My Fake Wedding(116)

God. It’s a good job I’m not a bloke. I’d have a hard-on by now.

Actually, I’ve never understood people who are afraid of flying. I love everything about it, from the important feeling I get when they ask if I’ve packed my bag myself to the special orangey-red lippy the air hostesses wear.

After all, people in real life never wear that colour, do they?

I even love the plastic food they dish out. In fact, the only time I do get a bit fluttery during the flight is when the trolley comes out. And that’s only because I’m terrified they’ll miss me out. How does everyone else stay so calm, leaving their tables up and reading until the last minute? I’m quite the opposite, whipping my head round faster than Darcy Bussell in mid-pirouette, the moment I smell that telltale waft of school dinners.

‘Can I have your pretzels if you don’t want them?’

Sam silently hands over the packet.

‘I don’t know why you’re bothering to look at that safety card,’ George cuts in.

‘George,’ I warn.

‘Well,’ he pouts, ‘you know what Fran said.’

‘Who’s Fran?’ Sam looks worried.

‘No one.’ I hug him.

‘Fran the Tran,’ George says. ‘You know.’

‘Oh. Yes.’

Fran is the only woman I know with facial stubble and an Adam’s apple bigger than Nicholas Lyndhurst’s. Still, she managed to get a job as a trolley dolly before the airline in question clamped down one day and discovered her to be in possession of a bagful of stolen fags and a penis.

Actually, even when they found out about the penis they were prepared to keep her on because she fulfilled the height requirements and she didn’t spit into the food when the passengers got tricky. But she refused to tone down the make-up and wear the slacks instead of the skirt, so they said she’d have to go.

And go she did.

‘What did Fran the Tran say?’ Sam looks terrified.

‘Well…’

‘George, no,’ I say.

Too late.

‘When they were training,’ George begins, cattily.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, they were told that all this palaver with the oxygen masks and the escape chutes and the life jackets is just complete bollocks to put the passengers at ease. You see, basically…’

‘Go on.’

‘Basically, the general rule of thumb is, if you’re thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic and both your engines are fucked, then so are you.’



Despite Sam’s fears, we land safely at Fuerteventura airport, to be met by a peroxide blonde wearing the regulation Top Rank Holidays uniform. She’s bright tangerine in colour and has huge calf muscles. Her feet are stuffed into navy plastic court shoes.

She smiles. ‘Welcome to your Top Rank Holiday.’ Except she doesn’t exactly say ‘Rank’ because she has an unfortunate wet R. Janice and I stifle giggles as she herds us into a bus that looks as though it’s held together with string and we proceed to rattle and joggle through miles of barren scrubland until we reach our ‘resort’.

If I’ve been expecting to be surrounded by a bunch of shiny, happy people all ready for Sun, Sea, Sand and maybe a smidgen of Sex, it looks as though I’m sadly mistaken. Judging by the state of our fellow passengers, it seems that in mid-August, Snotty kids, Sweaty pits and Slingbacks are what we’re in for. Still, I suppress a flicker of disappointment and force myself to remain optimistic.

Until we actually stop at our drop-off point, that is.

Our resort is known as ‘The Oasis’, which is the biggest misnomer I’ve ever come across. ‘Arndale Centre’, or maybe just ‘Swindon’ would be more appropriate. As would ‘Inner City Estate’. The place is akin to a huge concrete shopping mall, dominated by bingo halls, fruit machines and the sort of restaurants I usually associate with egg, chips, weak tea, fag butts and provincial bus stations. And it’s only when we’re shown to our apartment that I suddenly remember the importance of reading between the lines when perusing the holiday brochure. It’s absolutely vital to be aware of the following misleading phrases and their true meanings:

‘Absolutely buzzing with lively hubbub well into the small hours’ actually means, ‘Directly under flight path, with planes landing all fucking night’.

‘Close to all facilities and amenities’ is more likely to mean, ‘Sewage farm directly under balcony’.

Balcony itself, obviously, will be no more than a glorified windowsill.

And you can read ‘Plentiful local flora and fauna’ as ‘Fungus and green mould in bathroom and kitchen full of bluebottles, all attracted by gastronomic delights of local sewage farm’.