The first flight I can remember was an awfully long time ago. It was a DC-3 and all I can really remember is that it was a hell of an adventure and it was bloody noisy.
Many years later, my father dragged me across the Atlantic in a 747 and I remember how wondrous it all was. I got escorted to the cockpit and saw the sea of dials, knobs and levers ... it was all too much for a young lad.
Many years after that, I spent a lot of time flying between here and the middle east. And while I got used to the miracle of powered flight, each trip was either taking me to new customers with new challenges or bringing me home, tired and looking forward to seeing my family.
And of course, there were magic moments like the Aussie air hostess tossing ice cold beer to desperate passengers as the wheels left the ground in Kuwait.
But like so much else in modern life, travel has had all the joy sucked out of it. My flight here was on Aer Cunnilingus, and boy, did it suck cunt.
To be sure.
Heathrow is a vile shitpit of overpriced crap, overpriced awful food, nowhere to sit, glaring neon light, noise and most particularly, cunts. From the security neaderthals to the pushy fuckers trying to get you to buy tickets to a car you'll never win or overpriced crap from the shops to the moronic, slack-jawed, wheeled-luggage-dragging fuckpieces who always stop in the worst possible place, it seems that every person in the airport is determined to squeeze the last possible drop of pleasure from the whole experience.
Clearly, the people who arrange the seating for modern airlines are also all either fucking dwarves or leg amputees who have no fucking need for legroom when they pack you in in a fashion that sardines wouldn't put up with. And the numerous signs saying "one piece of hand luggage only" also gets ignored by every fucker, so when you do eventually get to your seat, there is nowhere to put your luggage.
The flight across the Irish Sea is apparently only long enough for them to try and sell you insanely overpriced, nasty-looking sandwiches or booze and then wheel a cart around to try and get you to buy overpriced, nasty-looking tat. This while the fucking pilot keeps on asking you to buy shit. Don't these fuckers have a plane to fly or something?
And all the fucking nagging, Jesus. Don't smoke in the toilets. Don't get up when there's turbulence. You can't do this. You can't do that. Nag, nag, fucking nag, it's like being fucking married again.
And then, of course, there's the screaming kid across the aisle while the fucking twat next to you plays cunt and bass music through shite fucking earphones that you can hear her fucking music over the screaming kid and the fucking engine noise and the fucking nagging of the pilot and the hard sell of the cock-sucking trolley dollies.
Then you get off the plane and have to wait for half an hour while some mindless thug does their level best to destroy your luggage by dropping it on the tarmac from the plane and slinging it around to see if they can get it to explode clothes all over the place.
And there's the taxi from the airport to the shitty hotel. Well, to be fair, the hotel's OK but the view sucks cock. Fucking wittering pikeys when all you want to do is calm down from the preceding horror.
Yeah, whatever happened to the romance of travel?
Is it really any surprise that people who travel on business wind up getting completely shitfaced in the bar every night?