Writing for Airports #1

I’m in a queue for immigration; it’s six people wide and fills the entire length of the thirty-odd foot corridor. Whilst contemplating that, if any immigration officer decides to take me out back and check out my inner workings, I will sue them per inch rather than finger; I have the overwhelming feeling that when we turn the corner at the end there will be another corridor filled with a sea of shuffling, restless bodies. In fact, I imagine every corner I turn will bet the same – forever. Necessity will eventually take hold and I’ll have to bludgeon a fellow queue-pig with the rusty handle of a nearby trolley. I will have to share my battered bounty with those nearby for fear of mutiny. After several weeks of this (which would be just in time to celebrate the ‘Third Turning’) some of the other Line-jockey’s will have turned entirely feral; their clothes now ragged head-dresses and their old make-up used to create primitive war-paint.

This queue is similar to Hell.

I notice for the first time that, when boarding an aeroplane, the ‘No Sharps’ list includes: “No Baseball Bats or Mallets”. It is clearly a great comfort knowing that those in charge are, to quote Confucius: “All over it.” But, I will miss Ol’ Yella.

Many a head we smashed.

Meanwhile, the queue marches slowly onward. With a garbled cackle the speaker system kicked in spouting useless platitudes in a drudgingly banal voice:

“To allow smooth progress could all passengers have their passports to hand. Thank you.”

This repeats itself roughly every two minutes. The announcer (who probably died in the mid-seventies, alone, in some seedy hotel apartment remembering the heady bygone days of his rock-and-roll announcer life – the parties, the drugs, the unlawful bestiality accusations – swigging Glenfiddich and Neurofen before placing the starter pistol to the back of his throat and gingerly squeezing the trigger, the foam already spilling from his mouth and mixing with the burnt blood) has made THE LIST that I have especially for irritating cock-pulls like him. Although, on the plus side, it allowed me devise a small game you can play with your friends.

“To allow smooth progress could all passengers…”

Now, you pick a number. Try it yourself:

1. …eat their own flesh…
2. …Taste the bile boiling inside them…
3. …crack open the skull of the person in front like some rancid monkey-nut…
4. …see some end to this fucking queue…
5. …visualise yourself in a more karmically balanced state…
6. …lick my genitals…
7. …offer handy hints and recipes…
8. …clash in mortal combat…
9. …riot…
10. …fish…
11. …imagine playing volleyball with a recently emaciated head…

You get the idea folks.