My friend Babette is a simply fantastic writer, even if in real life she is a total tool. I know because she told me once.
Here she describes perfectly what Zoomtard feels like in any airport in the world, for I am a tit. Read it and then make her write words for lots of money please:
He wasn’t my favourite though. My favourites are always the Intrepids. I love these, and I think you see more of them from Ireland than from other places. In Irish people you often find a too deeply entrenched awe of authority that makes people behave at the airport as if for carrying cheese in their suitcase they are going to be hauled into a small room and have their kneecaps blown off. I am certainly not innocent of this, being the sort of person who answers “I’m not sure, maybe we should check” to the question Are you carrying any knives in your hand luggage. However, a lot of flying has taken enough of the intrepid voyager out of my holidays for me to laugh at people who get tense and upset in airports.
Such a pair stood behind me in a queue in a corridor yesterday. He whispered tersely to his wife What’s this queue for now? without wanting to make it obvious that he was looking at the queue. Or that he was talking to his wife. He barely opened his mouth when he spoke. Passports it must be, he said then in a voiced whisper, as if he was arriving late to a funeral to tell her he had planted a bomb in the car park. Look at all the people with their passports out.
In the name of reconnaissance he strolled nonchalantly to the top of the queue which stretched around the corner, and then wandered casually back, not looking at her but giving her a discrete nod, complicit and conspiratorial as if it were the nod to give the order to assassinate the prime minister of Lebanon.
Passports, he said quietly out of the corner of his mouth, as he took his place beside her in the queue, without looking at her.
A moment passed. They still didn’t look at each other. Then he said very quietly, almost inaudibly the most wonderful thing he could possibly have said. Leaning slightly to her side, and looking thoughtfully in the opposite direction he whispered murderously “Is that radiator on?”. Not looking at the radiator, she casually stuck out one hand and touched it, then looking at the ground with pursed lips, shook her head No. The bomb in the car park was a mistake.
I wonder if one of them was called over by security would they pretend not to know each other? One of them would be left for dead while the other would attempt to finish the mission alone to the best of their ability: getting two small suitcases of dirty clothes home in time to make a chicken and mayonnaise sandwich, and use those scallions cos they won’t keep.
What are you doing, I screamed at them in my head. What do you think will happen if you chill out?
Solemnly they arrived at the passport desk, nodding gravely at the security dudes. This is my passport, the man’s eyes said. Just you try and fuck with me.
Your Correspondent, A lo-fi delight