Monday, November 19, 2012
China syndrome
I can’t understand why a Chinese airline has introduced a smelly armpit test for its pilots. Hainan Airlines will not allow anyone with a malodorous underarm to fly its jets. Why in the name of Confucius did they not introduce this test for the flight attendants, who unlike the pilots actually mingle with the passengers? All too often, my blameless olfactory organ has been offended by human body odours while travelling in a commercial jet. These unwelcome aromas were usually emitted by the cabin crew, extending their arms to open overhead lockers or leaning across my seat for no good reason.
It is possible, of course, that Chinese pilots make a habit of hobnobbing with the passengers. I remember being accosted by one such character on a flight from Hong Kong to Taipei – he burst out of the cockpit when the plane had reached cruising altitude:
“Ho! GB!” he exclaimed. “Tell me about your life in jungle. You gorillas always fucking eh? Haha!”
“Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?” I asked.
“No worry about that!” he replied jovially. “Autopilot fly plane and co-pilot keep eye on everything. Unless he playing with his dick! Haha!”
“That’s all well and good, but I’d rather you were in the cockpit doing your job,” I said. “After we land, I’ll be more than happy to grant you an interview.”
So he returned to his post, muttering something in Cantonese which I could not translate.
I shouldn’t give you the impression that I view the Chinese as ninnies, because they’re coming up with some brilliant innovations that ought to be copied in the West. One such idea is the angry room, invented by restaurant owner Zhou Jun, which is a place where staff can abuse pictures of their boss. It is hoped this will defuse their pent-up frustrations and diminish the urge to empty a pot of hot soup over Mr Zhou’s head. Note the pragmatic attitude of Chinese bosses, who don’t mind being hated as long as their workers are happy and productive.
The nearest thing to the anger room in the West is the Justin Bieber sex doll, an amazingly lifelike replica produced specifically for men who have “issues” with Justin. It’s a sad fact that Bieber’s macho persona makes a lot of guys feel puny and worthless, disabling their capacity to engage in manly pastimes. Some of them react to their low self-esteem by wearing ladies’ underwear. Others experiment with butt plugs. It is thought that acquiring an effigy of their bête noire (and sodomising it at leisure) will enable them to rediscover their sense of self-worth. This will allow them to return to their ranches and lumber yards to explore their virility with renewed vigour.
Speaking as a gorilla who would pose no threat to Justin if we met in a dark alley, I welcome this attempt to deflect the animosity he inspires. Any invention that prevents Bieber from getting buggered is worth its weight in gold.
Labels: air travel, body odour, China, Justin Bieber, sex dolls
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Travelling light
I’m back in the Congo after a somewhat disturbing flight home. I don’t mean, by this, that there were any apprehensions of an aeronautic complexion. No aircraft I’ve ever flown in has dared to misbehave when I was on board. Before the plane took off, I had my customary chat with the captain:
“Rest assured that we gorillas have very sensitive ears,” I said. “I can hear what’s going on in the cockpit from first class, and will be ready to assist if anything untoward happens. I won’t hesitate to pin down your co-pilot if he has a fit or explodes in a mutinous rage. Never forget what happened to Captain Bligh!”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” replied the captain with a nervous grin. “Why not just put on the headphones and enjoy the in-flight entertainment. You get a great choice of films in first class.”
“Maybe I’ll watch the screen without wearing headphones,” I mused. “I’m a fairly good lip-reader as it happens.”
Now, some of you might have guessed that I couldn’t really hear inside the cockpit. I told the captain this white lie to discourage him from playing hookey while the plane was on autopilot. Most aviation accidents are caused by “human error”, which is a polite way of saying that the captain and first officer were looking at girlie magazines or playing tiddlywinks when the warning lights began to flash. That sort of arsing about is not acceptable when I am a passenger.
Anyway, the captain was right about the great choice of movies in first class. As I rarely read film reviews, I asked the stewardess for her recommendation.
“How about The Reader?” she said. “Kate Winslet got an Oscar in that one.”
“Kate Winslet is my favourite actress!” I exclaimed. “A hundred thanks for your excellent suggestion!”
Long-standing readers of this blog will remember the eulogies I have penned for Miss Winslet. As well as being an accomplished thespian, her body is of a shape that we gorillas can appreciate (in a wholly non-sexual way). Curvaceous hips; luscious thighs; breasts that look as if they’re ready for milking. The human female doesn’t get better than that.
So I settled down to watch the film and was pleased to see Kate rolling around naked in the early scenes, albeit partially obscured by the annoying whelp who was trying to mate with her. When I eventually got a good view of Kate’s body in its entirely, I bit my lip in disappointment. The succulence of her flesh was much diminished, obviously because of some accursed diet she’d been following.
On the way home from the airport, the manager of the safari camp attempted to explain this anomaly:
“She was playing a war criminal, so her normal full figure wouldn’t have worked,” he said. “Evil women are supposed to look bony-arsed.”
“Fiddlesticks!” I exclaimed. “Fans of Kate have certain expectations of a movie in which she stars. If they wanted a bony-arsed woman, they should have given the part to Gwyneth Paltrow!”
The manager sucked his teeth and nodded.
Labels: air travel, cockpit incidents, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Winslet
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sky high mischief
Tending bar at the safari guesthouse, I overhear the humans debating the safety of air travel. They agree that flying is the safest form of transportation, unless there is an accident or some crackpot terrorist sneaks on board. In either of those lamentable scenarios, they liken boarding an aeroplane to a death sentence with no possibility of reprieve. Hence the best thing for passengers to do, they conclude, is intoxicate themselves with alcohol to ensure they are suitably zonked out if the worst happens.
This coping strategy seems to be a popular one, judging by a spate of alcohol-induced incidents on commercial jets. A recent one involved a comely young woman by the name of Katherine Goldberg, who drank a pint of whisky on a return flight from South Africa to London. Unfortunately, the quantity of liquor she consumed had the effect of liberating her inner hussy rather than rendering her senseless. One assumes she’ll learn from her mistake and drink two pints next time.
What happened on the flight was this: Miss Goldberg clutched the private parts of an air steward and demanded his sexual favours. Caught by surprise, the man appealed to his co-workers for assistance without responding to her request. The cabin crew then harried the disappointed woman back to her seat and informed the captain of her misconduct. She was later reported to the authorities, who promptly charged her with sexual assault.
After reading about this sorry affair, I got in touch with my old friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, to acquaint him with the facts of the case. Although critical of Miss Goldberg’s behaviour, which he described as “futile” and “inopportune”, he was adamant that he wouldn’t have pressed charges if he’d been the air steward.
“A man who prosecutes a woman for groping him is a pussy,” he declared stoutly.
Smacker said that he would have grabbed Miss Goldberg by the wrists and escorted her to the galley for a private chat. After giving her a stern lecture on the etiquette of making propositions, he would have sent her back to her seat with her cheeks flushed red with shame. He added that he would have given her his business card so she could contact him if she needed further advice.
I must say I prefer Smacker’s “tough love” approach to putting the woman on trial. She seems like a good-natured girl who made a mistake because her brain was befuddled by the demon brew. How will the public interest be served by raking over the coals in front of a haughty judge and a smirking jury? Far better to deal with her issues informally with a friendly pat on the backside.
In the general scheme of things, of course, there is nothing wrong with a woman grasping a man’s todger. I am certain that the world would be a happier place if it happened more frequently. Once Katherine learns there is a time and a place for everything, those who cultivate her acquaintance will surely be touched with many blessings.
Labels: air travel, alcohol, todger-groping
