From New Malden to New York

So without much further ado, here's my first proper post. It's very up-to-the-minute: It's something I wrote at Heathrow Airport in late November, and it's about my trip to New York with Geoff. You know Geoff, everyone knows Geoff. How come you don't know who Geoff is? You should.

Anyway, to spoil the ending: I didn't die. You can view pictures proving this by clicking here

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‘Why do you have to make it so complicated? Why can’t it just be beautiful?’

So sang tea-cosy wearing pop-star tramp Badly Drawn Boy; if I could choose any one line from any piss-soaked vagrant songwriter’s back catelogue to describe my life so far, I’d choose that one.

I have always unconsciously cashew eschewed all opportunities for a quiet and simple life and instead plumped for one long unending tragicomedy of genial incompetence and accidental, often upsetting chaos. To extend the metaphor still further: you know when you can’t get to sleep due to some horrible noise coming from outside? When you can’t quite put your finger on it, but it sounds foxes mating with the bins, or pissed folk singers starring homoe and singing the pogues, or the police raiding the home of some poor immigrant chap because he looks a bit like an arab Jeremy Beadle?

Well, that’s my life, that is.

The latest episode is that of Geoff (legendary, semi-mythical friend) and myself’s trip to . We’re heading over for vague and unspecified reasons, though we hope to watch plenty of cricket and patronise various anglophile indiepop clubs while we’re there. Geoff, wisely, pointed out that this is basically the sensitive Guardian tolerating equivalent of a week on the costa del sol eating chips, but I say pschwah and harrump to him. And we’d better be able to find some decent tea.

So Geoff arrived last night at my sexy suburban pad, and we drank water and got our residual mockery and ironic prejudice and xenophobia out of our systems so as to prevent it repeating on us while going through customs. He was talking about getting up at some ridiculous time the next morning, and I chuckled at this. Geoff has always liked/needed to arrive for trains/coaches/cricket matches ridiculously early, whereas I have always ‘preferred’ sprinting to the station/cricket ground at the very last moment, while inwardly exploding with self-loathing at my inability to achieve the arguably simple task of arriving at a station/cricket ground in good time. And then I flukily catch the train/coach/opening spell of the tall, spivvy fast bowler, and forget about the skin-of-the-teethness and inherent deep-set rage of it all. I'll never learn.

With airports, however, I’m in agreement with him – get there early. I remember the tale of one Euan Brown, who once, despite arriving in good time (he faffed at the shops, bought a milkshake, contemplated moisturiser), managed to miss his flight and thus his week swimming with Turkish dolphins.

So I was fine with leaving at some eye-watering time in the morning, and cutting out the faff. But the time Geoff was suggesting was ludicrous, even by his ultra-cautious, ‘mill may not be manufacturing cotton at optimum speed’ mindset. Geoff was suggesting we get up at 6am. Preposterous. Our flight didn’t leave until 12.30.

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does”

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

That horrible sinking feeling started, that feeling that speaks of a thousand history-repeating disasters. It was the feeling that you’ve left your wallet at home; that you neglected to buy a ticket and the inspector is looming; that you’re not his real father and young Timmy’s beginning to work it out. You know the one I mean.

So I checked online and the doom rumours were true. I’d somehow booked us on for two separate flights. The good news, at least, was that both flights were booked to take us to the same country, and on the same day, etc. It wasn’t a total disaster (Geoff was headbutting the fridge at this stage). All was fine. We’d be arriving in the same airport and everything – all it meant was that Geoff had to get up in five hours time, and I didn’t, and Geoff had to wait for me at (ha ha ha) New Jersey airport for three hours, and I didn’t. If anything, things were better than they had been before. Geoff muttered and grumbled his way to the kitchen, while I checked everything else was ok.

Oh shit, no, it wasn’t. Both tickets had been booked using Geoff’s card, and according to the confirmation email one had to present the card when checking in. Which would be mildly tricky, as by the time of my check-in Geoff would already be in the air somewhere above Yorkshire, fantasising about Geoff Boycott provocatively un-velcroing his pads. Or whatever it is that soggifies Geoff’s biscuit.

Mildly panicking now, I ring Opodo to check. They’re closed, and they won’t be open again until after Geoff goes up in the sky. Lukewarmly panicking now, I ring the airline and am pacified by a calmly voiced American lady who assures me that as long as I have my confirmation code and my passport I will be fine and dandy. She goes on to explain that I’ve qualified for the amazing opportunity to purchase discount hovis bread, or car hire, or something. I confuse her by thanking her profusely for her help, and ending the conversation.

So, partially if not entirely reassured (what if she was lying? What if I misunderstood? What if I have to bring bread to the check-in?), I shoot off to finish my packing and to allow Geoff four or so hours’ worth of sleep. It’s all he needs, anyway. He’s from the North. He’s hardy. Bullets and electricity bounce right off him.

The next morning…

Airports terrify me. Planes terrify me. My own company terrifies me. It is only thanks to the efforts of my friends and carers that I don’t live a life of perpetual fear, actually. So though naturally delighted that Geoff was going to be forced into waiting for me at New Jersey airport’s Starbucks for 2 ½ hours (‘but I don’t drink coffee’, he said, uncomprehendingly), I was pretty rattled when I woke up at 7.30am, 30 seconds before my alarm. I’d psychologically prepared myself for the fact that I’d have Geoff with me to make the whole rigmarole more plesant: I’d have Geoff to stop me from making accidentally unspeakable comments at customs, and thus getting us both shipped to Guantanamo; I’d have him to chat to about the vagaries of the England cricket team and the latest hot news from Nottingham council to distract me from the continuous awareness of fiery death that always bubbles away when I’m flying.

And I’m sat on the plane now, which already appears to be delayed (oh dear Geoff – I hope you manage to develop a taste for watery corporate coffee by the time I arrive), and the feeling is there. I’m much better than I used to be, I’m glad to say, and the terror nowadays manifests itself as a stream of philosophical raging stream of overthinking morality awareness. And this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Well, ok, obviously, it is a bad thing. But it’s not too bad – it gives one a lovely opportunity to put everything in perspective. You go through all the biggies – religion, fate, one’s moral character and life thus far; the face of your love becomes murky but inescapable.

And all this, even before take off. They’re ‘having difficulty with the computer plotting a new flight path/pattern with regard to their delay’, apparently. That’s corporate speak for ‘we’re going to crash into lots of other planes’, isn’t it?

The plane is playing us lots of Christmas songs as we wait. It’s November.

Half an hour later, we're still here. Apparently there's a chap in Houston who has the flight plan, but now his computer isn't working. He's tried turning it off and on again, but this hasn't worked, so he's going to call IT. Meanwhile, there's a group of bawdy, dim English people behind me. They've spent the past hour or so farting and discussing Robbie Williams records, but now the one woman of the group has managed to settle them down with her puzzle book. They abandoned the crossword as it was too tough (they were confused by Geneva), so have plumped for a word puzzle instead.

"Star and Art... what's the linking word?"
"Is it pop?"
"Yeah!"
"Pop Art? What's that? Have you heard of Pop Art?"
*silence that seems to go on forever*

And now, finally, the hilarious beyond-parody safety video is showing, as introduced by the head of the company. All around me people are openly laughing, and I suddenly remember one good thing about the English. They can't take corporate bullshit seriously, he writes, generalisingly.

I need a wee. I've never been for a wee on a plane before, which is quite impressive seeing as I've been on various long-distance flights. This has mainly been because I don't want to die on the toilet, although once it was because a middle-aged Finnish man had fallen asleep in my lap after having consumed too much vodka.

Perhaps today is the day I finally wee in the sky?

Right, we're finally taking off. If these pages are found near my charred remains, please avenge my death.

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