Paul from British Airways

I did some work in Nigeria a couple of months back. While there I saw Nathalie Imbruglia. This is irrelevant, but it excited me muchly. She pretty.

The following anecdote may prove to be utterly rubbish written down, but it made me laugh at the time, and made Artegall laugh in the telling. Therefore I recommend imagining the following voices for the characters.

The hero: tones dulcet; pitch medium; well spoken but not intimidatingly so; bewilderingly charming

His companion: 60ish; very old empire; abrupt; remarkably like an old duffer on test match special

BA Man: 45-50ish; words slurred; camp Mancunian; ingratiating


One evening in the hotel, I was walking twixt restaurant and bar, having had an extremely dull meal with the local client. Indeed, it was so dull that the dull old man I was travelling with insisted, upon the client’s departure, that we go to the bar “to recover, because that was fucking dull.”

It was an interesting suggestion, and one which described the utter blandness of our host far better than I can. The hotel bar was hardly salubrious, and on the previous 2 nights my brief visits had been greeted with real enthusiasm only by the local prostitutes. One of them was so practised at winning business that she could read a man's weakness in seconds.

"Hello," she monotoned, as I stood at the bar. "What about the Ashes then, eh?"

Fucking hell.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" I gushed. "I mean, it looked like we were in real trouble after Lords, but the way Freddie's been playing..."
"Yes. Where's your room?"
"Um. 2nd floor I think. Do you reckon Ponting's lost it? If he didn't have Warne he'd be screwed. He's the only real threat to us, if you ask me."

She tired of this before I did.

Back to the night in question. I needed a stiff drink, and the nasty bar was the only place for it. As I walked in, I realised that apart from the prostitutes, I had entered what is known as a target-rich environment.

To the left, 10 memebers of the Air France crew: two surly old blokes, three homosexuals and five gorgeous, pouting young mademoiselles.

To the right, British Airways: four old guys, two matrons, two ageing homosexuals, one young one and four blonde, heavily made-up trolley dollies.

In the middle, the cherry. Virgin: six young gay gentlemen and at least eight sexy young 18-25 girls.

In a trice I realised that I was almost certainly the only heterosexual male under the age of 50 present. Jackpot. Right leflange, I thought: stand by the bar, attempt to look uninterested and aloof, and watch the offers roll in.

"You watch the crick-"
"Fuck off."

She slid away, looking churlish.

"I bet you get it all the time," slurred a camp , flat-voweled voice to my right.
"Too fucking right I do. Balls like grapes, me. I'm up to my knees most of the time."
"Eh?"
"What? Oh. Get what?"
"Arreh. Prince Arreh. Yeriz spit. I bet you get it all the time."
"Um, someone said it once, yeah. But he's taller, skinnier and more attractive to women than me. Only because he's rich, obviously."

I turn to face my assailant. Oh thank you so bloody much, God. At least 30 people in the room for whom I'm perhaps the only piece of totty, and you come up with this. Fat, 50 and battered. And male. A hand grips my leg, just above the knee. A red face is turned to my companion.

"Ow djer keep yer ands offim?"

My colleague (6'6", old, grim and imposing) looks at him sternly. And looks. And looks. Down, down, down his noble nose.

Four second later he has downed his pint and marched out of the bar, screaming conspiratorially into my ear, "I HATE THESE AWFUL PEOPLE."

The hand is removed from my knee. I'm finding this amusing, but I'm glad of the grip being relaxed. The hand returns however, only this time it's approxiamtely three inches higher - grazing somewhere around the lower-mid section of my thigh.

"Mate gonta bed azee?"

"Seems that way."

"I'm Paul. What're you doin in Naageeria?"

"Some work for an advertising company. It's interesting. I've never been here before - never been to Africa at all, in fact. The work's pretty boring, but it's good to come somewhere new. What do you do?"
"ME?!" the hand flies from my leg to clutch his chest. It just as quickly returns, and is now clasped to my upper thigh. "I'm a purser."

I can see that, I think, looking at his lips.

"With BA?"
"Yeah."
"What does a purser do?"
"Ahm in charge o cloob class."
"Oh right. You must get to travel a lot then, I suppose."

Paul is suddenly purple.

"OW OLD ARE YOU? OW OLD?"
"24," I reply.
"Exactly. So FOOK OFF"
"Okey dokey." This is becoming fascinating.
"No, no. I didn't mean it. I'm sorreh. It's just you're so young. I could be your dad." I doubt this very much, but let him continue, "Yer sooo pritteh."
"Thank you - that's very kind of you."

Several physical compliments followed, but modesty and audience patience prevent your narrator from listing them all. By this stage the hand is basically cupping my nuts.

I reach down to reclaim my balls, gently taking his hand from my crotch and placing it onto his thigh.

"Sorry, but that makes me feel uncomfortable. I'm not gay - I'm sorry if you misunderstood."
"Well FOOK OFF THEN!"
"Um..."
"Oh sorreh, sorreh, please forgive meh."
"Of course, of course. Don't worry about it."
"DON'T PATRONISE ME, yeh bastard. I knew yeh weren't gay aniweh."

I smile politely, and try to change the subject. "So the Ashes, eh?"

Oh fuck, bad move. I forgot about the whores. He's going to think I'm a rent boy.

"So yer a straight boy are yeh?"
"Yes."
"Are yeh shoowerrr?"
"Eh?"
"I can't change yer maaand?"
"No, no. Sorry!"
"I spose you've got a girlfriend, ave yeh?"
Had I bollocks. I'd finished with C not so long ago and missed her horribly. I got so lonely at times that a few more drinks and he'd probably have had a chance.
"Fraid so."
"Ah could swear yer gay."
"I'm not you know."

He pauses, lowers his head, then raises it to fix me with a gentle, patronising, understanding gaze.

"Are yeh sure it's nuthin a little blur-job wouldn't fix?"
"From you?"
"Yeah."
"Uh, yes. Sure."
"Why don't we find out?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Well FOOK OFF THEN."

Jesus. What a potty mouth.

"Sorreh, sorreh. So yeh've got a girlfriend?"
"Yep."
"Well I've got a fookin boyfriend, ACTUALLEH. He's upstairs...d'yer wanna meet him?"
"Not right now. Perhaps we'll bump into each other tomorrow."
"No, no, no. Why don't yeh cum oop now and meet'im? E'd loov a boy laak yew."
"Isn't he asleep?"
"We'll wake im oop."
"Won't he be annoyed?"
"Not when he sees what ah've brought'im."

The hand has returned at this stage.

"Anyway, listen - "
"Jus coom and ave a threesoom."
"No."
"Yeh'd loov it."
"No I wouldn't."
"Yeh would,"
"I wouldn't"
"Well FOOK - "
"I'm off to bed now."
"No, don't go. I'm sorreh, yeh hear? Sorreh!"
"It's ok. I'm not offended. If anything it's flattering. But what do you want me to do? I'm not gay ."
"I oonderstand."
"Great! Well listen, it was really good -"
"Just one little blur job?"
"Goodnight."

I felt pretty sad for the guy as I left the bar. He seemed very lonely and unhappy, and while he was very drunk, I didn't get the impression that this was unusual. It was also a bit like when you dump someone, having been dumped yourself in the past: you know they'll be feeling hurt, unattractive, unloveable. But what can you do? You know they aren't, but it doesn't help you love them. Maybe we credit ourselves with too much power over others. More than anything though, it puts me in mind of an Alan Bennett quote which a very good friend reminded me of just a few days ago: that homosexuality is "a fate that rules out any possibility of happiness."

I hope this isn't the case, especially for those of my friends whose "fate" is homosexuality, and I very much doubt that it is. They are good-looking, brilliant, kind and funny men. But just for that one moment, as I looked at Paul, Bennett seemed to have a point.

I digress.

I saw Paul from a distance the next day, sipping a cocktail by the hotel pool, lounging next to an equally chunky, short chap whom I took for his partner. He clocked me, let out an audible squeak, indicated me to his partner before clearly reprimanding him with something like "I said don't look," and then pretended not to have seen me.

The next day, my five-day trip came to an end. I rose at 4.45am, checked out and was taken to the airport by Emos, our driver for the trip and a seriously nice man.

I faffed around, waiting for the flight, and eventually it was called. I stepped wearily onto the plane, and was greeted, energetically, with the words "Good morning sir! My name's Paul and I'll be in charge of cloob class tod - OOH!"

"Paul! Good to see you again."

Face like a tomato.

Three hours later, I woke up from dozing, to see three male heads, each atop the other, peeking out from behind the front wall of the cabin and staring at me. They jumped back as I came to.

As I walked to the toilet a camp voice, younger than Paul's, could be heard.

"Prince Harry? He should be so lucky!"

Bitch!