Arsington arsey McArse. Talk about bad luck! I mean, if I’d known that some massive cloud of volcanic ash would paralyse the whole airline industry when I booked my leave then I could have got in on it.
Still, no point crying over spilt milk. I shall just have to knuckle down, invoke the good old British Dieppe Spirit (er, Dunkirk - Ed) and just accept the fact that I’m stuck here working in the hospital when I could have been marooned in Barbados.
Seems like loads of other people were away when the crisis hit, lucky sods. No trouble parking this morning. Nice and quiet around the hospital. Of course all the arsing patients managed to turn up. Takes more than an apocalyptic act of God to stop them pouring through the doors. Still, as I toil away, I am comforted by the many hilarious tales of woe that have befallen some of my dearest colleagues.
Dweeb beardie Johnson, who took his ugly wife and all his various ginger children on a super smug low-carbon holiday by train to southern France gets totally stuffed when all the trains go on strike.
So faced with the choice between a longer holiday in the sunshine, or looking up old men’s knobs in a darkened room, he obviously chooses the latter. So after a nightmare journey involving 52 different buses, he arrives at the channel only to find that he can’t get a ferry crossing and has to be rescued by a Navy warship en route from Afghanistan, and spends the next six hours stuck in a cabin trying to explain his pacifist views to a messed-up combat veteran, who just stares into space saying “you weren’t there, man” and playing with a bayonet.
Dan The Fat Gasman was on one of his very dodgy-sounding single man holidays to the Far East, and the airline offered him the following route home: Bangkok-Singapore-Sydney-Melbourne-Sydney-Aukland-Los Angeles-Pigsnuckle, South Dakota-Vladivostok-Tashkent-Kandahar-Ulan Bator-Kuala Lumpur-Bangkok.
Meanwhile, the Headmaster went to some Arse conference in Krakow, and being a total cheapskate travelled via THAT airline. You know, the one whose corporate customer care motto is ‘Now get off the fecking plane’. The one that will sell you a ticket to Copenhagen, but drop you off in Sweden - which is a whole other country. Anyway, he rang them up to see if they’d give him a few quid for a sandwich, seeing as he had been stuck for three days at an airport which consisted of a piece of tarmac and a couple of cow sheds. They suggested that (a) if you only pay £2.50 for a ticket you can’t expect masses of compensation if things don’t work out, and (b) that he feck right off. Plus they sent the boys round to give him a good kicking. And they charged him £5 for being beaten up.
So I popped in to see Johnson and have a quick chat about the merits of public transport. He just stared into space saying: “You weren’t there, man. You just weren’t there…”
Tags: Humour
Ha ha.. made me laugh. Amazing.