Three: Flight TOM838

 

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The venue: Flight TOM838. Ten points removed. Fucking hate flying.

The price: Free. Sort of. If we ignore the extortionate cost of the holiday.

The Sunday dinner: Chicken. Or, to be my precise:

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I don’t understand why they’ve spelled all words fully, including the lengthy ‘traditional’, but could only be arsed to type in ‘chix’. Eight points removed. Dix.

It has been a very long day, readers. I woke up at 2.30am, following a dream in which Mr Jus posted a Facebook status about being at the Sports Personality Of The Year awards. I was annoyed, because I assumed he would get free drinks at the event, but also slightly confused, as he was asleep next to me, so not out getting slaughtered with Clare Balding.

Anyway, I couldn’t get back to sleep, because I had a flight to catch, some eight hours later. Flying, along with everything else in life, makes me really anxious.

So anxious, that I try and render myself unconscious with a heady mix of booze and Diazepam. As we boarded our flight, I made two, undoubtedly slurred, requests of Mr Jus:

1. Stroke my hand reassuringly during take off and landing.
2. Wake me up immediately if there’s any food or drink on the go.

I’m not sure if he did the former, because I successfully passed out before the captain turned the engine on, but I received a nudge when the drinks trolley rattled towards us. He’s a good lad.

Mr Jus bought me an array of wonderful, thoughtful presents for Christmas, which I loved, and clearly opened early. He also wrote me a sweet card, in which he thanked me for:

  • Making him laugh (can’t argue with the guy).
  • Being supportive (I pretend I’m happy that he fucks off cycling all the time).
  • Putting his pants on when his ribs were broken (got bored of this after two days and considered putting him in a home, to be honest).
  • Keeping him on an even keel (was a bit confused by that and can only assume he means when I shout at him for being a snobby little shit and tell him to ‘TRY LIVING IN THE REAL WORLD, MATE’).

I like a plane meal. Of course, they’re generally drab, but they do distract me from being in a metal box, 48,000 feet above sea level. I get slightly aroused by compartmentalisation too. It makes me think I’m in some sort of sky prison. Not that I want to be in jail. But if I do end up there, at least I’ll enjoy the food trays.

I always kick off with the bread roll, freeing the poor mite from its plastic packet, which has done little to retain any semblance of freshness. I smothered him in butter, and munched away, glad of something to soak up the alcohol. I’m still going to remove three points though. Just because I can.

I peeled back the lid of the chix dinner, and was delighted to see a layer of thick gravy staring up at me. Granted, they’d not bothered covering the whole meal with it, but it was of a far better consistency than anything I’d seen on land in recent weeks, so gave me a real morale boost. It tasted quite good too. Yes, it was slightly congealed, but I didn’t mind, as it meant it had substance.

The meat was a little dry, but not in comparison to my hair, which is so fucking brittle right now that I fear the sun damage it’s about to endure will see it snap right off my skull cap. It’s a good job my face is stunning enough to carry it off. Oh.

Speaking of my face, take a look at the mottled stuffing ball. It’s almost as big as the chix. Unnecessary. Five points gone.

I’d have happily seen that halved, and an extra spud thrown in. They were quite shit, of course, but reminiscent of school dinner roasties, so were tasty in a nostalgic sense.

The remaining peripheral items were acceptable enough. Mr Jus doesn’t eat cheese unless it’s cooked in some way, so I was able to snaffle that from him, and the couple behind us randomly awarded us their salted caramel pots. Result.

There’s not a lot more to say, really, although I don’t remember eating my little square of chocolate, so that’s puzzling me.

It’s now Monday morning and I had another troubled night’s sleep. I’ve been awake for three hours already and it’s only just turning 7am. I need the clouds to clear and the sun to come out.

I’d like to look out over the sea and take in my new surroundings, but Mr Jus is blocking my view.

He’s stood on a chair trying to stop the ceiling fan, but isn’t tall enough to reach the cord. I imagine this could end in tears, so must stop writing drivel and go and lift him up.

Just like I always do, guys, just like I always do…

Final score: 14/33

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