No, we are not talking Body Mass Index, although I do wonder whether the airline is targeting fat cunts to fly BMI. We are talking BMI Baby. Just because an airline calls itself this, it does not constitute an offer to "bring a baby". In the next row, a baby of maybe 4-6 months made a pretty consistent racket, wailing for our displeasure. However, a baby knows nothing about the world, so I couldn't really hold it against her/him/it that the noise was unwelcome, nor could I explain (although that would actually be the job of the parents) the reasons for the pressure change and fucked up ears. No, the baby wailing during the plane's ascent into the clouds and beyond was, I supposed, to be expected. What was not expected was the other racket being made by three fuckers just behind me. These three were the cabin staff, and should have known a whole lot better.
The three of them were standing in the back area, like kids in a playground, and because of the aircraft's noise, they shouted at each other. I was in row 25 (out of 26) so I was able to hear every word of the utter tripe they were spouting. There were two blokes and an awful specimen of a woman who sported offensively dyed-to-fuck blonde hair, cut very short, and who had a voice like razor blades. She emitted piercing shrieks during her exchange with the blokes, torturing anyone who had the misfortune (in this instance) not to be stone deaf. I half expected the looming air strike of a kestrel or vulture to become a reality, such was the realism of her mating call (heaven forbid!). The three cunts were oblivious to others and set the worst possible example of behaviour.
I got to breaking point, and pressed the button overhead, to call an attendant. Ten seconds later, the gawkiest of the two blokes leaned down towards me, with a grin that defied all logic, humanity and facial ability, and he asked expectantly, "Yes?" I told him to keep the noise down, and that I could hear every bloody word of their conversation." My tone was one that suggested I was annoyed and he was a cunt. But I was not actually impolite. He sort of half nodded, maintaining a quarter grin, with about an eighth of realisation of how fucking annoying the trio had been, and less than a sixteenth of the intellect of an amoeba. [Note - I was having an imperial moment, rather than a metric one.]
Worse than the cabin staff were the people in the row behind us. There were two couples, and two extra women; I use the term 'women' loosely. There was a noisy fat cunt from Sheffield, and a noisy fat cunt from Chesterfield. Talk about loud, obnoxious, inconsiderate, brash, horrendous, hideous, awful, nauseating, and cuntish. The baby crying was ten times better!
At some point, I realised there was a bloke loitering in the aisle. What gave him away was the fact that his fucking great arse was level with my head, and two inches away! Two of the plane's three toilets were at the back, just behind us. So, standing in the fucking aisle and chatting like he was at a bar was hardly helpful. He got in the way of everyone. I fully understand why people lose their tempers on planes from time to time. I was all for using my machete on the cunt and the others behind me, but alas I hadn't even managed to sneak a tooth pick past airport security. Still, I supposed I could have removed the toothpaste from the small (approximately [covered in a previous blog posting] one-litre polythene bag) and forced it over the head of the cunt, and watched him turn blue! Instead, I suffered his movement, and nudging of the back of my seat with both his fat arse, and his hand as he occasionally leaned on it. At one point I made a sharp backward movement with my seat, and tried to bruise his backside. However, the fat clearly served to protect whatever muscle might have lived deep down somewhere, and he simply turned round, and then returned to his victims to proceed with the monologue.
Meanwhile, the cunt in front was adamant that he could reset the distance between seats, by stretching and kneeing and forcing and leaning. Nothing moved permanently, but for a few seconds at a time, he created an impression of more space in his world, while I watched the back of his seat move towards me two centimetres, and then return to its original position.
Behind me, the conversation from Hell was taking place. She just would not stop at all. Every fucking ailment known to mankind was being covered, and she had more than her fair share of both pain (though I considered adding to her quota) and exposure to difficulties caused for those around her through illness. Joints, limbs, tests, prostrate, recovery, drivel, physio, shit, hepatitis A, B, C, all the way to fucking Omega, holidays, remission, toothache, jawache, cuntache, relentless, insomnia, ingrowing, flatulence, on and on . . . . and on and on . . . . and on it went. "Four sessions a day" left me confused, as I was not sure if she was referring to exercise, radiotherapy, sex, poker, snooker, swimming or meditation.
I sat, and suffered myself with BAS. That's 'Beige Arse Syndrome' if you're not familiar with the term. It's caused by a cunt standing up in the aisle of a plane, so that his beige trouser-clad arse is next to you. I actually prayed for turbulence (NO, NOT that sort) so that the pilot put on the sign that said "sit fucking down and fasten your seatbelt". But God wouldn't fart in the sky, or at least certainly not anywhere near flight WW5327.
Above the arse was a cream ribbed top which enhanced the feminine appearance to go with his wimpish stance. He continued to get in everyone's way. The representatives of BMI were totally and utterly ineffectual in dealing with the obstruction. Access to their own area at the back of the plane was compromised, along with the access to the loos. The noise was horrendous from all sides. Health Watch behind me was sending me nuts, the chair stretcher in front was constantly moving and creaking. The arse was ever present, as was his monotonous voice during the delivery of a sermon on everything to do with himself and his experiences.
At last! It was the beginning of the descent. Fat arse had to sit down. I watched him move from row 26 next to me, where he'd been stationed for the best part of an hour, all the way to row cuntin' 2! The baby started to wail, and all was once again right with the world.
I would not recommend BMI Baby - there was absolutely no consideration for the passengers, and no control of people for the common good. Further, the actions of the staff on board were short of professional. It was a horrendous experience that I could never do justice to in a blog, and the noise cannot of course be relayed in print. Mrs MWSC was irate as well, and could have done with a cigarette to calm down. I half expected her to roll up the crappy menu and smoke that, or set fire to the seat in front and breathe in. Leaving the plane was pure joy, surpassing anything Sir Roger Bannister could have felt when crossing the line to break the four-minute barrier for running a mile.
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