Just learnt a new aviation expression that is not very well known even within the aviation industry. Shoot off. In real life situations it is quickly followed by “Oh, shit” or in this particular case “Oh, shize”
It was a bit early in the morning to my taste to learn something new because I cannot function before 11am and without my fags and coffee I am like large lame golem stumbling around. Shoot off, it a rarely used expression by pilots just moments before landing. “Shize, there is a lorry on the run away. Shoot off NOW”. Then he does what he says virtually shoots off the plane vertically up to the sky. That means spilling hot coffee on your private parts, loads of screaming, mild panic and flying unidentified flying objects in the cabin.
We have spent another half an hour circling in the air after the incident, so I missed my connecting flight to Riga. Then eventually managed to book myself on the next Air Baltic flight but I still have some time to kill.
I was wondering around the vast airport of Munich checking out the latest gadgets and trying to find the smoking area when I bumped into a pretty airport crew who said – Mister, you are in Germany, and you can smoke everywhere. For someone on 20 a day it was music to my ears. You non smokers don’t know how it feels landing after the stress of shoot off or sitting next to a sumo wrestler (not exaggerating, I’ll tell you the story later) for two hours or a bunch of crying toddlers or Chinese tourists or the worst, Russian teenagers then dying for a fag and realizing the entire airport is non smoking. It happens where you don’t expect it. In Italy or in Poland or now almost everywhere in the northern hemisphere. The Slovenians are PC, they lock up the smokers in tiny aquariums where only 4 persons can fit in like sardines and you definitely don’t want to have another fag in your life. It’s more effective than hypnosis or Allen Carr.
I was having a fag when I realised busy international hubs are the best for star spotting. Although, I’m really crap at recognizing faces, even if they’re as famous as the Beckingham family, I noticed a familiar face the star of B-movies and horror flicks, the chief vampire in Blade, Udo Kier. A few years ago I interviewed him for a programme and still can’t believe he has got this funny German accent after all those years spent in the UK and in the US since he had his first role in 1966 in a British movie. It reminded my favourite Berlitz commercial, the German coast guard. Despite his accent and the fact his lying on his imdb site about his height (180 cm, ha-ha) I think his is the epitome of cool. Usually I prefer odd characters in supporting roles like Michael Madsen or Peter Stormare in Fargo. And Udo Kier. He was puzzled, disorientated either jet lagged or stoned, couldn’t decide.
I am thinking about my recent Russian experience. I have to because the plane suppose to take me to Riga is small. Seriously small, it has one row on one side and two on the other. It has two propellers, - I’m not joking- and the door of the aircraft is three steps from the ground. I thought after WW II, people in Europe fly on jets and propeller planes might be operating in the third world. The tall and gorgeous airhostess was looking at me pityingly. I was scared so I had to stop my brain racing, putting together play lists for the top five-funeral song.
In order to take my mind away from dodgy flying fan I recalled my Moscow experience.
Before the sightseeing tour, I went to the gym to pump iron and inflate my non-existent muscles a bit, shaved my armpits and stocked up with extreme menthol chewing gum.
Being a bit superstitious didn’t buy any condoms. And quite frankly, I didn’t seriously believe I would get that far. I had no idea condoms are called in Russian and it seemed it’s sold exclusively in small, dodgy shops by old, moustachioed, female kgb agents and they take my passport number and my mother’s maiden name along with 60 roubles a go.
Confidently, armed with chewing gums, sore muscles and shaved armpit after the sightseeing I invited Maria in a restaurant on the top of my hotel for a romantic dinner where you have magnificent view of thousands of concrete blocks to impress her. Before that I sneakily asked her if she wanted to drop her bag and jacket in my room. A man with a plan. The plan was after dinner we have go to my room to pick her stuff then I invite her for a coffee on the bed, casually wrap my arms around her and start snogging and then all will be sorted then. So I hurried downstairs to buy coffee, cakes and soft drinks. Still, have no plan how to start the whole operation of getting her in my bed. Apparently I have been married twice, I am kind of half separated now. Am I? Alright, no point beating the bush, I still live with my second wife but that doesn’t fit into my rock’n’roll life style.
That is B for bollocks. I am desperately trying to keep my cool when talking about my private life but the matter of fact is I have been married to a mesmerizing beauty for ten years but she is tragically cold and deeply depressed. Living with her I lost all my confidence and I have not had proper shag for six years. I have never been a womanizer, though I am a pretty successful television creative who has come a long way. Working class family, dreadful childhood on a housing estate, troubled teenager, killing time with taking cheap and accessible drugs, getting into fights and sometimes robbing other kids then army school, alcohol and drug fuelled ramps, getting expelled, first love, first suicide attempt, interest in art, becoming a freelance journalist then a wedding videographer, getting married after due to a drunken shag then divorcing, falling in love, finding a hidden beauty, wedding again, lying on my CV and getting into television, moving to London, getting on the top. Then as usual when there’s time to celebrate my private life goes down the drain. It is such a cliché.
I have been out of practise for ten years and now I am totally clueless. It’s not only how to start the whole thing but I have serious doubts about my technique, abilities and performance. Marriage is one thing, you know which button to push to get the desired effect and after ten years you are not under pressure to perform like a sex god. For a number of years I have been craving for an affair, a little excitement, a one night stand anything just so desperately wanted to experience the rush of blood, something different, someone’s whispering dirty words in a foreign language, animal-like signs of pleasure on a face of a stranger. And now “Hannibal ante portas” with trembling legs and sweaty palms.
The dinner went well, though the food was a bit blend, the waiter was giving me reassuring cheekily reassuring looks, the meal cost an arm and leg. I am not sure if my expense account includes romantic dinners, though my boss said hookers are not covered. Maria is not a hooker, isn’t she? It turned out she is quite romantic and innocent like Irinushka from the Chekov play, Three Sisters. I am confused big time. When she is talking comes across a bit shy and principled young woman. Observing her body language, she is gagging for it. Is it part of the game or is it some Russian speciality? Can’t decide and it doesn’t make my life easier. She told me about her daily routine, swimming in the morning, then English lesson in the office, work then in the evening reading classical novels and listening to classical music. She is a twenty eight year old divorcee, lives with her parents, loves dancing and shopping and dreaming about travelling. Obviously, she’s a romantic dreamer who has got a boring life and desperate for some excitement. But does that include having a one-night stand with a lame foreigner, even though that foreigner has a glamorous jet set lifestyle, nice smelling breath, shaved armpit and firm muscles? I was about to find out.
The food was blend and though she was laughing and giggling a lot, I was desperate to keep the conversation going. The chemistry wasn’t working or maybe I was too nervous to notice it. We were done with the desert when I initiated to retire to my room. I can read body langue but that doesn’t mean I believe what I read despite the fact I was supported by the circumstances, like the only seating facility in the tiny room was my twin bed. So what do we do now, both sitting on bed and just talking and talking and talking? It’s not butterflies in my stomach any more it’s rather the urge I feel in my gut, my whole body and nervous system is craving for something to happen. It’s been three hours now and she hasn’t looked in my eyes saying she can’t hold herself back anymore. Although, I’m lying on the bed and she’s dribbling over my midriff, I’m paralyzed by fear. What if the signs she’s broadcasting are just products of my vivid imagination and uncomfortably burning desire? What if I misread the whole situation, I make the move then she calls security and my boss has to bail me out or I get the Gulag baring in mind my company is obsessed with cost control? Then I loose my job before I have a chance to become a celebrity creative director, establish a really glamorous rock’n’roll lifestyle. I will be named and shamed front of the whole company, my parents, and no one will employ me.
We have been chatting for half another in a position where we both lay in bed, facing each other and there’s less then an inch between our lips. Then I couldn’t take it any longer and popped the question that I should have popped two hours ago.
Do you mind if I have a fag? As I inhaled the smoothing smoke my nerves calmed down a bit and finally I was able to figure out what to do next. It is almost midnight, Maria’s still lying on my bed that means in any culture or tradition she wants to get laid. But still, I have to be careful because we are in Moscow, the birthplace of communism, KGB and capital punishment, so I cannot just simply snog and grope her. What do I do then? Let’s just ask her what she thinks.
She said yes and when we stopped for breath she said she feared I was never going to make a move and got increasingly frustrated. But now she was delighted, we were standing front of the mirror, Maria was kissing and biting my neck with her fat lips, grabbing my arse and breathing heavily. Quite frankly, I was a wee bit bored but she got more and more into it and her heavy breathing got faster. I was trying to indicate very gently and diplomatically as the thought of Gulag still was a quite realistic option in my mind, I would fancy a blow job when she said she is not that (you know, thaaaat) kind of girl, she is pretty conservative.
It is bloody typical, I’m having my first extra marital affair in hundred years, effectively the first time ever and the lady is too posh to …never mind. The teenage style of snogging went on for half an hour then my interest in her tits increased, so I decided to find out how they look like without her top on.
Suddenly when I was buried deep in the pleasure of recounting the details of my Russian experience the aircraft starts violently vibrating, hits the ground and I find myself in a rush to find the sickness bag and the emergency exit at the same time. Then the now familiar lines calmed me down - “Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Riga. Please remain seated until the engines are turned off”.