They nicked my deodorant from me! I walked to the airport to travel to Bristol to see pals Mike and Row and Doug, Gwen and Eirlys who were travelling up from Basingstoke. It was a nice day, crisp and not raining and the airport is only a mile and a half away. So I took a stroll. I was ridiculously early. Having been burned on a missed flight some years ago I am now super cautious. But I kept up a speedy pace and worse a fancy woollen jacket and by the time I got to George Best Airport I was sweating buttocks. Stinky arses were tumbling out of my pores.
There is no way of transporting deodorants between countries. They are the most quarantined matter in the world. It makes you wonder how they appear in the shops because they wont have been made in Britain. Nothing is made in Britain. I assume then that they are being smuggled between territories in diplomatic bags. "Ah, ambassador, with this "Sure Man Invisible Ice" you are really spoiling us!"
What are they doing with this mountain of armpit sweetener? Where does it go? I don't intend to find out.
I suppose a Lynx bullet would work. But that's never going to happen. Taking the Lynx bullet is the desperate act of a desperate man and social suicide. "He was a loner, kept himself to himself - because he stank of Lynx Java. He had nowhere left to go - he turned the deodorant on himself!"
I'm in an airport cafe eating a cream cheese and bacon bagel because, hey I'm on holiday*, I can let the diet slide. I'm opposite a glamour girl. A dolly bird. She is about ten feet tall and wearing a leopard-skin print mini-skirt. Her legs are longer than I am. Her breasts look as if they should be borne by slaves. Her hair is black, sleek and volumised. Her nose is long and her eyes are large and slightly protuberant. She looks like a minor Kardashian. She is more glamorous at eight o clock in the morning than I have ever looked in my life, her hair perfect, make-up just so.
I was looking pretty good before my sweaty stroll but I arrive at the airport ruddy of cheek, floppy of quiff and damp of collar, unable to see through the visor of condensation on my glasses. She looks like she's just stepped out of a salon. I look like I've just stepped out of a saloon, wearing the contents of the spittoon.
I'm always impressed by women who look like they're going clubbing at 8 o clock in the morning and sustain that look all day. And when they do go out clubbing they look even better! (usually by wearing less clothing)
She walks past me. She's like a pair of step-ladders in denier tights. The slip-stream, the wash, of her perfume lingers for a full ten minutes. I sort of want to ask her about her life. I don't. I think I would be appalled by her answers.
Also, as we came into the airport, me walking some ten paces behind her, somebody wolf-whistled. She turned to see a red faced, white haired man in an elbow patched jacket, sweating profusely behind her.There was no love-light shining in her eyes.
*from what John? From what?