“I’m sorry sir, but airline policy is that flights before midday carry no alcohol apart from limited stocks to be sold from the duty free air kiosk. I can get you a soft drink, tea, coffee?”
The female flight attendant is doing her best to ignore the miasma of anger and vodka fumes that Bobby is radiating after being told we’re on a dry plane. I take charge and order two black, heavily sugared coffees to go with the rather nice bacon and egg muffins we’ve been given. Bobby, still shaking his head and muttering, pushes his food onto my table, swearing under his breath.
“Not hungry yet? I’ll save it for you and you can have it later. Maybe you should have a little nap. It’s still early after all.”
Remember what I said about looking after kids? I’m just thinking about asking the stewardess for one of those colouring in kits they have for the sprogs when she hands me the two piping hot coffees. Not wanting to cause any more alarm, I smile and take them both, but my tray is now full of two sets of breakfast. Bobby is snoring – loudly – so I figure it’s safe to put his tray back down and leave the coffee on it, just while I finish my own breakfast. Looking back now I guess I should have taken the fact that he was muttering in his sleep as a warning, but I really was hungry and those muffin things were lovely. No one could have been prepared for the stentorian bellow of “FUCKING HELL! THE FILTH!” followed by a frantic thrashing of limbs that saw the coffee shoot up to the air conditioning panel before coming back quickly to the fold-out tray sans contents.
Bobby is now wide awake, staring wildly about himself and clutching his groin, which is now covered in boiling coffee. He looks like he’s ‘had an accident’ as they used to say at infant school, and he’s furious. Child that I am, I start giggling, causing a clearly still-confused Bobby to start flailing at me with his arms. He’s not a particularly muscled man, however, and to be honest more damage is being done by the constant stream of obscenity flowing from his mouth than by his old man’s arms weakly battering my chest. We both calm down when what looks like the entire flight crew – including Captain Lerby, I note, come and stare at us with stern looks on their faces.
“What is happening here?” he demands in clipped tones that make him sound like the Gestapo officer on ‘Allo ‘Allo.
“I’m sorry, Mr Shrubbs has had an accident. He was asleep and I’m afraid I spilt the hot coffee on him. He woke up in a bit of a state. I don’t think he’s badly hurt.”
I invite the attention of all present on to Bobby, hoping some sympathy might mollify him. He’s fuming, covering up the wet patch on his trousers in embarrassment as if he really has ‘had an accident’. When everybody goes back to their business he refuses to look at or talk to me, biding his time. Finally, as we start circling Copenhagen to make our descent, he leans over, half smirking, and hisses,
“You’re fuckin’ fired.”
