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Summary of A Twenty-Four Hour Flight

Hour 1: Board plane.  Think 'Christ, this seats as comfy as a
Porcupine Skin condom.'  Put on Walkman to try and cover up
noise of screaming little buggers behind you.  Carefully
investigate contents of seat pouch.  In fifteen seconds, you
have used all entertainment possibilities it offers to you.

Hour 2: Scratch arse for eighteenth time.  Consider talking
to bloke next to you.  Decide to leave it while he finishes
his 'Hot Nuns With Fresh Fruit' magazine.  Try to ask hostess
for a drink, but can't attract their attention: they're all
on their way to the back for a quick knee-trembler with a fat
German businessman or going forward to help the Captain
grease his joystick.

Hour 3: You realise why flying out of Australia really sucks.
In the time you've been airborne, you could have crossed
Europe, or the US.  But here, you've just passed over ONE
BLOODY SHEEP STATION !  Why don't they rebuild move all the
good bits of Australia to Manchester, for example.  I'll tell
you why.  We're safer from terrorists, because none of them
can be stuffed taking this incredibly long plane trip to kill
us !!

Hour 4:  First set of XTRA LONG LIFE batteries die.  Replace
them.  Keep trying to sleep.  Have you ever tried to stretch
your legs and needed just one more inch of room to do it ?
It's living hell !  And you can't get out because like an
idiot, you asked for a window seat, and the two geriatrics
next to you appear to be dead for all the movement they're
showing.

Hours 5 - 7:  You might have slept: you're not sure.  It is
clear that are exactly 247 stitches around the headrest in
front, and about the same number of protruding metal things
on this chair/jabbing your legs.  You have, however, perfected 
the art of sleeping with your eyes open.

Hour 8:  Land in Bangkok for 45 minute duty free binge and
getting sniffed by drug dogs.  Lets hope they know the
difference between smelly socks and heroin.

Hour 9:  Back onto the plane.  The hippies that left you at
Bangkok, in search of enlightenment etc... have been replace
with upper middle class European gents with strangely
satisfied looks on their faces.  You are served a plate of
something that may or may not once have been food.  For the
tenth time, you read that second paragraph on page 8 of
Lord of The Rings because you can't concentrate long enough 
to hold the plot together in your head.

Hour 10: Due to lack of circulation, you've gone numb from
the bum down.  The apparently deceased geriatrics have moved
(Praise De Lawd ! It's a miracle !) but only to go stink up
the lavvies with the smell of Geritol, incontinence
underwear, and ice cream stains from fourteen loving but
clumsy grandchildren.  You seize the opportunity to drag your
bloodless bum up and down the aisle to try and force some
feeling back into it.  As you casually drag your feet, you look
around and curse the bitch at the ticket counter who wouldn't
give you a ticket next to that bunch of Swedish nympho
cheerleaders in the back.

Hour 11:  You spend most of this hour treading carefully back
from the front of the plane to the back.  What you're trying
to avoid, (besides little kids) is building up static
electricity and shocking yourself every five steps.  When one
of the little buggers jumps off an armrest, lands on your
corns, and buries his plastic football helmet straight into
the family jewels, you seriously consider testing the
strength of the suction on the toilets to see how long the
little mongrel can hold on to the yellow-splashed seat.  Or
if the toilets are busy, maybe rubbing both feet vigorously
on the static-inducing carpet and zapping the little
bastards' eyes with 800 volts of carpet power.

Hours 12-24 Repeat the above, only WORSE !

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