My Swedish dream

I had my first dream in Swedish last night.

I was a worker on a Swedish outdoor market stall along with 2 middle aged female workers. The stall contained cheese, eggs, fish, meat and falafel. It must have been around lunch time because they were talking about food, then they looked at me and kept pointing to the meat section.

I said, "Jag kann inte pratar kött" -I can not speak meat
They started laughing, I realised my mistake instantly, started flustering and then said,

"Nej, Jag kann inte gillar kött" -No, I can not like meat
They just kept on laughing.
They were the idiots who hired me.

I believe this dream was a manifestation at my disgust at myself for not having progressed very far with the Swedish language and falling into the trap of pretty much speaking in English. Everyone speaks it to a relatively high level and enjoys to do so.

I must learn! Tonight-Ongoing!

The uncertainty of my stay here has added to this....if I could secure employment or study, have some kind of definite period then I would have more impetus.

Captain-Queernabs

I maybe a Dandyprat,

I maybe Caudge-paw'd,

I maybe Captain-Queernabs...

But at least I'm not a Chittifaced Clapperdogeon

DANDYPRAT: A little puny Fellow

CLAPPERDOGEON: A Beggar born and bred

CAUDGE-PAW'D: Left-handed

CHITTIFACE: A little puny ChildCAPTAIN-QUEERNABS, a Fellow in poor Cloaths, or Shabby

I lurk in the library

Even though there are only 4 shelves of English material at the library, the person who chose the material was very shrewd.

They have all the graphic novels of Akira, 6 or 8 I think. They also have will self, books, requiem for a dream and some classic classics.

I've been feeling sad the last few days, I'm probably going to start stealing soon. A bicycle me thinks.

I'm halfway through "house of the dead" by Dostoevsky. He spent 4 years in a hard labour,Siberian military compound for political activities. This is told through the story of a narrator and is based on those years. It shows how men change under the prison conditions and what effects the punishmetns have on the men. It also deals with coping mechanisms etc. I like it, although i'm conscious that it's Dostoevsky and is probably going to wear me into the ground in the second half.

It made me dream that the police had new powers to search anyone and I had a bottle of acid on me. I had to run down a long, windy road and try to find a chink in a wall to hide it. scary stuff.

For some reason I came across a book by Selby -Requiem writer- called the room. It's also about a man in a prison cell and what happens to his sanity.

Then the library told me that a Kafka book, the trial was in and now I have that. You can guess what it's about. I'm contemplating reading all 3 on the trot....it may have an undesirable, negative effect on me.

My possessions

(Concept: Klink Klonk
Photography: Lla)

Drowning in blood; afraid.

Lla looking very scared and distraught...

I look like I'm suffering from a medieval plague.

(Concept/Photography: Lla)

Parasol Poppins

Lla, pretending to be Mary Poppins with her miniature brolly.

(Concept: Lla

Photography: Klink Klonk)

Chulalongkorn - King of Siam, menace to flat

His chaos is ineffable

(Concept: Klink Klonk

Photography: Lla)

Cat Capers: I

I moved into my new flat in Norby with Magnus -a friendly blonde swede, who likes sci-fi and history- plus his 2 cats. Upon arrival there is no Magnus but plenty of cat. Tjosan is a siamese cat who if described in an elegant way looks like he belonged to an ancient Egyptian pharao. He would be just at home disrupting construction of pyramids, causing mischief inside all the tunnels and possessing more status and power than the average Egyptian peasant. If described in a not so elegant way he looks like a deranged, shaved squirrel. His full name is Chulalongkorn and he is all over the new people, Leylla and Farhang.

Fresh meat.

My mattress is bent double and he makes himself a den out of it.
A scratchy den.
His excited purrs sound like the stuttering engine sounds from a small motor boat battling the sea.

Morris is some kind of Norwegian forrest cat. I exagerrate not when I say he is the softest, most fluffiest and pleasant animal in Scandinavia. You can imagine her sitting on some cunning and evil criminal geniuses lap.
Not claw from Inspector gadget, better.
Not some Bond villain with a dodgy Russian accent, better.

When Leylla and her father leave, the three of us hang out in my room. They´re not used to coming in here even when it´s a bare room, now that is has new stuff for them to scratch and sniff they both seem happy. I see Tsu Tsan hide behind a suitcase and stretch his neck out stealthily to see Maurice. He then takes on a predatory position and in one leap flies 2 feet in the air and drops right on top of Maurice. The fluffy cat doesn´t have her super villain boss to protect him just yet and consequently is constantly attacked every time she enters the room.

Is this going to turn into some territorial battlefield, each of them wanting to earn the title of Top Cat?
Are these the types of cats that spray and mark everything?
Will these cats act like the ones in my recurrent dreams: hissing and caterwauling at me, trying to erase my face by scratching it to a raw mess, scraping to attack the thing I am coveting in my hands that I am so desperate to protect?

Yes, I´m wondering about these cats intentions towards my room and at the same time they´re probably wondering what the fuck I´m doing stinking up their new pad with my human odour.

I wonder if I should officially claim my territory by twatting the pair of them. Just a gentle, controlled kicking leaving them only slightly senseless, so that they would respect me as their leader, therefore not wanting to fuck with me or anything that smells of me. This started to make sense. Cats are notoriously arrogant and take advantage of their soft, animal loving owners. Maybe I would discover a new way to train them to some degree, not in a foolish dog and ball way, just to teach them a few boundaries? A few lessons.

Hmmm, those dreams were pretty fierce so i´m gonna leave them alone.
Random violence against animals that I like also seemed extreme, especially when I wasn´t their lawful owner.

I like the cats verve and attitude, so I try tactics of winning them over as allies. I can become their spiritual leader and friend instead, one who they admire and want to impress. Through patient play and care they will kow-tow to my control over the disputed lands through respect, not fear.

I dance a merry jig for them, this intrigues them and they sit watching me for many minutes. Soon after, I start working the crowd, pointing at each of them individually,crying out like a cat and giving them their own personal, private dance. I start throwing in clicking and general wailing noises and they´re lapping it up like it´s milk leaking from a fat, pregnant unicorn. I shower them with gifts of newspaper that they like to pretend is real so they can hunt it. I move the paper so they can chase it. How can he possibly top this I see in everyone´s eyes? The question is soon answered when I disappear to the kitchen, retuning with a cheese slicer and spoon. I rub them together making a divine, metallic noise, probably used by the CIA in the 60s to mimic an alien craft.

I´m entertaining the cats for a long time, after which I felt used and even a little violated. These cats didn´t want to be my friend. These cats didn´t want to love me. They just wanted the new live-in jester who has obviously been employed to entertain them when Magnus was at work. All I was was cheap entertainment. These cats didn´t wanna take me out on a pleasant, scenic stroll on a warm summer´s evening to clear my head and meet other, fellow cat owners. These cats didn´want to protect me from burgalars and other, bigger cats. No, they´d sell me out in a second, they´d probably show the burglars where I kept all my best stuff in exchange for some low-grade fish out of a tin. Fucking hedonists, if Jim Carrey came around with all his faces. His never ending, stupid, rubber faces then they probably wouldn´t acknowledge me ever again.

Let my eyes burn away your soul and memories

I am Morris.
I burn your retinas.
I steal your memories.
I piss all over any of your pathetic notions of hope.

(Concept: Klink Klonk
Photography: Lla)

Cat Capers: II

A little later both Tjosan and Morris are back in the disputed lands. Officially, they both deny my control over it, my heritage dating back thousands of years and also my right to exist.

Tjosan knocks over some of my books.
Now he´s sniffing the lamp.
I go to the wardrobe, when I want to close the door he is in between my legs, jumping in the wardrobe.
He starts to fight with Morris, I leave to get my food.
I hear disturbing noises, but am past caring as long as they are taking it out on each other.
I look down and see Morris in the kitchen, the noises still continue.
I put down my plate and go to my room.
Tjosan has gone under my mattress and is now eating half a Marlboro light he has found.
Back in the kitchen, Morris is helping himself to my dinner.

I bring in an orange, throwing one segment on the floor, assuming that it will entertain them for a few minutes while I eat. Tjosan sniffs close and then instantly retracts his head far away. Pungent. He does this over and over. Pausing before going in for the next sniff, then recoiling in some kind of startled horror. He reaches out with his paw, nearly touching it, but for some reason he can´t, pulling his leg back in. Repeatedly he tries to claw out, ever so close to the orange, but he can never quite bring himself to touch it. Like a dog owner trying to muster up enough courage to pick up their dog´s shit on the pavement, getting squeamish at the last minute and backing out. Moments later Morris arrives on the scene. His investigative sniffing ends with the same result, recoiling back. Now he wants to touch the orange, but he can´t bare to do it either.

I now hope to utilise the orange as a weapon against all cat kind. First I will sell it to stupid British people who love their gardens. They will use my scent to keep cats off their lawn. When I raise enough money I will then train an army of dogs, buy them passports and send them to England and America to dispose of my enemies. This will leave me unaccountable by law for my actions. I´ll keep a few in Sweden too, as a deterrent.

I start to sit on the floor, turn my head and see Tjosan on the window sill. By the time I´m fully sat he´s between my knees. I lie down to relax and he´s motor boating all around my face. Now he´s trying to break into my right pocket, then brings a paw down to prevent me getting in my own pocket. Now he´s back on the window sill. Now he´s pounced, dropping on top of Morris and landing with his teeth wrapped around her throat.

I fear for what they would do to me if I was the same size as them. I guess that they´d relentlessly hound and torture me until I was either dead or had managed to secrete an orangey body odour to repel them. I wondered if they knew that humans needed the lights on at night to see and if they would attack me in pitch black, dead of night?

Because of my cat nightmares I´m too scared to pick either of them up and so I don´t know how to get them out of my room. Reasoning in English to a Swedish animal proved futile, as did shining the lamp right in their eyes. I Decide to dabble in some temperature torture. Opening the window, letting the cold snow air unsettle them, forcing them to Magnus´s warm bed. Instead of fleeing they come to the wondow, both on hind legs, sniffing the air for a long time. Indoor cats aren´t used to the outside air, lots of smells. Guess who jumps up on the window sill, forcing me to close it in case he goes lemming on me?

To their discredit , they fell for a very base and low plan, worthy of a dog. I coaxed them out with an apple, they both fell for it and left.

At night they sit outside the door, crying, letting you know that you have trapped them out and they can´t get in. They cleverly put you off guard, lulling you into a false sense of security, because in the morning they are always in the room, prowling in circles, looking for a hunt.

Panda Lloyd left his boyz back at Leylla´s. He feared a tiger invasion and came for a quiet life. He can´t sleep in the bed with me now. At night he has nightmares and flings himself out of the bed, across the room. He fears being eaten by the cats in the morning and because he left his most fearsome bodyguard, Pariah, back at Leyllas.

Foto Phun

This is what you´d receive from me a Christmas card if I was so stupid as to send them and if you were good enough to receive one.

All photos are opposite the road from where Leylla, her parents and myself resided.

This is the daddy of them all. The sky changed over the period of about 30 minutes. It seems daunting, prophetic, yet warm at the same time

I´m going to update every Thursday at least now. So once a week it can be checked here.


(Concept\Photographed: Klink Klonk)

Preceding Sweden

The following chapters make up my adventures and travels on the days before I moved to Sweden. The first story follows on directly from this.

Stick with it, you shall be rewarded.

More posts shall speedily follow, plus pictures too.

----------------------
Caterwaul Klink Klonk
----------------------

Arctic Asda

29/12/05 22:00

The prospect of Sweden started to seep in for the second time when I found myself in Asda for the second time in 24 hours. My intent was to equip myself with some warm gear from George's heavily advertised ‘Sub-Arctic range.’ My first time had been less panicky as it was just over 12 hours before I had to catch the painfully early bus to London. The second time, the following day, was a mere 8 hours away from departure time and was slightly more panicky. It was also slightly more annoying because this second time around I was in full knowledge that I had missed my first intended flight the day before , also, because I knew that I quite clearly should have learnt an important, nay, brutal lesson in proper planning and time management.

I was comforted by the fact that I knew exactly which items I desired and my required size. I selected an acceptable, quite warm looking, navy blue, zip up top from the 12-13 year old teens section and tried it on for the second time. I wanted to make sure it hadn't been a rash, impulsive desire from the day before brought on by a state of increasing rashness and madness which was brought on by the information that a snow storm was encircling my landing airport. As I expected, it hadn't been, i'm a fussy shopper. I allowed myself a little internal laugh as I imagined the embarrassment that many British men would encounter in this situation. They would feel uncomfortable and inferior unless their clothes were clearly labelled "man" and their minds would probably be more at ease if it said "Normal Average Man" to appease their fears of inferiority. I imagined that their thoughts would go to what "other people would think" and "if it was weird." I started to imagine how Mark (peep show) would react in this situation but quickly abandoned as I knew it would take me at least 10 minutes to think of something worthy and my time was pressed. Instead I took another little laugh at how mundane and unadventurous people's lives can be that they could get so worked up over such trivial things and feel such embarrassment in case there are any "stigmas" attached to their actions.


As interesting as all these thoughts were, I now fully understand that due to such thought diversions in my usual life I often forget the task at hand and can appear clumsy and forgetful.....
the task at hand.....
Sweden...
Oh yes.....prospect of dying in sub-Arctic conditions due to a snow storm at a miniscule airport and possibly no transportation because only 2 airlines actually fly to such a small airport. Ah yes, that trivial matter. Gloves....gloves....the day before I had been very displeased at the fact that the only gloves available were attached to hats. The gloves were very thin and I didn't want a hat. True, I knew that I had no intention of paying for my items anyway therefore the cost factor didn't apply, but I would surely end up stealing the hat as well, thus, adding another pointless hat to my hat collection that only consists of pointless, unwearable hats. My least favourite being the one my mum gave me after her trip to France. A beanie with the Eiffel tower on it, embroidered with "Paris" in multi-coloured, fun lettering.You went to Paris, not me! I have never been to Paris. I believe that Nation States are made up notions, illusions and that cities are imaginary, arbitrary lines drawn onto maps. Two solid, concrete reasons why you're never gonna catch me wearing that hat. I also have a light, sick yellow one that has Rupert the bear on it. I think he has funky pants. It's too small for me though, therefore pointless.
I was about to walk off when I spotted a lone pair of solo gloves lying on the floor that were different from the ones on display. This was a clear sign and I collected my new gloves and took them for a quick spin round asda. I quickly ascertained that these were most probably the dropped gloves of a small, now cold, probably tearful child. Two things lead me to this conclusion:
1) The gloves only just fit over my smallish hands.
2) The right glove has a label that reads "Power Rangers Dino Thunder"

All that child could offer the gloves was food stains and saliva all over every finger hole from nervous,wet sucking and chewing. I offered Sweden. It was obvious why they chose me.

Panic Packing

30\12\05 05:15

Frenetically running around a scene of utter disorder and chaos, of my own creation, that is now spanning 3 rooms and engulfing them all. My suitcase is still empty and it feels like I’ve just turned 3 big piles of mess into many different smaller piles of mess.

'Er.....Are you sure you're going to be packed in time? We have to go in 5 minutes' Nicola said.

"Er.....I'm going to have a suitcase packed of sorts."

Somehow I'd spent all night packing and still needed to pack when it was time to go, even though I’d had another 24 hours. Matters were hindered by the fact that I kept suffering from severe polar opposites when making assessments of how well the packing was going.

30\12\05 00:30

"This is easy, I’m gonna be done in an hour and then can sleep for 2 hours" I told myself at the beginning.
Believing I had so much time left, even though technically I hadn’t done shit, I would reward myself by spending 20 or so minutes prancing around feeling really pleased and celebrating how easy packing was going to be. I dreamed about a life in Sweden and how happy and right it would be to hold Lla after the horrible two weeks apart. I laughed at her repeated warnings not to leave it until the last minute because it was going to be a nightmare. I laughed hard at her and her scare-mongering..

As suddenly as I had been hit by the assured, complacent wave I was gripped by a crippling, shattering fear. It gripped me so tight and constricted my chest. I realised that I was fucked, utterly, utterly, hopelessly, irreparably fucked. There was no possible hope of packing in time. Why had I done this?
People who were going on holiday for a weekend would have planned this better and I’m going there to live?
I started feeling rapid, strong heart palpitations and if I was 25 years older would have feared it was the beginnings of a heart attack. I imagined how meeting Lla and her parents at the airport after two missed planes was not going to be the welcoming, happy wonderland of smiles, hugs and kisses I had wasted so much precious packing time dreaming about. The pain was so much I had to sit down, slightly curled over. Being concious of precious time ticking away only served to increase the pressure inside of me. I realised that I had to snap out of panic mode, I didn’t want to experience my first panic attack. I vowed to press on, packing swiftly until it was over, and then spend time celebrating and day dreaming.
The problem was I kept suffering from these severe moodswings and the timings between them became less and less to the point where every 5 minutes I was changing from a blissful state of serenity to sheer, heart pumping panic. I didn’t know which side to believe. As time passed it became clear who had been trying to aide and motivate me and who had been trying to fuck and stifle me.

I averted a panic attack because I always get myself in situations where everything seems doomed and I always come up smiling. Why doubt my undoubted flow of life?
A typical example was 2 days before.

Problem Passport

27/12/05 17:00

I leave in 12 hours... no passport. Those smiling scousers promised a ‘Guaranteed week delivery’, that was shattered 4 days ago. I hadn’t bothered to chase them up because it was obvious it would turn up at the last minute, a mere day before I left. That was obvious because it was me and everything falls into place during the dying, flickering embers of hope. There was no need to worry, until now that is, five o'clock, the close of the business day. When all the delivery drivers were racing home in their minds, stuck stationary in rush-hour traffic.
Phone calls to the agency revealed that I would now receive my passport for free because of their promise breaking ways! I just needed to hang on whilst they put me through to the courier to get the low down.
Phone call to the courier reveals they are claiming they delivered it on the 20th of December. The courier has even written a description of the house, which surely proves beyond all reasonable doubt that it was delivered.

“Who signed for it?” I ask
‘You don’t need to sign for it. You only need to sign in high risk, hot areas’
“That seems a bit stupid doesn’t it? All this security and then your man can just dump it through a letter box, or a hedge, and drive away claiming delivery?”
‘You only need to sign for it in hot areas.’

Because criminals only operate in Liverpool, Manchester and 3.75 miles outside city limits.

“Well, I don’t have it. Who is liable for this?”
‘You are. It’s your fault, you received the passport and then misplaced it.’
“So, I have to pay for another passport, even though I didn’t receive the original”
‘Yes´

So, this alleged booklet of the upmost importance and subject to the most stringent security checks in case forgeries are made or copies get into the wrong hands. This document where a professional has to verify knowing you for at least 2 years, sign the back of your photos as well as giving their passport number. This document where everything has to be so picture perfect that I had to retake my first set of photos because I was smiling -that has recently been banned- and my second set of photos because my face wasn't fully in the oval and I was "slightly looking down." This document that you paid £90 to have made in an emergency and rushed to you. This document that you’d probably get tried for treason and shot if you were the one who lost it, isn’t deemed worthy enough to need signing for if you live in the apparent crime free, rural countryside.

I end the phone call amidst vague promises that someone might be in tomorrow who might might do me another passport if I can pay and if I can have the correct form faxed over in time. I quickly realise these 'mights' hinge heavily upon me reversing my flabbergasted fury and verbally licking their arse for a few minutes, getting in their good books so as to guarantee success and them granting me the favour.
I decline the invitation.

Nicola doesn’t know where my passport is and nobody at the works at the top where the post usually gets delivered claims to know where the passport is. I smell a rat because I know Dickchard works there. Dickchard is Nicola’s brother and they have recently fallen out over private family matters. He usually lets himself into the house during the day with the key that Nicola gave him in order to tend to the dogs,drop off shopping/post and so on.
Nicola has changed the locks, only me and her have the new key. I have been warned that Dickchard may be upto no good and instructed to disallow his entry into the property.
I awake one day to the sounds of the 3 dogs downstairs barking. I ignore it and attempt sleep. Ten minutes pass and they won’t settle. I figure they want to go outside, even though they never usually bark and would sooner piss all over my stuff than go to the effort of actually alerting someone to their needs . I open the door and Dickchard is there. He is confused about the key and even though he has spent 10 minutes trying it on the outside lock without success, he now begins poking and scraping it in the inside lock.

'The key doesn’t work' he eventually concludes.

He looks at me like we’re on the same team. He looks at me like if I don’t know the answer then we are going to have sit down together like a pair of downright men, change into dirty overalls with our vests showing, listen to our builders' radio covered in paint, and solve this DIY conundrum together.

"No. The locks have been changed" I say it in a neutral way, but maintaining direct eye contact.
'Wha..t?'
"The locks have been changed. I’ve been told not to let you inside"

A look of indignant outrage and defiance occupies his face and he tries to step past me. I take a small side step, blocking his path and resulting in him taking a small step back. This small backward step is a gigantic indicator and it’s at this point that I know I have won. Dickchard isn’t going to try and force his way into the house and there will be no need for the violence I was half anticipating. He instantly revealed that he is a man of words, not action, and even at the peak of his anger at this frustrating situation, he cannot even barge past someone half his size. Someone who to him, is an illegal alien occupying his old family home and is now blocking his way, happily telling him to his face that he can’t enter. That he can’t enter the house that he will probably inherit half of when the owner passes away.

A person is most angry and dangerous at the very beginning of a situation. Like when someone cuts you up badly whilst driving. Initially you are incensed and chase after them, beeping and finger sign giving, a red mist now covering your eyes, clouding and distorting your previous pacifistic ways. This time, this time, you're finally gonna snap and this guy's gonna get a lesson teaching seven shades of shit kicked out of him. All that built up aggression from every beating you should have ever given to every bully, every guy who leered at your girlfriend, every cocky fuck who stood in your way is now going to be painfully pounded into this guy's sorry skull. This is the last time anyone's gonna take the piss out of you.
By the time they've pulled up at the side of the road, giving you the 'come on, 'ave a go if you're think you're hard enough' sign and swinging their hammer at you, the anger has subsided and you sheepishly drive away. Next time, next time, you say.

No, Dickchard isn´t going to do anything more except exchange a few words, possibly threats, and then walk away a beaten man. I turn most of mind to my bed and the sleep I am being deprived of. Stopping him from entering the house isn't the priority anymore, that has been solved, letting him get his rant out of the way ASAP so I can sleep is now top priority. I decide saying the fewest words as possible so as not to provoke him into further speech is the best idea.

'This is my house' he states
Silence
'How long are you staying for?' he asks
"A week" I say
“You’re not” he utters in quite a hushed, threatening way to his credit.
‘Ok’ I gleefully reply
“If you don’t let me in then I’ll kick the door down or come in through the window”
‘Ok’ I gleefully reply

The door is an extremely thick cottage door made out of some expensive wood which I admit I cannot name. However, I can quite confidently state that no man on earth could kick it down. I find such stereotypical threats very hard to believe, normally being made by people who have never had to make a threat before and have no capacity to carry out their threats. I liken it a lot to when 2 of my neighbours threatened to “Break my legs” last year. I mean, come on, have you ever heard anyone outside of 'Home Alone' or 'Muder she wrote' use such a threat? Ever heard anyone slightly scary or threatening say that in real life or on screen? Exactly no. In Manchester they would say:
“You're gonna get FUCKED up, proper like...yeah? You get me? Yeah?You’re gonna get fucking GATTED mate.You get me, yeah, yeah?”
Ok, not the most intelligent threat, but does its job.

Dickchard pauses like he is expecting me to give a stereotypical reply
"Just you try"
"Not on your Nelly, buster"

He walks away, I lock the door, I go to sleep.

Could Dickchard be behind the missing passport? My paranoid side says yes. Logically though, a man who couldn't barge past an illegal alien in his own home probably doesn't want to fuck with a document that has a royal symbol on that he probably holds in high regard.

Nicola returns home from work and checks her Nanna’s house -She lives in the other half of the cottage- because Stephen -Nicola’s brother-in-law- says it might have fallen behind some furniture. It hasn’t. A bout of rigorous questioning reveals that Nanna knows nothing of the passport. A dangling life-line is revealed as Nicola admits that in the past, Nanna, in her elderly forgetful ways, has opened Nicola’s post, sometimes even throwing it away. Afterwards, Nanna would deny everything.

18:00
Nicola locates the passport. It had been opened and left lying around in the house. My flight takes off in 12 hours and 45minutes.

The Inspector

30/12/05 11:15

Arrive in London from Preston. Presumably I slept the entire journey as it lasted 3 minutes and my mouth tasted like envelopes upon arrival.

11:20

I know that my easy bus to Luton airport is at 14:15 giving me plenty of time. I give strong consideration to 'dicking around' for an indefinite amount of time, then, remembering how badly I had messed things up the days before, and how deluded I had become during the packing debacle, I decide to head straight for the bus stop, see what time it is and then dick around within a closely controlled proximity of no more than 15 minutes.

I wander into a travel office situated inside the greenline bus terminus where I find two staff are sat at a single shared desk. The English male on the left is engaging face to face with a customer, the female right converses in a foreign language to a phone enquiry. I prepare to wait patiently when an anonymous, slightly smug looking individual approaches me.

'Are you alright there?' the anonymous man asks
"I'm fine thanks" comes my succint response
'Can I help you with anything?'
"I'm waiting to speak to one of these two people here"
'Ah well..... I'm the inspector. What is it you wanted to ask them?'
"I wanted to ask them where Gloucester place is; my bus leaves from there"
'Ah well.....they don't know the answer to that.'

"Ok...well....I think I'll wait a minute and take my chances anyway"
'No point...they don't know the answer'

Is this some droll, unimiginative, self-styled villain calling himself 'The Inspector'? Parading up and down London public transport depots deriving some sick, maniacal pleasure from putting on an authorative front, then intercepting lost members of the public and advising them that the answers to the questions that their entire journey, nay, their entire FUTURE, hinges upon are in fact unanswerable. Unanswerable in fact by the very people who are trained, then paid, then placed in front of you to provide such answers. With his simple, yet devastating words he hopes to cause a self-inflicted, short circuit inside his victims' brains. By denying the existence of answers he hopes that a series of immense, stark realisations will occur in such a short space of time that the human being's defence mechanisms and coping strategies will be flooded and fried.

A susceptible victim first realises that the safe, reliable, cogs of a seemingly all knowing, all powerful society, previously thought of as carefully crafted, have in fact been made out of ice rather than metal and are now melting all around them. He realises that all science, religion, history and government have been distorted, fabricated to create a pretty picture facade.
Ordinarily, the human brain can cope with such matters as many of us at certain points in our lives decide not to dip in the sea of lies that surround us or eat our establishments diet of disinformation. The Inspector's cunning lies in his placement and also his timing. He knows that shortly the victim will realise that they have no chance of getting to where they have planned to go...even worse...if they have friends or relatives who have gone ahead to meet them...well....where the fuck are they right now? If they have to change their currency back to English pounds then won't they lose most of it to those "No charge, no commission" people who have to be making something somewhere. You get the idea..some victims can withstand this barage longer than other, but, if 'The Inspector' has managed to snare you then it's over. You forget all notions of the past and future as they are too intense to handle. You walk around London shouting at random people, pointing at horses and saying, "Is that my bus-ee bus bus holiday bus?" and slavering all over yourself, occasionally stopping for food. This repeats until you die. It is a proven fact that before 'The Inspector' began his operations there were no homeless people in London. All the stories of physical abuse,drug abuse, and broken homes that lead to homelessness are just a fallacy. A concoction created by our politicians and insane media to explain this previous inexplicable phenomenon.

Possibly, but not probably.

I think again to try and glean some possible meaning from this individual and his bizarre words.

I take a second to perform a quick memory scan, trying to summon as much memory as possible. I conclude that yes, I have heard of companies performing aptitude and performance tests on employees to give an indicator of their general levels of knowledge and intelligence. I also conclude that no, I have never heard of a company somehow extracting all employees memories and thoughts, then downloading them into their superiors brains, thus allowing them to know everything that their employed underlings know.
Yes, this technology may exist in some secret, black budgeted laboratory, but it is doubtful that the testing stages would be caried out in a grotty, London bus depot. It is even more doubtful that such technology would be implemented inside this fucking pion.

No, the answer was so clear and so simple all along.
This man was a stereotypical, London FUCK.

You know the type, rushing and pushing you out of the way as if their time is as limited and as precious as a dischevelled, sunken, aids ravaged child. One who needs to claw their way past you in the queues at D*sneyland for ‘Space mountain’ so they can experience the thrills of a ‘Normal, happy child’ once more before they stop and drop. If you try and ask these Londoners a question in the street they will simply keep walking, totally blanking you, like your voice has as much weight and meaning as a speech from the Prince of Monaco. If you have been stabbed in the street, they will not only refuse to directly help you, but will actually hamper the attempts of fellow random passers by who are actually trying to help you. True story. A guy was stabbed on a bus in London, managing to make it downstairs. Onlookers refused to help and eventually it was left to one woman to shake herself out of shock and assist the man. She asked for a jacket from another passenger to stem the flow of blood. Everyone refused. Everyone. Londoners don’t want to have a dying person's blood all over their jacket. When would they have the time to go to the dry cleaners, what will all their important business and busy lifestyles?
The pathetic British media tried to praise the 'Resolve' and 'Stoic resistance' of Londoners after the bombings. Nah, they just didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone involved. They don’t care about London, or anyone else in it outside their own circle. For them it was a holiday and a nice story. “Oh, I was in London that day, oh dearie me.” I’ve never visited anywhere else that was so devoid of humanity and passion.

Yeah, 'The Inspector' was a London prick. His crowning achievement, lifetime highlight would be to tell his Grandchildren that he was within the miniscule 60 mile radius of London when the bombs struck.

I adopt a slightly mocking tone, gauged such that it would knock him down from the summit of smug mountain, yet not too much mocking that he would hamper my enquiries even further.

“Hmm..yeah....so what you’re saying is that you know everything that these two people know?”

The smugness on his face doesn’t flinch and he’s beginning to grow a very large grin now. Jesus, this guy’s a prick. My incredibly restrained subtlety has been lost and he now believes that I am massaging his ego.

‘Yes’ He states ever so smugly.

The desire to point out the gaping holes in his logic is still held back by the fact that I still believe he has my answers.If this was Manchester I could have sacked this off long ago and just asked a random person. They would, in a friendly and non-ambiguous way, tell me the answer, or apologise for not knowing. They’d probably walk me there themselves. I’m not there though, I’m in London. Anyone I ask here is likely to either not speak English, be a tourist themselves or a complete prick, like this guy.

“That’s impossible” I say, finally delivering the words to burst his bubble.

Aha! I have defeated ‘The Inspector’ with pure, unadulterated logic. Where as he plans to destroy lost members of the public’s worlds in 7 words. -They don't know the answer to that- I have destoryed his in 2.
I could have done it in 1:
“Impossible!”
but decided that only Brian Blessed could accomplish such an exclaimed exclamation.

‘The Inspector’ exits smug mode, but chooses not to retaliate to my killer blow.

‘It is illegal for them to give you that information’

No! Incredible! It appears that he doesn’t want to crawl off, lick his wounds and rethink his long-term plans of villainy. He’s actually shifted up a gear, now trying to lure me into another mine(d) field of his outrageous claims. Knitting an even bigger web of unbelievable,unpalatable lies.

“Ok. Well, can You give me the information?” I ask, starting to tire of this whole affair.
‘No. It’s illegal for me to give you that information’
“How!? Who says?” I've started to snap a little.
‘The company, it’s illegal to give out competitors' information’

What an utter fuck wit. Instead of implying that he is an all knowing, omniscient, being and that him and his associates have been gagged by legal sanctions placed on them by the highest judges in the land he could have straight away just said.

‘I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to tell you that. Company policy I’m afraid. Why don’t you try ’

Unconfident of success, I try to make 'The Inspector' break his precious laws. I'm going to remain calm, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me wound up.

“Well, I’ve already booked the ticket now so it doesn’t affect your company if you tell me. If you leave me with some information from your company, I’d be glad to consider it on my next visit.”

The smugness started to seep back on his face.
'I can’t do that' he says, with undertones of gloating.

"So what you’re saying is you’re going to jeopardise a young man’s trip to go and live abroad to be with his girlfriend because of some petty rule made by your company? A rule that even if you broke wouldn't divert any business or profit from your company, it just helps a lost person to get where they need to be?"

He unflinchingly and without pausing or altering his facial expression says,
'Yes'

He doesn’t even realise what I made him admit. What I said basically translated to:

“So what you’re saying is that you’re an A grade cunt? A bitter, twisted, pen pushing fuck?”

‘Yes’ he unwittingly admitted.

The end of London

The London transport office were extremely helpful, even providing me with a map. I looked at the map and saw that I was very close to my destination. All I needed was 3 tube stops and a short walk. The walking distance looked like the equivalent of walking from St. Peter’s square to Market street (about 5 minutes.) I changed some pounds to kronor and set off. I like the idea of the tube, but not the tube itself. I like the speediness of it and the convenience and I also like that it is free -A person in front puts in their ticket and some barriers open, you go in straight after them, you don’t even need to run-.The bad parts are it reeks,is filthy and is occupied by catatonic London zombies who stare at the ground,silently. If you talk on the tube, even with people you know, you are a freak, an outsider because you aren't dead inside like everyone around you. Dead or scared shitless of everyone around you because of media, Government and police induced fear.

I once read that they cracked open a tube seat and found rat shit, human shit, spunk and a new type of fungi.

12:20
I exited the tube and began walking. I was a bit knackered now. It seemed that all the stations I had visited contained only still, concrete stair cases and not the giant escalators all the other stations I had ever visited had. This had forced me to lug my heavy suitcases up countless stairs. Overground, I was distressed to find that I could only walk for about 5 minutes now before I had to pause for a 20 second rest. It was like lifting deadweights and I felt like one of those world’s strongest men, in mind, not in body. I decided I deserved a rest and a tasty spliff. Besides, it had been a hectic night of panic and London in its unique, inimitable style had only added further stress. True, I had no idea how long the bus to Luton airport would take, but I knew that the spliff would make everything in front of me pass silky smoothly.

Outside of some KFC wannabe I see a man sat on a comfortable cushiony type pallette. Due to his appearance, he has been given a lot of personal space around him, more than enoughto share with me. I ask if I can sit down near him and he waves and mutters some kind of acceptance. I notice that he has only one leg and is wearing a black stetson that is covered with a ring of shiny rhinestones. It looks very gay and he appears quite strange although with a dignity about him. We get talking and he seems to know a little bit about Sweden and he also knows about how controlling this country is. From him speaking to me it became clear that he understood Government tricks and lies and about the unwitting level of control we are all under.

We shared a smoke and he talked of how you should always resist and have beliefs, but warned how "they" try to fuck you up if you do resist and go against them. He alluded that this was why he had ended up the way he was. This is not the first person I have met wandering the streets who has independently spoken of such a thing, of how they spoke out and ended up this way, on the streets. He also spoke that he was supposed to visit the hospital to have an operation on his leg,but refused to go because they would try and kill him. I knew that he meant with medicine and because they viewed him as a drain and invaluable member of our glorious society. This talk shocked me a little more as I once spoke with another man who had talked of a similar thing happening to him in the hospital. He had been waiting and saw lots of old people, perfectly lucid, going in for x rays and coming out comatosed. He claimed that when he went in they told him to close his eyes and he wouldn't, because he was afraid of what would happen and someone tried to stab him with a needle. A fracas ensued, he ended up running away. I always assumed this first man, even though he had talked a lot of sense for most of our talk, was talking a bit crazy. I found these coincidences strange, especially as I considered this second man a lot more stable because he wasn't hell bent on religion.

Here was an intelligent man, with a keen eye, probably more about him than half the suited Londoners who think they have some kind of status. Here he was, to the untrained eye, a homeless, crippled, beggar but was in fact an open minded individual who it was a pleasure to talk to. He had life in his eyes, devoid from so many of us. He smiled as he told me that days earlier on Christmas day it had been the most enjoyable of his life which he spent with bikers at a social club somehwere in London. He began to tell me about an ancient code of music with many gates that I should remember...it is now 13:20 and I get a feeling that I need to leave. I find it hard to leave this man as I want to talk more, part of me says I have lots of time because my bus stop is so close, but I have to yield and make sure I make it.

As I left, I couldn't hear clearly. It sounded as if he advised me to travel the world and that I experience the pleasures of picking fresh bonsai during the summer.

14:10
Why the fuck am I still walking....Where is the bus stop.... How long is this road? The tiny road on the map that should have taken less than 5 minutes is now still going on, 50 minutes later, no end in site. I’m picking up the cases now and doing short sprints until my arms burn so much I have to stop. I feel sick from hunger and wish I had eaten something since 20:00 the night before.

14:12
I make it to my bus stop with 3 minutes to spare.

Airport Antics

15:00
I think it was between 15:00 and 15:30...I was asleep the entire trip. Luton airport is small and boring, check in starts in about an hour. I shave the best shave of my life and find the line where my check in should be. I find a small queue. I decide that it is best not to join the queue at his point. Nobody wants to go to where I’m going, Västerås, an airport which Ryan Air was touting around as Stockholm. There was also another airport in Stockholm, Skavsta, which I could choose from. Skavsta is a 2.5 hour bus ride to Stockholm, Västerås, a mere 1.5 hour ride. I dunno who was responsible for this outrageous labelling, probably the same guy who labelled Luton airport as in London. Only 2 airlines goto Västerås and this airport is so small that it actually closes at about 23:00. I was pleased to find online that the last bus out of the airport left before our plane had landed meaning that if you had no lift in a car you were stranded.Stranded in a snow storm. I was sort of sure I had a lift in Lla's dad's car.....I felt more sure that no one else in this airport would have made such a series of idiotic boobs.

More and more people kept arriving, annoying me. Now there were two queues, both really backed up.

17:00
Balls.
More people and you have to check in by 18:00 at the latest.
Actually, this is gonna be a really tight call.
I’ve done it again. My entire time in the line is going to be spent knowing that I’m probably only just going to make it. Even though I arrived an hour before check in commenced.
I join the queue and initiate phase one of my cunning plan. I open my first suitcase in the line. It consists of:

*20 or so vinyls, all but 2 are 12” and packed in bubble wrap, wrapped in a towel
*Panda Lloyd
*An oxford advance learners dictionary.
*Teach yourself swedish book.
*‘Dharma bums’ by Jack Kerouac
*A very heavy “You can remember” pack by Bruno Furst. A heavy folder containing 12 booklets about how to improve your memory through image association.
*A blank purple book
*3 notebooks

People behind me are a little peturbed as I take everything out and start to repack. I place all the vinyls into plastic bags whilst intermittently kicking the rest of my luggage to catch up with the moving queue. This is going to be my hand luggage. This takes me a while as I have to be very careful with my precious vinyl.

I close this suitcase and initiate stage 2.
I open the second suitcase, take off my jacket and lay it on the floor so I am wearing only a t-shirt. I then take out my small, black sleeveless shirt and put it on. I then take out the next biggest t-shirt I own and put that over the top. Slowly but surely I am wearing one shirt,5 t-shirts and my surgeon's top.
I then take out my four long-sleeved shirts and start to put them on, one after the other, unbuttoned. Everyone around me is suffering from amusement and bemusement, engaged in whispers with each other. Everyone is looking but trying not to look. If I make eye contact we both smile. I decide to avoid all eye contact and focus on the task at hand. Queueing to check in is boring and frustrating. Here I am trying to implement a deadly serious, pre-planned operation, but have become a figure of amusement for my fellow passengers.
Now for the jackets.
The orange Adidas jacket, the two jackets from Asda, the Boc Baker jacket and finally the inside fleece from a German army jacket.
5 jackets.
I’m really, really, really, incredibly pleased with myself at this point. I had dreamed up this scheme maybe one week before I arrived and had told a couple of people about my intentions. I don’t know whether they thought it wouldn’t work or if I wouldn’t do it... I received no positive encouragement anyway. I didn’t care. All I knew was that if there was any item of clothing that I wanted to take with me then I was going to take it with me. If I wanted to take 20 heavy vinyls with me then I was going to. I knew I would be over the 15 kg limit and there was no way on God’s green earth that I was gonna pay extra for it. Especially not after the Västerås scandal that kept growing ever more scandalous the more you researched it. I would have gaffa taped vinyls, properly protected, to my chest if necessary. My scheme was glaringly obvious and of course, other people surely must have done this in the past and I can't claim to have invented it. However, I will point out that the idea came from my own brain, independently and uninfluenced(!)



I was really pleased because I didn’t know for sure that everything would fit without stretching or complication and it did. Because of my skinny size I didn’t even look wrong.
I needed the toilet and couldn't understand why I had been contemplating not shitting before I got on the plane, risking a complex, messy and stenchy deposit on a confined, crowded plane. I decided to kill two birds with one stone, putting my pants on in the toilet, asking the couple behind me to guard my now clotheless suitcases. I decided to sack putting on underwear and socks. I didn't want to risk every pair of my kecks smelling of sweaty cock and I also didn't want to put unecessary pressure on the lads and their cannon. This can lead to cancer. People who wear briefs, trapping and pushing in their precious jewels are fools.

My black trousers, my skate pants, my scally pants, my tighter jeans, my loose jeans
Again, perfect. The company can’t have a “weight limit” for passengers for fear of causing embarrassment to those heiffer type specimen of human that you see working in a Texas McDonald’s. Ha, all I had to do was wear everything until the plane, then stash it in the overhead compartment. If I thought that what I had done was outrageous or clever in anyway I'd go back and count all the items of clothing I had on and then boast. It was neither of these things.

If I was Tony Hawkes or Dave Gorman, I would have put on as many pairs of socks and underwear until I couldn't even bend my feet without breaking a toe and my schlong had gone numb from the intense pressure. I would have spent time at home practising clothes runs, cramming on as much as possible so that I could cite a hilariously, outrageous number in one of my hilarious books. This stunt would be one of the highlights in another of my daft and whacky capers. The only way I could hold my nerve to do such a naughty, daring and dastardly deed was the promise of a book release, filled with cash, that I needed to fill with "madcap", "hare-brained" schemes so that everyone would go:
"Core, blimey! Get a load of this guy, he's crackers!"
Another story that I can regale their middle-class friends with at dinner parties.

(Tony Hawkes writes books where people conveniently make bets with him so he can write a book about it. His first one was "Round Ireland with a fridge" where someone bet him he couldn't hitchhike round Ireland with a fridge. It's one of those books where the idea behind the book is the most entertaining thing about the entire book. Nothing funny happens. Apart from him reminding you of how he'd gone on a wild bet. He then pushes his luck and releases books about trying to beat the entire Moldovan football team at tennis.

Dave Gorman did a better book trying to meet 50 odd people who shared his strange name and he wrote it with another guy. It turns into a kind of cult and the book has its moments. The reason I attack Gorman is he got cocky and thought he was an actual writer. He tried to write a serious book, failed completely, and so released a complete cop out, pathetic second release called "Google whack." This time he finds a person who google whacked him, then hilariously challenges them to googlewhack people so he can.......yes....go and meet those people. Aha! Genius.
It doesn't even sound funny.
I saw Gorman do book reading from one of 'Google Whacks' trite chapters. Dave had met a sinister Texan. A gun wielding maverick cowboy who had kidnapped Dave and was forcing him to go on a drugs mission with him to Mexico to do a cocaine run. Dave is naturally terrified.
He ends the bookreading leaving the listener on hooks wondering what the fuck went down there and if the rest of the book was on the run from the police or on the run from this crazy cowboy. And of course, he also reminds the listeners that they can buy his book right now!

Upon reading this pathetic travesty, I discover that the cowboy was one of the friendliest men Dave had ever met. After repeated pesterings, he had graciously allowed Dave into his car for athe road trip of a lifetime. He carried a gun because....all Texans do....Dave was scared because the cowboy asked if he wanted to touch the gun, after Dave drew attention to it. The drugs run to Mexico was in fact a leisurely drive to collect Coca Cola. The Mexicans make it better, apparenty.
Well done, Dave.
Your cliff hanger serves as to provide the dictionary definition of "Anti-Climax" there. It really made me warm to you, the clever way you'd played on the word coke, tricking all your fans -I was no fan. Everyone else had free tickets to a ticket only event. I happened to be in the book shop at the time, sneaking in with my friend, Jenny- into thinking something momentously entertaining was going to happen, when in fact nothing did.
What a clever, crowd working boy you are.

These guys make a lot of money out of peddling such shite.)

I think I'd like Gorman though if I met him in the street. I think he probably is funny in a cute and pleasant little way. He's probably quite an amiable chap.
Unlike Tony Hawkes.
I imagine him to be a snivelling little brown nose. Pathetically trying to get the attention of his school mates by eating glue and dancing around pulling faces to get them to like him.
I hate Tony Hawkes the most. He would probably say something like this about his clothes scheme:

"I was trembling with fear at my new plan!
Could I possibly dare?!
Surely these were the desperate actions of a complete, crazy and mad person. Had I let this challenge get to me too much? Was I now pushing the borders of sanity..........had I, in accepting this bet, already done so and was now hopelessly lost in the land of the insane?
I wish I'd bought the rough guide now.
I was teeming with glee and wanted to tell my friends. Fearing they might call the men in white coats I decided against. What would all the other people in the airport think, I imagined? What could they think? Here was this man, clearly not bound by any of the usual social norms and able to operate completely outside all normality. What a total prankster. I felt sorry for the person who had to sit next to me on the plane. Someone would probably call security and everyone would be lying on the floor around me whilst the police pointed machine guns at me, and me with a red face having to explain it was just a hilarious joke.

I rang the Guinness book of records hoping that I might now hold the record for wearing the most clothes that anyone had ever bothered to ring up record breakers to report.
They said I hadn't broken anything.
I said I was writing a book.
Well, they said, I was the person who'd rung up the most times with the most failed attempts to break a record. That was a record in itself and surely that meant something, somewhere, to someone.
Success!
My friend, who happened to be present, said he bet I couldn't ride a penny farthing, dressed in Victorian period clothing, whilst wearing a flower pot on my head,all the way to the studio within the time frame of the rest of my life. Cheryl Baker was to be present, passing over the certificate to me via Roy Castle´s boney, dead, arm.
I accepted. Hmmm, I could sniff another book out of this!!!"

Wanna know something Hawkes? I stole all of your books, you greedy, comedyless little gobshite. So what if you had a bit part in Red Dwarf. I resent you for repeatedly calling yourself a comedian. I resent your existence and I don't speak such words lightly.

When I returned from the toilets, the young couple behind me in the queue started asking me about Panda Lloyd and so I told them. Panda Lloyd is a Welsh, mongoloid panda with no nose or tail.His name is Welsh, not that people from Wales are mongoloid.
They were Tomas and Joan, a French and Chinese (Hong Kong I think) married couple from London. I explained about my luggage and they were relieved because, as is the modern way, they thought everyone was being secretly filmed and I was one of Beadle's minions. My new friends made an excellent suggestion. Seeing as they were carrying so little, they were going for one weekend away, surely I could transfer over my excess luggage to them? It sounded very reasonable and perfectly logical. Alas, I was once again bitten by bureaucratic bullshit. That wasn’t allowed, company policy. I put my cases on the scale. One suitcase alone weighted 16kg, 1 kg over and in total I was about 5 kg over. I can’t remember whether it was £4 per kg or £24 per kg, but it wasn’t happening eitherway. I moved to the side for a rethink. Damn Bruno Furst and his concrete guide to memory! Joan and Tomas checked in and told me to wait at the side whilst they wandered off.

My saviours! They came back with a Tie rack bag with a zip that I could put my hand luggage inside instead of plastic bags. They also said I could take the majority of my clothes off and they would carry it through as hand luggage. The cases were now under weight.
I sat on the ground “Get your pants off!” Joan was shouting and then started ripping my layers of pants off. Tomas was good natured about this and was the first to make a joke about his wife’s comments and how they could have been construed. It was nearly 18:00, we had to hurry in case it was too late to go through passport control etc.

It wasn't.The plane was delayed by 2 hours. We remained together, talking and the time passed quickly.

As plane as anything

21:00

Our plane takes off and I’m pleased because I’m sitting next to Tomas and Joan. We’ve been having a good time together, each side appreciative of the light relief of each other’s company under the frustrating circumstance, whilst finding they get along comfortably and like each other. The other passengers are smiling and nodding at me. I don't recognise any of them.

The flight was 2 hours and so the plane was cramped and unpleasant. The table in front of me had the cartoon safety diagrams on them, permanently looking at me. Everyone has to pay attention to the stewardesses give a safety lecture because if we don’t and the plane sets on fire, hurtling towards the ground at incredible speed, we might now know what to do and consequently might die. We might die in an unsafe, incorrect manner compared to everyone else dying in the procedure following, correct manner.

If we’re over water at the time when the engines stop, the plane will float languidly and graciously from the sky, like a feather, into the calm, blue seas. The plane will sit and float on top of the water, bobbing gently up and down, soothing and relieving us of any shock, whilst we all calmly queue up and in single file slide down those incredibly fun looking inflatable slides. The water won’t be freezing and our limbs won’t instantly cramp up, leaving us immobile. We will blow the magic whistles on our life jackets, summoining the nearby dolphins who will shortly come to drag us to safety, tittering. When our voices become hoarse from singing Kumbaya we will tap each other on the shoulder, “Want some of my hermetically sealed, water-proofed Mars bar?” we will say, then when they look round we will shine our torches directly into their eyes, blinding them for kicks.

I turn to my new friends and quite happily tell them that the safety position of head between knees, hand over heads, was just so that when the impact happened, your spinal column severed cleanly, killing you instantly, preventing prolongued suffering. I decide that maybe other people don’t wanna hear such things, especially during a flight. I remember Fight club, the film, where the oxygen maskes so as to put you in a state of euphoria before the inevitable death.

To keep myself occupied I played a counting game. I would count down from 10 believing that when I hit 0 oxygen maskes were going to fall down from above and everyone was going to start screaming, crying and panicking in an instant. I kept viewing the placid scene around me, people sleeping, reading, a couple lucky bastards watching dvds on laptops, and then imagining how in the click of a finger the scene would turn to pure pandemonium. I tried to predict how different people would react. Who would be frozen, silent with fear? Who would scream and cry? I imagined friends and relatives clutching onto each other tightly, the stronger of the two stroking the others heads, gibbering words of futile comfort. Would random single serving friends start hugging each other and holding hands fearing death, not wanting to die alone?
Eyes open or eyes closed?
Would some people start praying and going on about god?
Would some crazy man start an apocolyptic rant about how doomed we were?
Would couples start kissing and end their lives with beautifully worded sentiments of love to the other?
It must be a lot easier to die with the one you love next to you. If you’re up there and they’re safe on land, you would feel bad at the traumatic emotion they would have to go through at the news of your death while they’re waiting for you at the airport. Then you’d start realising that they’d eventually get over you, albeit being incredibly emotionally vulenrable, and some evil, sneaky, slick fuck would take over her, secretly trying to destroy every memory they have of you. All that love that was meant for you, stolen, by some greasy haired fuck.

If there was some sick virgin on board, would he start trying to cop a feel of some paralysed woman next to him, eventually raping her, time permitting? Realising he wouldn’t be held accountable for his actions.
Would people start puking and pissing themselves. Would everywhere stink?
Would people be fighting and trampling on people to get to the exits?
I’d despise the people who were praying the most and all the people who would put their seatbelts on.

Me, what would I do? During my counting game I wondered also. I would get out of my seat, if there was a religious, praying person in my vacinity I would try and smash them in the weakest part of their jaw to break it. I’d fight my way to the exit and try to open the door. Getting sucked out at high speed must be fucking mint! Maybe I’d get sucked into the engines and scrambled, maybe I’d die instantly from pressure or maybe I’d survive, and freefall to the ground without a parachute. That’s my dream way to die, pure adrenaline rush. Opening the door, I’d take all the other passengers with me. I’d be a mass murderer and in the end it wasn’t the plane crash that would kill everyone, it was my hand. I don’t want to die like some pathetic, snivelling human trapped like sardines in a crushed tin box. I wanna be out in nature, plummeting to my death. Or getting mangled in the engines, pureified into tiny, tiny pieces.
I would like to take some hits of oxygen, but couldn't guarantee that I’d be able to pull myself away.

My counting game got freaky and I realised I was agitated and on edge now. I took a cue from Tomas, lowered the table in front of me, rested my head and slept on and off.

A pilot on an aeroplane doesn’t do very much, he basically does fuck all, nothing except making a couple of announcements over the tannoy. It’s all computer controlled. Out of 20 flights, the computer lands the plane 19 times, he does excatly the same as you, sits there, hoping, wondering. To keep the pilots fresh, they have to manually land 1 out of every 20 flights, just in case the computer crashes. That’s why when you land sometimes it’s turbulent, unpleasant, bouncy and starts to shit you up. I explained this to Tomas and Joan in an attempt to make a comforting remark, counter to my scare remarks about snapping spines and euphoric oxygen.

23:00 (GMT)
We land, thankfully the counting game was just that, a game and not a prophecy.
Västerås, “Stockholm”, Sweden!