God's Honest Truth, or may my eyes be damned......
About eighteen months ago, I was paying a thankfully rare* visit to the UK to catch up with family and friends.

My last port of call being London, I had tried to book a flight back home using the two alternatives - London City, or London Stansted airport.

Alas, on my due departure date, the City flight was fully booked, and so I reconciled myself to the Hull that is Stansted. I probably need not go into the niceties for regular consumers, but should point out that Stansted is the airport serving the county of Essex (see previous QOTWs).

At this particular time of year (around Easter), there is a flocking-off of the Romford Massive to sunnier climes, including the brigade of single mums (for “single”, read “Ain’t got a single clue who the farvers are, well, I was rat-arsed and stoned weren't I, but I like having mixed-race babies, and besides, the social pays more”.

So, having suffered the depradations of the security check-in queues**, I find myself in the gate area for my departure, and like any sane man, order myself a comforting pint of Holy Nectar/ Nigerian Lager/Liffey Water/Guinness (delete as necessary), and settle down for a half-hours' pre-flight relaxation and a read of the book.

But Oh No….

22 stones of Japanese-whaler-stylee "friendly-fire" walrus blubber*** from Basildon squelches into the seat opposite, and starts railing about the “Fahking Cahnts” at security “oo woodnt let her ‘ave foar bags ta take froo”. “FFakssake Oi know oim gonna need’m cos the boy always shits hisself!”

At this point, I drew some succour when I noticed the baggage label attached to the buggy (IBZ or whatever the code is for Ibiza). At least I wouldn’t be riding this one out.

Two minutes later, it was like the Ride of the Valkyries, the final gallop of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a Beastie Boys meets Janis Joplin concert, and Hurricane Katrina all rolled into one, as the fruit-bats of her womb arrived, kicking, spitting, biting, effing, and blinding.

The beached whale sat blissfully deaf to the mayhem which the demonic duo were causing for about five minutes, before the siren voice of a large Vodka and Red Bull obviously threw in her unquenchable lament.

Evidently, the contents of the Pushchair of Darkness could not be trusted to mere airline passengers whilst she sought out the requisite comestibles.

She therefore summoned her progeny thus, and I kid you not…….


“OY! TROJAN, CHLAMYDIA, GET OVER ‘ERE or YA AIN’T GOIN TA EYE-BEE-FA!”

Common? Well, I've only seen/heard it that bad once.


* No offence to friends/family, I just hate police states.
** What's the problem? Read the rules and comply!
*** People like that should be forced to sit together on planes - 3 abreast - see if you like it!

Length? Not as long as the poor b3tards who were on the flight.

Tschuss...
(b3ta_demeter, Mon 20 Oct 2008, 2:06, Reply)