Tuesday 19th January
After a superb full english brekky, I made my way to the office. Following a hard day’s work (something I’m certainly not used to) I was delivered to the airport in style in a Range Rover. Sitting in the back, I received all manner of startled looks (who’s he, he’s too fat to be a footballer) from other road users, which made me feel special and important. Bristol airport was almost as deserted as Newcastle had been, so i whizzed through check in and security and set about demolishing a Burger King meal. I hadn’t checked the price first though, and was astounded when asked to stump up the best part of seven quid for my medium meal. Luckily, somebody else was paying.
I had a pint to pass the time, and wandered down to check the departure board. The flight was delayed by twenty minutes. This wasn’t a problem, I could sink another pint, I like the sound of that. So I went back to the bar, another pint, and was just debating if I needed a piss or not when the flight was called. Oh shit, I thought, I better get down there; if it’s as deserted on the flight as the empty airport suggests, then they might fuck off without me. No time to piss…I can hold it in.
But there were hundreds of people waiting for the plane (I assume they had been hiding in Tie Rack) so I assumed my position near the front of the queue. I didn’t want to lose my place, and therefore the pick of the seats, so the piss went on hold again…I can hold it in.
I got on the plane, the swaying steps not helping my bladder based difficulties. I took a seat at the rear of the aircraft, near the toilet. This was a masterstroke. Not only would I be first to the bog, but I would be first off the rear exit when we landed. We’ll be taking off soon…I can hold it in.
The doors were sealed. Surely the nice pilot man will want to be in the air ASAP to make up for lost time? To be comfortably back in Newcastle with maybe only ten minutes delay? No. This pilot decided that what he quite fancied was a twenty minute sit on the tarmac. Presumably while he read his ‘Big Book Of How To Fly Aircraft’. It was painful, even critical by now, but…I can hold it in.
After what seemed like 15 years had passed, we finally trundled onto the runway. Remember the swaying steps? If they did that to some stairs, imagine what the did to a big airplane. Yep, you’ve guessed right, straight into turbulence, so the seatbelt light stayed on. I CAN HOLD IT IN.
The light went off. Before the accompanying ‘bong’ finished, I was up and over the person sat next to me (they know little of the disaster that may have befallen them) and into the toilet. I reckon the soothing, satisfying ‘aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah’ might have been heard all the way down to the cabin. I fully expected a round of applause upon my exit.
Piss based disaster averted, we landed safely in Newcastle. Into the waiting taxi, to meet the grumpiest man alive. ‘Any chance of having the match on the radio mate?’ ‘I don’t watch football.’ ‘Could you turn the heater down mate?’ He turned it up. Didn’t he know the trauma I’d been through? Couldn’t he understand?
