Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Monday, April 26, 2004

Elephants of the Skies

I apologise for not being around on Friday; I’m sure you got by simply by flinging glitter into your own eyes for a change. Myself and the fabulous Wife were off to Scotland to visit some of my oldest friends. Very old, in fact.

Being fairly flush at the moment due to being named in Nicki French’s last will and testament (oh, the irony) we settled on flying up to Edinburgh via the rotten empire of British Airways, now sullied by low costs and competition. Despite this drop in quality, the staff do remain as minty as ever – possibly moreso as they have to deal with the great unwashed who are now allowed up their sky-bridge to thieve their complimentary nuts. The general atmosphere one gets when boarding is that a BA flight attendant is only really happy when there are no passengers to attend to at all.

Have you noticed the correlation between the way BA stewardesses imperiously drag their luggage and the way princesses move when wearing a dress with a train? It can’t be a coincidence. It must be in the training manual, along with the hours that go into the expression they have when doing the safety demonstration. ‘You think I give a fuck about your safety if the plane goes down?’ they’re thinking. ‘The first thing out of that door will be my luggage, you know. You can all burn before the Louis Vuitton. I bet you couldn’t even spell it, you mindless peasants…’

I was watching three of them as I lackadaisically checked in, stepping along the concourse like royalty, before I was brought back to reality by the harridan on the desk currently holding my passport as if it were a rather fragrant sock. She seemed to take umbrage that it wasn’t a gold and blue one from the good old days of the Empire.

“Tickets,” she hissed from behind her pile of sacrifices, hidden as a formica check-in desk. The three stewardesses behind me stopped dragging their luggage and started cackling around their cauldrons in Hogwarts Terminal One like the doom-laden sisters of Shakespeare.

Even though they will suck your soul as soon as look at you, the stewardesses do tend have a glamour about them. Well, used to, may one add: the woman serving us our moist towelettes was definitely too plain for a plane. One was reminded of Hi-De-Hi’s Peggy finally getting her wish to graduate from cleaner to Yellow Coat. It was the Wife who pointed out that this one must be the same: there was a distinct smell of Toilet Duck in the air whenever she dragged her dowdy hairstyle past to the galley. Was that a yellow marigold poking out of her popsock?

We finally confirmed the fact by placing two identical piles of white powder on our fold-down trays. While the one on the left had the other stewardesses were chugging down and dancing, it was the one on the right that was favoured by our unattractive hostess.

Indeed, it was not the Devil’s Own Dancing Powder, but handy surface cleaner Vim.

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