They all wobble by me in the airport with their beige cargo pants on, the
ones where you can zip the bottoms off and turn them into beige shorts.
Convenience gone mad, these obese fuckers can’t even be bothered to change their trousers for shorts on the four days of the year it gets hot in Northern Europe.
Couples going on their one holiday a year in shiny white trainers bought
especially; their matching luggage trailing proudly behind them as they head to the duty free to spray themselves with tester perfumes that they have no
intention of buying. It’s the one week per year when they can justify their
choices. The office/factory/shop has paid for this and they fucking deserve it.
Thank you minimum wage, you’re the best :)
They stare fixated at the departures board, waiting with an intense anticipation for the gate number to appear beside their flight number so they can scurry to the gate and stand to attention, salivating at the thought of being first on the plane. The timer counts down, four shopping minutes left, three shopping minutes left, two shopping minutes left; they’re vibrating with excitement now, their hands cover their knees trying to stop them bouncing up and down against the marble floors.
Why do they travel in holiday apparel? They may be on their way to Corfu but right now they are in Newcastle. There’s rarely a reason in the North to wear a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat with leather sandals. They’re in an air conditioned airport heading for an air conditioned plane and when the plane lands they will pick their bags from another air conditioned airport before being herded on to an air conditioned bus like cattle for the market and dropped off at their air conditioned hotel.
The male is pale he hasn’t bothered with
the sun beds but his missus is orange and already burned from the five six
minute sessions cooking her skin in plastic box in the amusements. Heaven forbid her thighs would be pale on the beach with all those tanned Greeks roaming around; it won’t be a good holiday if she’s not sleazed over by young waiters looking for tips.
Woh woh woh, can you tell I haven’t been to sleep. I’m on a cold floor in an
overcrowded Schippol airport. Three more hours before my next flight to
The West got happy.
There’s something heart warming about a toddler falling around the terminal with her shiny pink sunglasses bumping into groups of young guns on their first lads holiday; their luggage full of hopeful condoms, aftershaves and hair products. They laugh loudly and wind each other up about which one won’t pull that week.
Elderly couples hold hands through customs and look perplexed as the
border agent explains that they have to pass through the metal detector
separately. They’re going to Sidari in Corfu. They’ve been going there for
fifteen years and the hotel owner, Nico, treats them like family now. They
wouldn’t go anywhere else, oh no they wouldn’t go anywhere else.
Young lasses floating towards the airport bar, ordering early cocktails and smelling of hairspray and anticipation. They’ve all been on diets for at least three days and they have complimented each other on how well they all look. New clothes, new hair, new nails and new eye brows. They’re going to be the centre of attention for a week and they’re going to love it.
And with the summer sun we smile.