10pm

“Have you ever seen a nuclear device?” I asked pertinently.

“Well no but…” replied the security fascist.

“Then how do you know what it would look like?”

“I just know” he declared, tapping the gun that hung around his waist like a prole child on a street corner because he isn’t willing to get a productive job as a junior telehistorical research assistant simply because the remuneration falls into the limbo between what he believes his services to be worth and what I… what the telehistorian believes his services to be worth.

“In any case it isn’t a nuclear device, it is an alarm clock” I told him.

“An alarm clock?” he repeated.

“An alarum clock if you prefer the slightly less fashionable word” I offered.

“You claim this is your alarm clock?”

“I do.”

“Who would have an alarm clock that looked like a nuclear bomb?”

“I find it strangely comforting that my first sight every morning is a device which would wipe out the human race. I couldn’t tell you why – I am a telehistorian not a psychotherapist – but I find succour in the awesome power implied by this clock. And it only cost fifty pence as the shop said they had had it on display for six years and no one seemed to want to buy it.”

“I have a theory that Dennis Brent finds comfort on a subconscious level because the device is shaped rather like a female b-r-e-a-s-t” said Ian Devine unnecessarily. “But I too am a telehistorian and not a psychoa-n-a-lyst and so it must remain a purely amateur conclusion. I said as much in the paper I published on the subject.”

The guards let out big sighs and waved us on our way. I knew they would see us for the sensible, intelligent, extremely cultured and basically harmless gentlemen that we were. They did insist on impounding the hand gun I had packed in case anyone in New York (or London for that matter as all big cities are basically havens of crime where the police are i-m-p-o-t-e-n-t and corrupt and the rule of law has been replaced by the rule of anti-law) attempted to steal my trunk. Ian Devine later pointed out that anyone stealing my trunk would also steal my pistol so it was no great loss. I would have to rely on Ian Devine (and his strangely powerful thong) to guard my body while we were on tour.

Being first class passengers we were shown onto the aircraft by a rather handsome lady called Miss Mifflin. She was obviously a woman who didn’t waste her time like the flibbertigibbets one meets these days and I complimented her on it.

“I’m glad we’re being seen to by a lady who doesn’t care about her face or her clothes” I said supportively. Miss Mifflin was so overcome with gratitude that she ran sobbing to the lavatory. I found this most useful as I was able to follow her path and learn the water closet’s location. I knew it would be frowned upon to use vulgar words like ‘toilet’ in first class. I sat in my gloriously luxurious seat and watched as Ian Devine began the complicated process of lowering the arm-rests which segregated the three seats which he hoped to turn into one Ian Devine sized chair. He managed to make a little progress and trusted his b-u-t-t-o-c-k-s to absorb the remaining few inches of jutting plastic.

We were given a complimentary basket of gratuities by Miss Mifflin once she has wiped her grateful eyes and emerged from the convenience. Ian Devine felt he was entitled to three baskets but Miss Mifflin held her ground and said he could have one and one only. Inside were some rather h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l scented facial wipes, a fur covered eye mask, a pair of thick slipper-socks (an ingenious melding of socks and slippers), a small bag of peanuts, a jar of caviar, a half sized bottle of champaign, a certificate which said that the airline had adopted a starving African child on our behalf, a pen, a thin pad of airline headed note paper, a sheet of stained glass displaying our passport photograph, a note expressing love and gratitude from the captain, priority tickets for the emergency exits, a tub of apple based exfoliant, a voucher to have “first class passenger” tattooed upon our bodies for no charge at any one of over fifty approved tattooist parlours and a teddy bear with the airline’s logo stitched onto his chest. It was a truly overwhelming collection of free items and I couldn’t help but go and stand by the economy class entrance while the proles were getting on board and wave my new possessions at them.

“Do you know how much I paid for this first class pen?” I shouted to a couple as they struggled past with their polyester children and ugly haircuts. “Nothing at all. In first class it is all provided by our personal staff.” They didn’t appreciate my educating them on how the other half live (personally I am always willing to learn new things as long as they are fascinating and presented by someone smartly dressed and sensible in manner).

“Madam” I called as a bulbous woman squeezed her Devinian backside through the entrance way, “I am sure you would be much healthier if you ate caviar rather than Mars bars. But since you are poor you probably don’t have the same opportunities that those of us who have earned a high standard of living can expect. Perhaps if you devoted the rest of your life to studying, fresh air and self denial you might have better luck next time.”

“Sir” I shouted when I spied the unmistakeable sight of a school teacher, “Look at my nuts – they are first class nuts. If you take my advice you will stop spending your time with small children and instead set your sights on one day getting nuts of this calibre.”

“Actually sir, they get the same nuts that you get in first class. We just put them in a different bag” said the stewardess.

“WHAT?” I bellowed. The school teacher was laughing at me, soon to be joined by the fat woman and the dreadful couple with their pastel coloured brats. The whole plane seemed to close in on my as everyone laughed at the ordinariness of my nuts. My head started spinning and I must’ve missed the warning shouts as a vicar opened the over-head compartment to safely stow his Bible and thumped me on the head. I suppose I was lucky it was only the vicar and not the compartment door that hit me.