your Kapitän, Graf Fritz-Felix von Koks, here. Ve have now ze computer-fixer on ze tarmac, aber zese stupid Englanders can’t even find ze ladder. God knows how ve managed to lose Tanganyika and Kamerun to zem. Zey really are dumm as Bohnenstroh. Not even a bit surprised zey cannot save ze penalty.”
Folk stood up. Wandered around. Switched their mobiles back on. There was talk of the flight being cancelled altogether. Clued-up passengers mentioned the Warsaw Convention and our entitlement to free booze. The no-frills airline staff fudged as best they could. Bunker spirit broke out and the other passengers were fast catching up on the smuggler and me on the getting-to-know-your-neighbours front.
And then a hive of activity. And dings and dongs galore and we whizzed off down the runway some hours behind schedule.
The smuggler and I and our handsome German neighbour got on to the thorny subject of how the fuck we were going to get home from the airport. There was talk of cabs. I said I was sure there were still going to be trains at 2 in the morning and my neighbours exchanged a knowing glance and then got on with their conversation back in the real world. They had mentally teamed off by the time we landed. But the handsome neighbour didn’t want to leave me stranded and, having done a bit of geographical survey-taking, soon had me paired up with an exhausted-looking Scottish woman who was heading in my direction.
And, darlings, just when I thought my hitting-it-off was done for the night, I only had to bloody go and do it all over again.
Now you may well say that the two bottles of non-free, non-Warsaw Convention wine had loosened my tongue, and perhaps hers, but we were best pals in seconds. I explained to my Scottish pal/fiancée, as if to an old friend, as they all stood waiting for their luggage and drugs to whizz round on the spinny thing, that I was slightly too tight to contemplate a 40-euro taxi-ride and was willing to hijack a train to save myself 37 euros 90 if necessary. She agreed with my logic and added that not only would she happily taxi with me if my train-search was fruitless but that she was willing to leave her husband and six children to spend the rest of her life with me – she was 97, mind you – and I, emboldened by my non-free wine, said that perhaps that was rushing things and, anyway, didn’t she know I was really a whoopsy and what if I was rubbish at the other with a woman and she’d say, ‘It was better with Angus’, and I’d be devastated and…
There were no trains.
The smuggler and the handsome German went off in their taxi. Scottish woman and I settled into ours to get on with some speed-dating.
And it made me think I’m rubbish at gayness. I mean, I can mince if strictly necessary and I know my way round a flagon of poppers and all the abbreviations and that the colour of the string attached to your key-ring means something, as does whichever pocket it’s dangling from – straight gents, if you’ve ever wondered why a stranger has come up to you on the street and said, “I see you’re into watersports,” now you know why – but I hit it off so much more easily with women than men.
Scottish woman and I hooted and chortled all the way to our bit of Berlin. I knew everything about her. Why she lived in London. That she was from near Edinburgh. She was in Berlin for this reason. She’d gone to Brazil after a man and, by the time she got there, he was already hooked up with someone else. She did this type of work. For some reason, I decided she was definitely a blogger – I thought she could be you, Marshypops, if you’d lied a bit about your family – and we had a whale of a time. And she knew why I was in Berlin. Love. Fate. The Cold War. The regular spiel.
We drew up at her hotel. By rights, I thought we should have carried on the fun and drunk till dawn in the hotel bar but she was here for work, and only for ten minutes, and it was a million o’clock. Instead, she got out of the cab, we said how nice it was to have met, didn’t exchange cards – I don’t have a card – and that was that, without so much as an introduction.
Still, I got the smuggler’s mobile number should anyone need to be put in touch with the drug-running fraternity.