Airport Hijack

Just been delayed from an on-time flight out of the Canaries (none of you twats missed me, I see...) because a planeload of twatty Italians decided to infiltrate our queue and attempt to sequester the plane because they'd been held up for twelve hours in flying to Milan.

Two things:
(i) Because your trip is fucked, it doesn't mean mine should be too. I have no sympathy in a highly-charged, security-conscious atmosphere where if you're going to do that, never mind the Guardia Civil, I'd shoot you my fucking self.
(ii) If you're going to protest by bumping a queue, shave off that fucking pisspoor beard, you look like an art student angry about apartheid peaches or non-locally-sourced asparagus in Tesco, you melt, but more importantly, as you bump the line, try and be less of a child than screaming like a fucking girl when someone approaches you.

I take my hat off the the Civil Guard for having the patience not to shoot as many of the cunts as possible until you get the inevitable waving of the Italian national flag of white cross on a white background.

They were given a gate and plane and we actually failed to lose any schedule time, but I fervently hope and pray that when they got to gate 27 it was either (a) empty or (b) an abattoir-type run down to a plane-sized Black Maria. How fucking twatty must you be when people are sympathetic towards Ryanair?

On the other hand, I can see why you stick out there, Tone.  I ate like a horse, had a few drinks and generally did holiday things and the fresh produce and so forth did me no harm.  Back home and I'm going through the fucking wringer.

Anyway, while there, there was a woman there who we'd designated as a Tina Turner lookalike.  She had her husband and late teens son with her.  When I first called her Tina, Mrs Bert shot the usual warning look to not do it in front of our naturally ebulliant nippers tempered with the look that said "Oh fuck, aye, mustn't laugh, mustn't laugh".  Consequently, I would do a Tina mime that you'll see here at 3.20 (you'll know what I mean when you see it)



or the other one where she runs to the edge of the stage and looks like she's going to run around a corner in a cartoon - as a black mate of mine once said "the only black woman in the world who can't fucking dance".

Anyway, one night we can hear the strains of a disco going on elsewhere and I can hear "I Will Survive".  This is followed by another 70s diva staple and I said to Mrs Bert "Proud Mary will be next up".  And it was.  Cue little jig and spin by me for my circumspection and self-humouring.  Cue mock fuming from Mrs Bert again.  Mock fuming because within ten minutes of her original "censure" (she wholly agreed) she referred to her husband as "Ike".  The kid naturally got Ike Jnr.

We might be a pair of cunts, but we're a pair of cunts on the same wavelength... there was a big wheel on the nearby fairground which was repeatedly referred to as "keeping on turning..."

Don't know what the script access thing is.  Clearly not part of the story

Had forgotten about this. Heh.