OVER LONDON

OVER LONDON

I've never had any problems flying. I don't wrestle armrests or swallow
pills. Or gorilla grip the ape in the next seat. I don't worry that my
feet become a few sizes bigger than Bozo the Clown's. I don't care that
my hair turns to a welcome mat, my bum's as flat as my ex-girlfriend's
chest and my name is suddenly Sewer 'cos I showered sometime last time
zone. I'm airborne and the Thames snakes below.
---------------
I've been here before. Europe. I've travelled. I love it. The synapses
crackle in anticipation, my dreams flow with mindscapes of England.
Headfulls of a Billy Connolly Scotland. Avis moments in Wales. My bad
Fellini in Italy, my bankless swan through Switzerland. The great time
in Greece and the forever grateful hospitality of the Turks. The French
ego and the Germans invading my psyche. Holland was cafes, canals,
windmills and sex in a spotlight. Then there was Belgium The Airport
Only and Barcelona of Spain. The bus tour of Poland, Hungary. Czech
&; Slovakia. The once Baltic States &; Russian devolution. And
the girls of Scandinavia: the damsel Danes, succulent Swedes, fine
Finns and the knockers on the Norwegians. Me in Europe. My many sold
out to Chauvinism Tours.
---------------
It's reassuring. The noise and leviathan groans of a 747. The wing
dips, the horizon diminishes, the ground grows. The engines spin a
little quicker, sucking air in deepthroat gulps, the healthy
inhalations holding the big buggar aloft long enough for me in my seat
to touch down safe and mentally unsound upon Pomme De Terra
Firma.
---------------
"Just about home eh mon compardrie !?" Stan's Guinness said. To me.
While me was 23 hours from home growing an arse the size of Ayers rock
dreaming of women Stan could only dream of.
---------------
Bleary eyed, I sleep slurred a reply. "No".
---------------
Then I woke up.
---------------
Mindyelled NO! ME a pomme? A Limey? English! Anglo Assassin! A pale
person? An Uxbridge refugee, a Sloane Deranged. PLEASE! Love the place.
But birthplace misplaced. Moi Aussie. Dinkum and Di. (Who's as dead as
moi's French).
---------------
The aircraft banked again. Descending to Heathrow, England below. It
is... was...is.. well green. Lush. Uluru sun through a once was Wembly
goal net. Subtle and painterly. Rembrandt rather than torched retina.
Coming from the dazzling light of an Australian summer, this was the
verdant dull Northern sublight. Sorta ephemeral. Sorta life through
sunglasses. Sorta great for a hangover.
---------------
Being stuck in a seat longer than puberty took, I looked over my
shoulder to peer out at the countryside flowing in tenement tracts
beneath. God. The excitement never wears off. Hello Loftus Road. Hello
Piccadilly. Hello Black Cabs and the Underground and the smell of iron
electrics in the air. Oxford Street and Soho. Lillywhites and the
Sports Bar by NZ House. The bright Brit girls who didn't know better.
And their daughters who did. But did it anyway.
---------------
Sometimes, I think my enthusiasm is a tad infantile. But mostly,
especially when I'm about to arrive, 747 over runway, I acknowledge
that kid within. And just enjoy the experience. QF 2 was landing. In
London. In Europe.
---------------
Stan, umpteenth beer in hand, leaned toward me. Again.
"I'm puree Amglow Saxsoon". He burpspoke. How incredibly uninteresting
I thought. But I was stuck with him. Basically 'cos he was in the seat
between his toilet and my bladder.
---------------
So I questioned the amglow him. Explained about Geiger. And Geiger's
counter and suggested that if this was true - that Stan was amglow -
Stan wouldn't need a night light 'cos Stan would radiate. Light up a
room. Power a few thousand vibrators. Why bother. Stan didn't get the
joke. Radioinactive Man just nodded. And smiled. Emptied yet another
can. Then prattled on about his English heritage, traceable to Henry IV
(of Surbiton I guessed) and explained he was on his way home.
---------------
Apparently, Stan had been working wreeal hard in the Emirates, Slur now
Foster's Lager said. He was landing and leaving. For Manchester.
"I don't knwow abwout theeis" Stan said. A concerned look double
crossing bloated cheeks.
"What?" I quizzed, looking out the midget (sorry, size impaired)
window.
---------------
"What?" I asked again, looking out thinking how great it was to be here
and not there. Back there. My Oz. Now, undies adhered, time immediate,
I love this place. I love this country. Hello UK, goodbye Australia.
Though I've been here, done that, I still love it. I love the green.
And the mist. The drench fog and QPR. Country drives and Newcastle
Brown Ale. That every corner has a corner pub. That the English speak
English. Sorta. I love the M4 and the lonesome commons. The awful
souvenirs, the BBC and Channel 4. Betting at Littlewoods. (My pocket
picked by the dead last in the Fifth. Hello Aintree). The vapour trails
overhead and the crowded pavements. London Transport and the Double
Decker Bus. Tap water straight from a fast breed reactor and the Sunday
papers. The snow and ice. The crap a lot pigeons and Hyde Park orators.
Basically, things the English hate. Or frown upon. Dismiss. Ignore. Or
just don't appreciate. And that the English play cricket with the
aplomb of my 6 year old nephew. Who's spastic.
---------------
Sorry. Movement rich.
---------------
I'd been sitting next to Stan since Singapore and the only thing I'd
learned was that Stan stunk.
"Have you got family?" I asked, thinking we may as well be over Mars or
my innermost fantasies for all the black skies outside the window
revealed. The movie had just finished, the cabin was dark. "You
awake?". I asked having awakened him. "Got Kids?".
"Oy" Stan gurgled."Twwwo".
"Two what?" I asked. "Giraffes, Wombats, Wilderbreasts, Martian
Ziprats, Venusian Cowpats?" Moi. The Saturn Smartarse enquired..
"Girlsz". Stan snored.
"How long have you been away?"
"Severnn years".
"You haven't seen the wife or the kids in 7 years?" I asked aghast. His
girls now adolescents
---------------
"What's a Kiwi?" Stan asked.
"A wingless duck". (So I lied. I was tired. Irritated. So fibbed
fantastic describing a creature part duck, bit phoenix, part Stan's
mum's Sunday Special hat).
"Does it have a bill?"
"Only when it eats at Five star restaurants".
---------------
Why had God never provided me with a seatmate worthy of the voyage? Not
once had I been sat next to something attractive, or interesting. Or
vaguely human even for the incarceration.
---------------
In the next seat, Stan was thinking: Whry had Gwod neffer proffided mwe
with a seatmate wrorthy of the vwoyage? Not once havvwf I been sat next
to sometheeng attraaactive, or inter..e..stiing. Or vwaguellee 'uman
evenn for the incarcerwaation...
---------------
Heathrow. Gateway for this promised lard. The almost fourteen stone of
me was wriggling toes, contacting the necessary extremities, grinning
widely and thanking God or Shiva (depending who was manning/ womaning
the switchboard up there) for a safe trip. I was entering England. Then
Europe. And fun, excitement and adventure.
--------------
Stan wasn't grinning. Stan was just terrified for Stan was just home.
Stan was just a parent with two teenage daughters each with 30 year old
boyfriends.
Stan was not as excited as I was.
--------------
Strange as it seems, I still chat to Stan occasionally. His vocabulary
hasn't expanded. But the number of grandkiddies have. And the distance
Stan has put between he and them sure has. Today, Stan works as a chef
on an oil rig off the coast of Siberia (content in the knowledge that
the mail has so many miles to get lost).
--------------
Stan's family, it seems, has yet to discover the telephone.
--------------
To be honest, on that flight, I would have preferred to have sat next
to some curvaceous nymph with the mind of Einstein and the body of
Cleo...
---------------
...Or Patra even, the monster moustachioed daughter of the Panapoulis's
who own the local Deli..
---------------
Sorry Stan.