British Falcon Flight 7633 to Norwich, now boarding at gate 6b.
This is the first call for British Falcon Flight 7633 to Norwich,
Now boarding at gate 6b.
Could Mr Mozarella, travelling with Air Italy to the Po Valley,
Please make himself known to a representative of his airline.
Air Beagle Flight 133 to Exeter, now boarding at gate 6a.
This is the first call of Air Beagle Flight 133 to Exeter,
Now boarding at gate 6a.
I called him Mr Juicy.
I met him at the gate of an airport departure lounge.
He was flying to Norwich, I was flying to Exeter.
Our planes were delayed because a fuel transporter had
Broken down, diagonally, across gates 6a and 6b.
Nobody could move it.
The two of us, me and Mr Juicy, we looked out the
Terminal plate glass window.
He asked if I had a dry wipe marker.
So I can go in the toilets, he said,
Add my initials to the hourly checklist.
Just for a laugh.
No sign of any movement on the apron.
Men in high viz jackets stand around, dumbfounded.
Mr Juicy, all grins,
Sits across two soft cushioned seats.
I sit opposite from him and he watches
As I stare at the floor.
What are you doing?, he asks.
I’m looking at a small dot.
Part of the fleck effect of the tiled floor.
Concentrating on this insignificant dot.
Soon I’ll be hundreds of miles away and the chance
Of seeing this tiny dot again
Will be very small indeed.
You’re weird, he says,
But I like you.
And I liked him.
Rip up the afternoon with your sheer existence!
Batter the world with your beauty,
Show no resistance!
Like a soldier marching, marching,
Like a porcelain hammer,
Like a grenade of love,
There is no grammar
For me to put into language
That I am made of love.
Afraid of love.
Let us be brothers in arms, primed to attack,
Let’s drill together, I’ll watch your back
Like two soldiers marching, marching
Perfect rhythm, perfect motion marching marching
Left right left right keep this up
All through the night.
You bludgeon me
With your masculinity
With your beauty
You’re such a
I want to be with
War zone decrepit and a scorch earth policy
To fight for love is the ultimate fallacy
Like a soldier
Into the inevitable
You can conquer me!
I’d lay down my arms.
Then lay down
In my arms
You would ask.
We apologise for the slight delay to flights British Falcon 7633 to Norwich and Air Beagle Flight 133 to Exeter, currently awaiting boarding at gates 6a and 6b. This is due to . . .. Operational difficulties.
The driver of the stranded fuel transporter
Hops down from his cab, lands awkwardly,
And sprains his ankle.
Could passenger Mr Mozarella, please make himself
Known to the Air Italy information desk, located
In the man terminal building,
Next to the Weatherspoons pub.
I tried not to look over at Mr Juicy too much.
I didn’t want him to think that I fancied him.
I wanted him to know
That I fancied him.
Open, pleasant face and long, long legs, see them
Draped over the chair next to him,
Body-hugging white tshirt,
Purposefully unkempt hair,
The feint trace of stubble,
A ruffian with the soul of a poet,
Who’d just captured
The soul of a poet.
I watched that DVD the other day, you know the one,
The Neverending Story. But I’m suing the film company
Because it was only on for 118 minutes.
And another thing.
How come the logo for Universal Pictures
Is just of planet earth?
And how come
The Three Musketeers
Are called the Three Musketeers
When there’s four of them
And they don’t use muskets?
I smile, and laugh.
I want him to know that I’m, you know,
Not necessarily heterosexually configured,
But I don’t want to go too over the top.
Mr Juicy tells me about his mother.
She works at an old folks home, in the kitchen.
They have to perform miracles, he says,
They’re given a Chicken and told to feed
Thirty residents with it.
Rezzies, as those in the business call them.
If someone was not expected to live beyond the
Next evening, then their last meal would be
The solemn walk of death,
Carrying a solitary rice pudding from the kitchen
Through the dining room,
And all the rezzies wondering who it was who
Was going to be presented with it.
Ethel looks down, sadly,
At her rice pudding.
Her whole life
Has led to this.
This is another call for Mr Mozarella.
That’s Mr Mozarella,
Please make yourself known to the
Air Italy officials.
The manager is waiting to hear from you.
The head honcho.
The big cheese.
I like your . . . Body-hugging white t-shirt, I tell him.
Thanks, he replied.
Very fashionable, I continue, I’d wear one too,
But there are certain bodies which, you know,
Don’t look good hugged.
Everyone deserves a cuddle now and then, he replies.
Oh my goodness!
But like an idiot I say nothing,
And then when I do, I change the subject.
At school we had some weird fashions,
It was trendy in year eight to have a tin of
Mackerel fillets poking out of your shirt pocket,
You were nobody unless you had a
Tin of mackerel fillets in your shirt pocket,
The teachers would confiscate them,
They always looked so healthy, our teachers,
Must have been all that omega three,
And the poor kids, bless them, they’d go in
With these tescos own brand mackerel fillets,
Am I Rambling?
Everyone deserves a cuddle now and then, that’s
What he’d said, or did I imagine it?
My best friend is an astronomer.
He has been tracking a super massive black hole
For the last few years
Using mathematics and pure science to work out
He’s calculated that a star fifteen times the size
Of the sun is heading straight towards it.
Can you Imagine? This gigantic star and this
Super massive black hole.
I said to him, what will happen to the star?
And he replied,
It will turn ever so slightly more red.
If the ultimate state of the universe
Is chaos, I say,
Then that makes me feel better
About the cupboard under the stairs.
Everyone deserves a cuddle now and then.
I say to him,
I’m really worried that one day I’ll
Slice a loaf of bread
And accidentally split the atom.
Ladies and gentlemen, once again
We apologise for the delay at
Gates 6a and 6b.
The operating difficulties are
For your listening pleasure,
The following mood-enhancing music.
Mr Juicy smiles, leans back his head and closes his eyes.
The sun comes out, lightly caresses his face.
He looks so pure.
Unblemished by life
Unworried by the immediate
Unhurried unsullied unruffled,
Unfazed by the obvious,
Unmoved by the oblivious,
Unabashed, unapologetic, unholy.
Unmasked by circumstance,
Undressed by my imagination,
Untainted, unfettered, unforgettable,
Like the mountain air is pure,
Like the morning of a new day,
Like the mind of a nun is pure.
Like a babbling brook from a glacier,
The glacier itself renown for its purity,
That’s how pure you are.
I bet you don’t fart much
And even if you did
The people near you would say, my god,
Did it just get purer in here?
You’re as pure as a summer rose
Ensconced in morning dew,
You’re as pure as the air
After a thunderstorms been through,
You’re as pure as a paperback
That’s totally brand new
The Big Book of Pure,
Bought it this morning,
That’s how pure you are.
Mr Mozarella, are you there?
Where am I?
You fell asleep, Mr Juicy says.
Does this count, I wonder,
If I tell people I’ve now slept with him?
What’s the latest?
They’ve stretchered the driver away.
Now they’re trying to move the fuel transporter.
Some fuel spilled out.
They’re trying to mop it up.
I tell him,
Just before my mother was born,
The cleaner came in the room,
Wrung the mop out the window of
The head fell off.
How’s that for an omen?
Oh, Mr Juicy.
Millions of years of evolution,
Of chance and random occurrences,
Births, death, circumstance,
His parents needs and his fathers
Sperm going for it,
Winning the race,
To create him.
And for everything to align just right
And in just the right quantity and appeal
To the very depths of my own personal
And for him to be here now,
This morning, a freak of
Airport scheduling and airline timetables,
Just here, just now,
Fortune like a peach so juicy.
But . . .
What right has he to be so gorgeous?
What has he ever done to deserve it?
Why not me?
Why not everyone who’s
Gazed in the mirror,
Felt nought inside but pale horror,
Wanted to change the world,
Wanted to be loved?
I’m attracted to him so much
That I almost hate him
With his witty conversation and his
He chats to me not that he enjoys
The fact of my existence
Or that he wishes to impress me,
But merely because it is all so
Easy for him.
I mean nothing.
I am a momentary distraction.
He’s got a nice arse.
In half an hours time he’ll forget
I ever existed.
In half an hour
I’ll be thinking about
Hold on to him,
Memorise his face.
Memorise his face
Because you’ll forget it quickly.
This is the final call for
Can you imagine what it would be like?
The pressure to be constantly amusing,
Me and him, together forever,
Going through each day looking for anecdotes,
Something happens and you think,
Oh good, some new material.
I can’t wait to tell . . .
I don’t even know his name!
Ladies and gentlemen,
Thank you very much for your patience,
Comes the voice of doom,
Signalling the end of a romance,
We’re about to begin boarding flights
7633 to Norwich and 133 to Exeter
At Gates 6a and 6b,
Where the future will dissolve and crumble
Like an overlooked meringue
Please have your passport and boarding card
Ready for inspection.
That’s us, he says.
We’re on different planes, I point out.
I know, he replies.
Two parallel queues start to form at gates 6a and 6b. He
Gathers his belongings.
It’s been nice talking to you, I tell him.
Yeah, he says.
Two queues in tandem,
And I feel sick inside,
Incapable of telling him,
And stunted by social constrictions
That stand in the way of us
And a life together.
But I’d hate it.
Two queues shuffling forwards.
Is it not better, I tell myself,
To let him be.
To preserve it as the most perfect
Moment of all?
A love so deep that none was ever shared?
Two queues shuffling forwards.
He’s there in the corner of my eye,
And I’ll never see him again.
To know more now would spoil it forever.
I don’t even know his name.
Two queues shuffling forwards.
The skies await and with them
All is gone.
Bye, he says,
His queue is moving faster.
I’m momentarily distracted by a kerfuffle ahead.
I’m sorry, Mr Mozarella, the attendant says,
This isn’t your flight.
Exeter, Mr Mozarella.
No, not the Po Valley.
It holds up the queue, and when I look again,
Mr Juicy has gone.
Through the gate and off to his plane
And things will never
Be the same.
It takes an age to sort out Mr Mozarella.
I trudge across the lonely windswept apron,
Giddy on more than just aviation diesel.
Up the steps of our Exeter bound plane.
I pause, briefly,
Looking back at the airport terminal
Hoping that he still might be there,
Waving, or even running towards me,
Across the concrete,
But he isn’t.
He meant so much,
And I meant nothing to him.
The wind ruffles my hair.
How transitory this life we all live
With its fleeting moments.
I’ll never find anyone else like him.
There were nights when I was so lonely
It seemed he dark itself were a million fingers
Pointing away from me,
My existence so transitory as to
Hardly be worth the breath.
Each moment a death.
I will survive this!
As long before I found my own solidity
That the love I had inside of me
I could share
Should still be there.
How many others will disappear,
Chance encounters and momentary infatuations,
Squandered beauty and sheer
Miscalculations, misread signals and a certain
Immobility deep set within,
That I should live to live to love
Rather than love itself
And forever remain
Good morning, sir,
My name is Josh.
I look up.
He’s the best looking
Cabin attendant I’ve ever seen.