I absolutely hate flying
Discussion
I hate flying - I really do. To me it's worse than simple worry, it's an absolute phobia. I know the facts - I realise that the chances of crashing are tiny when compared to having a born-again biker hurtling through your front windscreen like a torpedo at 150mph, or an out of control horse attempting to knock your head off as it's being straddled by some sexy 16 year old desperately hanging on for dear life, complete with the obligatory, ever-expanding damp patch in the crotch of her jodhpurs.
None of these statistics help with irrational fear. It's fear affecting physical well-being. The kind of fear which manifests itself with symptoms akin to the new dawn effects of the worst curry & beer night you can remember. The kind of fear which somehow turns your stomach into a chemical plant able to produce foul slime and its natural by-product of global-warming noxious gas, from good wholesome solid food.
All my attempts at trying to convince my better half not to fly - that rail travel is becoming increasingly popular and should be considered part of the overall holiday experience, not purely a means of travel, or that going by sea would be so much more tranquil as you relax with a cocktail and food from an a-la-carte menu - were met with incredulity and derision.
She was right to be sceptical. Having once been a customer of British Rail and P&O ferries, I was lying through my teeth of course, but the thought of my phobia being 'outed' was almost as reprehensible to me as the phobia itself. I was now in a no-win situation. I had to travel and I had to fly.
The day of the flight dawned. I had convinced myself that today was the day I was going to die and since I had been brought up well, made sure I had my best good, clean underwear on.
Somehow I managed to force myself into the plane. My stomach was a wreck but I had already checked out the location of the toilets from under the armpit of the gay steward as he went through his pointless pre-flight safety check routine like some sort of lifeless, automated mannequin.
We left the ground and I hoped I would die quickly and painlessly. We reached cruising altitude and I was still alive. As time passed slowly, all I could think of was mechanical failure. Fortunately however, this took my mind off the reactor in my stomach. Even when the seat-belt warning light came on and the toilets were off limits, fear of death far outweighed fear of messing my boxers.
We landed and incredibly I had survived. I must have almost reached orgasm with the intense relief I felt. Today was a good day after all. We made our way through the vast expanse of grey nothingness which seems to be the character of arrivals halls, and now more earthly priorities were able to once again take precedence. I needed to urinate quite urgently. Now I don't know if it's my age, something I have always done, or a bodily motor function, but until that day I hadn't realised I always seem to emit a very tiny, almost imperceptible, fart as soon as I start urinating. Fart is really too strong a word for it, as it's really more of a 'puff'. This normally doesn't matter a toss but in my euphoria of landing safely, I had totally forgotten about my other problem.
Of course the inevitable happened. The small escape of air acted like a catalyst to trick my bowels into the false assumption that I was ready to allow evacuation. More liquid unfortunately found its way into my boxers than reached the urinal.
For a moment there I panicked but adrenalin kicked in & helped me manage to tip-toe bow-legged into a cubicle, albeit still with my manhood protruding. I must have looked like I was getting ready for a 'George Michael experience' but all I could think about was getting my boxers off and quickly, before the sludge permeated through to the material of my jeans. Thankfully I made it. I sat half-naked on the bowl and duly set about pebble-dashing the porcelain before starting the subsequent clean-up operation.
My good boxers however were beyond redemption. I loved those underpants but I couldn't think of any way of salvaging the brown mess they had become. I couldn't exactly take them to the sink and start washing them without attracting suspicion, so I did what I like to think anyone would have done in that situation - I rolled them up and stuffed them behind the U-bend.
I was gutted and shall always think of them fondly. I shall however try to remember them the way they were.
I exchanged polite pleasantries with the toilet cleaner on the way out and made my way to passport control ready for my holiday.
None of these statistics help with irrational fear. It's fear affecting physical well-being. The kind of fear which manifests itself with symptoms akin to the new dawn effects of the worst curry & beer night you can remember. The kind of fear which somehow turns your stomach into a chemical plant able to produce foul slime and its natural by-product of global-warming noxious gas, from good wholesome solid food.
All my attempts at trying to convince my better half not to fly - that rail travel is becoming increasingly popular and should be considered part of the overall holiday experience, not purely a means of travel, or that going by sea would be so much more tranquil as you relax with a cocktail and food from an a-la-carte menu - were met with incredulity and derision.
She was right to be sceptical. Having once been a customer of British Rail and P&O ferries, I was lying through my teeth of course, but the thought of my phobia being 'outed' was almost as reprehensible to me as the phobia itself. I was now in a no-win situation. I had to travel and I had to fly.
The day of the flight dawned. I had convinced myself that today was the day I was going to die and since I had been brought up well, made sure I had my best good, clean underwear on.
Somehow I managed to force myself into the plane. My stomach was a wreck but I had already checked out the location of the toilets from under the armpit of the gay steward as he went through his pointless pre-flight safety check routine like some sort of lifeless, automated mannequin.
We left the ground and I hoped I would die quickly and painlessly. We reached cruising altitude and I was still alive. As time passed slowly, all I could think of was mechanical failure. Fortunately however, this took my mind off the reactor in my stomach. Even when the seat-belt warning light came on and the toilets were off limits, fear of death far outweighed fear of messing my boxers.
We landed and incredibly I had survived. I must have almost reached orgasm with the intense relief I felt. Today was a good day after all. We made our way through the vast expanse of grey nothingness which seems to be the character of arrivals halls, and now more earthly priorities were able to once again take precedence. I needed to urinate quite urgently. Now I don't know if it's my age, something I have always done, or a bodily motor function, but until that day I hadn't realised I always seem to emit a very tiny, almost imperceptible, fart as soon as I start urinating. Fart is really too strong a word for it, as it's really more of a 'puff'. This normally doesn't matter a toss but in my euphoria of landing safely, I had totally forgotten about my other problem.
Of course the inevitable happened. The small escape of air acted like a catalyst to trick my bowels into the false assumption that I was ready to allow evacuation. More liquid unfortunately found its way into my boxers than reached the urinal.
For a moment there I panicked but adrenalin kicked in & helped me manage to tip-toe bow-legged into a cubicle, albeit still with my manhood protruding. I must have looked like I was getting ready for a 'George Michael experience' but all I could think about was getting my boxers off and quickly, before the sludge permeated through to the material of my jeans. Thankfully I made it. I sat half-naked on the bowl and duly set about pebble-dashing the porcelain before starting the subsequent clean-up operation.
My good boxers however were beyond redemption. I loved those underpants but I couldn't think of any way of salvaging the brown mess they had become. I couldn't exactly take them to the sink and start washing them without attracting suspicion, so I did what I like to think anyone would have done in that situation - I rolled them up and stuffed them behind the U-bend.
I was gutted and shall always think of them fondly. I shall however try to remember them the way they were.
I exchanged polite pleasantries with the toilet cleaner on the way out and made my way to passport control ready for my holiday.
... Cheered up my afternoon fella. Why I can imagine you doing that so clearly in my head I don't know .. 
tted pants? I would love to read the rest of the post, but I cant get past this sentence, I keep reading it over and over again
'as it's being straddled by some sexy 16 year old desperately hanging on for dear life, complete with the obligatory, ever-expanding damp patch in the crotch of her jodhpurs.'
'as it's being straddled by some sexy 16 year old desperately hanging on for dear life, complete with the obligatory, ever-expanding damp patch in the crotch of her jodhpurs.'
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