Second class conversation.

I’m just dozing off when a bloke pops his large sweaty head over the next cubicle and asks me if I’ve ever been to Bangkok. I feel like telling him to bugger off but I cannot tell a lie.

“Thought so,” he says and next thing he’s in with me. Got a drink in his hand of course. And a bottle of pills.

Not your typical first class passenger but you never know these days.

‘I’m on medication you know’.

‘Really?’

‘Mogadon.’

‘Dick.’

‘Yes. Can’t manage without it. Had to get out of England. The place was driving me mad.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘I felt better in Thailand. More freedom there. Oh you can find trouble easy enough but it’s normally the tourists who get their selves in trouble. They don't take responsibility They think they can go there and get pissed or they take drugs when there’s warnings at the airport about it and then they start getting mouthy and disrespectful so the cops pick them up and they start screaming about scams and extortion and that but they think because they don't have the money they should be let go and not pay the fine.’

‘Definitely.’

‘It’s these bloody experts that annoy me. You meet some who’ve been there years. The cynical old bastards. Think they know everything about Thailand just because they fell in love and spent all their money on some Thai tart twenty years ago. Always going on about the ‘good old days’. Wankers.’

‘I know the type.’

‘I blame the TV. All these programs about the sex trade in Thailand. Daft buggers. Then they go there and splash all their money in go-go bars buying so-called lady-drinks. I saw one of those programs once. It’s the reason I went there I think. Made Thailand look like fucking paradise it did.’

Looks like I’m stuck with him till the Mogadon wears off.

‘All these single blokes in Britain sitting looking out of the window at the pouring rain as the forecast said for the next 3 months watching the wheelie bin inspector checking to see if he put a bottle in the wrong box, and reading his extortionate council tax bill while he’s wanking over Dierdre Barlow on Corrie. Cause he’s worrying about finding enough money to pay his TV license and will he get a fine through the post as the camera flashed him while doing 35 in a 30 zone, while reading the Sun which is telling him how the Government and MP's are voting their selves a 30% pay rise so soon after the scandal in the house where over half the MP's were shown to be fiddling their expenses but were they taken to task for it? Were they buggery….’

I’m nodding away. Don’t want to be rude.
Where do all these people come from? Why me?
​
‘Then in the middle of all this he’s half listening to the report on the Pakistani families who are getting an allowance for their kids back in Pakistan who don't even exist followed by the report of the parents at the local school in Dover who received a letter from the School board warning then not to allow their kids to walk to school alone from the train station because of the amount of refugees who are free loading in the guesthouses stealing the kids money and phones but nothing gets done because no one in the police can speak the lingo.

‘And along with all that the cost of fuel, beer and fags is going up again, then his mobile rings and it’s his Lawyer telling him that now he has lost his house in the recent divorce he has to pay his wife 300 quid a week to look after the kids when he knows 200 of it goes on her Bingo and she already gets more in benefits than he does.
 
‘Then he opens his mail and the first letter says he has to wait over a year for his hernia op which has been giving him pain already for months and he has to go to a hospital miles away for the op, the second one is his 10 year savings bond which unfortunately has accumulated sod all in fact he has lost 50 % of his money, then there’s a brown envelope asking for donations for hungry horses.
 
By this point I’m hardly listening.

’So he thinks, sod it I’ll go down the pub, but it’s pissing down and freezing and he can’t have a fag in there anyway and the beer is bloody expensive and his ex-wife will probably be in there buying all her mates a drink with his money or maybe go and see his elderly mother in the rest home that's costing her 300 quid a week for a pokey little room owned by an Indian family who learnt how to manipulate the system by getting a cheap relocation mortgage and started up a rest home with a big incentive from the government, all that 300 quid out of her savings when she sold her house, but then he would have to pay a lot of inheritance tax if she left it to him so may as well give it to the Indian family.
 
‘He doesn't really want to watch the news again telling him how 15 British soldiers were blown up in Afghanistan and that one of the bombers shot used to live next door to him and his family live in London and go to the new mosque which was funded by the British Government and can be seen from the moon and that the children of the family receive a grant to get better than normal education, while they don't need to wear a crash helmet as they wear a traditional turban as this is their religion.

 ‘Then he remembers the drunk driver who killed his pal’s son in a hit and run but got off because there was insufficient evidence but everyone knew he did it, and with all this he’s still paying the fine for verbally abusing the Somali taxi driver for refusing to get in his taxi because he was a muslim and was taken to court for racial abusing him.’

‘It sounds like one thing after another,’ I say.
‘Right. And don’t get me started on bloody Corbyn. So one day he just says sod it and off he goes to Thailand where they don't worry about a few petty rules and regulations. It's warm and sunny and peaceful, the people are friendly, you can buy yourself out of trouble and the girls don’t care what you look like…’
 
I must have nodded off because I don’t remember the rest of it.

First Class conversation.

Let’s be clear. I have no obligation to Oscar. I’ve known him for years but that doesn’t mean I have to worry about his welfare. Here I sit on Virgin flight 34 from Antigua to London and I don’t give a toss about Oscar and his island. I’m acting on a whim. It’s how you get when you’re rich with no particular sense of purpose.

So I watch Leonardo Da Caprio hiding in a dead buffalo for a bit and doze off. When I wake up the little plane is about 1/4 along the blue line. It’s a long flight. Good time to catch up on my blog. I don’t know why I do it. It’s not as if I feel any burning need to communicate. I enjoy writing but I have no illusions about it. It’s either that or look out the window at clouds.

I pop into the First Class lounge. You never know who you’re going to run into there, politicians, pop stars, dictators, you name it. Maybe even Sir Richard himself. Normally people in first class flying from Antigua to London just want to relax, have a few vodkas. Not so today. The Panama Papers have everybody riled up.

“Well chaps,” says some wag by way of starting a discussion, “looks like we’ll all be moving our money to Nevada.”
 There is a ripple of nervous laughter.
“I’ll be talking to David Cameron soon,” says one bloke, “we’ll get it sorted.”
“Hope Cameron knows what he’s doing.” Says someone. “What about all those poor people in the hedge fund industry?”
“Don’t worry lads.” I say in a calm, measured way, “it’s just another bit of journalistic sensationalism. It’ll fizzle out in a few days.” I'm attempting, in my own humble way, to reassure my fellow over-privileged wankers.
“Can’t Rupert stop it?”
“Solidarity that’s the answer. We’ve got to stick together.”
“What about places like the Isle of Man and Jersey? It will ruin their economies.” says another. And so on….nobody quite knows how this will end up but I’m sure they’ll find a way to blame Putin.

A night in Antigua.

Poor old Oscar. Our recent experiences have left him apoplectic. There isn’t much I can do except let him rant. It’s annoying and it does nothing to advance the narrative. He’s determined to go after them but they have a head-start. They could be in Antigua by now. It gives me an excuse to get away. I leave Oscar screaming about transgender toilets (he hasn’t seen the Panama Papers yet) and hop on a plane to St. John’s.
I’ve been to Antigua a few times, usually by boat. I decide to stay at the Yacht Club and I’m no sooner settled into my room than bugger me first thing I see when I look out the window is Lambert strolling down a jetty! The dreadlocks and the 4 girls are a dead giveaway. Hopefully he doesn’t spot me. But I’ll have to be careful.  Should I text Oscar? Better wait a bit. No doubt Blackjack’s boat is out there and that nasty Nigel person too. Last thing I need is more insults from him and I certainly don’t want to discuss Tracey Emin.
What was it he said while I was still tied up?
“You know nothing about art Headley. Has it occurred to you,” he droned, “that Tracey’s work could be a powerful statement about human sexuality?”

Stupid question to ask somebody who’s bound and gagged. Very unfair too. Making me listen to a load of crap without being able to respond. Not that Nigel gave a toss. Blokes like Nigel tend to have double standards when it comes to censorship. Then, as if he suddenly senses the inequities of the situation, he decides to take my gag off.

Which is convenient in a way because I have a nice little monologue all ready to go.
“OK,” I say, “perhaps I am missing the point. I have nothing against Tracey Emin personally. She reminds me a lot of my first wife if you must know. Tell the truth what I’ve always liked about Tracey’s work is her economy. By that I mean the way she uses one bucket where other conceptual artists might use two. But times change you know Nigel, and so do people. Look at you with your dreadlocks….bit of cultural expropriation there wouldn’t you say?

“Now maybe Tracey’s decided it’s time she reached out to the mainstream? With her drawing skills who could blame her? Could it be she feels so well integrated into public life these days she’s decided to get in line for an OBE? Like so many other public figures do these days? 
I’m trying to be reasonable but it’s a waste of time with blokes like Nigel. He can’t see his own contradictions.    
What’s the real story there I wonder? Is Tracey in it for the money? She may not be Picasso but have I been unfair to her? Should I revise my opinion?
Such were the thoughts going through my head as I sat on the balcony of my room in the Antigua Yacht Club.
I wonder what she’s up to these days? Is she still in touch with the Zeitgeist? Obviously I have to go to London to find out.