On a journey to hell

It’s not so much the destination that Kevin Pilley dreads, but the people he encounters along the way

There is a fine line between being a Buddhist and being a fascist. It’s called the “Heathrow Express”. It connects London to its main airport. And me to my dark side. Airports change me. As soon as I get to one I can’t tolerate mankind. I loathe everybody. Especially anyone in front of me. And around me. The ones who get in the way.

Even the ones in the ads along the moving walkway. With their stupid teeth and “Hope you don’t crash” smiles. The ones with the smug grins and “I’m ATOL-protected” complexions. And particularly the ones at check-in. Especially the woman who’s lost her boarding card. Whose husband is smaller than his luggage. And the old couple in the back of the cart with the flashing lights and annoying beeps flicking V-signs at me with their eyes.

Air-side it gets worse. There, to avoid the passengers heading towards the premier class lounges, you look down at the floor and see the flames of hell beneath.

In the uncomfortable bucket seat besides yours, is the Palma-bound widow reading Jilly Cooper very slowly and with the aid of a dictionary. On the other side is some stragglehaired, hazy-eyed student in open-toed sandals and lurid harem pants trendily ripped at the knee. The one with “Boursin” armpits.

Sometimes he is accompanied by his beadedup girlfriend in bovver boots and her dad’s fartoo-long cricket sweater.

If hell is other people, then hell is a departure lounge. You pray — hearing her nearby — you won’t sit next to the slightly bald and effortlessly boring old biddy who trusts only “Thomas Cook” and fears the collywobbles. The sprightly old thing you can bear only by superhuman heroism. In small doses. And with big doses of beer. And gin without much tonic. The writer cannot tolerate contemplating who might be sitting next to him in aeroplanes.

Looking around, your paranoia works overtime creating diabolical paranoiac visions of boarding and finding yourself sitting in the middle of that group of girls in Viking helmets. Or next to that screaming, ever-mewling baby with the spastic colon.

Or that leathery youth who probably likes Top Gear and Terry Pratchett.

Or that hiccupping, swollen-faced drunken sot with the bloodshot eyes whose breath smells of firelighters. Or that chinless corporate dweeb.

Or that woman who makes you despair that your ears will never again perform any helpful function. And question whether hers are ever used for anything else but ventilation.

The person with the grating accent who tells you in her droning 1000-air mile soliloquy how she can’t stand Mallorca and hasn’t got any time for Tunisia and how she won’t go again to Austria after discovering what they do to young sheep. The one who makes you smile inanely, trying not to look like someone who is not apt to go to places like Tenerife.

The one who talks so much that when the drinks trolley arrives you are tempted to ask for a blowpipe and tranquilising dart. Experienced travellers know the best travelling companion is a heavily sedated one. And rarely miss from close range.

After the flight is called and you queue at the gate, you look around and quail and shudder at what might be coming your way. And then you make eye contact with someone. Just briefly. And there is some hope. Until you realise she is looking at you and probably dreading the prospect of putting up with you and your pompous snobbery.

For your sins you are sandwiched in between a hairy kayaker and a large gentleman with unneutralised stomach acid. You look up just in time to see the cabin crew drawing the curtain to hide Business Class from the common herd.