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[personal profile] dearorlando
Dear Orlando,

I hate flying. No, I really bloody HATE flying. It's a fookin' phobia, yeah? I have to travel a lot for my job, so I'm constantly on one sodding plane or another. I've tried drinking meself silly, but then I'm just droonk AND hating flying. Got any advice, mate?

An Anonymous Bloke

Dear Bloke,

That is such a fuckin’ coincidence! I have a friend who’s scared shitless of flying! I mean, if you even make a noise like a helicopter— WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP!— he goes all pale and sweaty! I rode halfway across the bloody island in New Zealand with him, just so he wouldn’t have to ride in a damned aeroplane, and we got caught in a mudslide and spent two days shacked up in a little old lady’s cabin on the side of a mountain somewhere with no tv and no bloody cell phone connection! We woulda starved to death if he hadn’t known how to make the bloody damned tea from a pot on the stove, ‘cause there wasn’t a kettle anywhere in the place!

Bastard told everyone the only reason he was in the car with me was because I wanted to go shopping. IMAGINE THAT!!!

Now, I like shopping as much as the next guy, but not nearly enough to get swept off the side of a mountain in a blitherin’ cyclone. I mean, who wants to shop when it’s pouring rain? You’d have to have lost the entire plot, mate! All your new stuff would be soaked!

Nigh about ruined everything I’d bought too. And I said turn left when he went right, and the stupid git refused to stop to ask for directions. He got all stroppy and kept blatherin’ on about how REAL MEN don’t ask for directions, how REAL MEN don’t ever get lost, how REAL MEN can grow a beard in less than three days, or at least get stubble on their face. I dunno what being lost and having facial hair have to do with each other, I think he was just arguing the toss with me, but we coulda stopped at least three different places before we were....

We were lost, man. Gone.

Spent two days playing naughts and crosses using our socks lined up for the game board and some pebbles for the naughts and some bent twigs for the crosses. The whole blitherin’ trip was supposed to only take a full day, so we didn’t have any extra clothes in the boot. We dashed outside nuddy and barefoot to get the twigs and pebbles, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t see the old lady peeping out the curtains at us. Pervert. At least she didn’t come to the door while our clothes were drying all over her kitchen chairs. I mean, she only came twice. To the window. That I know of.


About the only thing that ever worked was for me to sit real close and let him feel my leg with his hand— I mean, let him rest his hand on my thigh— my knee, sort of. Well, not REALLY, ‘cause the bloke left marks I never was quite able to explain. I mean, that’s the only thing that ever worked while we were flying.

Oh, nevermind.

I’m bloody well sure the businessman sitting beside you on your next flight is NOT gonna be up for letting you damage his goods. Have you tried Sudoku? It helps to do the easy ones first, so you can just let your mind play a little and you don’t get frustrated and give up about the time the wheels leave the runway. Or maybe trade seats so you can sit by the woman with the baby who’s throwing a wobbler—then when YOU start screaming, everyone will just assume they understand why.

Y’know, those new iPods and MP3’s can show movies— maybe you could download some Sheffield United video from the archives on their webpage? Or you could sing “The Greasy Chip Butty” song, but do it sort of under you breath, mate, so you don’t go about getting the whole sodding first class’s tummies rumbling.

(Plus, if this IS you, Bean, you northern bastard, and you’re pullin’ my plonker, nobody wants to hear you bloody sing, okay? Go use your bloody charm to talk somebody into joining you for membership in the Mile High Club and get your mind on something else, yeah??? Try whispering "Strawberry" in her ear a few times, that'll get her going.)

Good luck, mate.
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