The Magical Alliance

Alas, alack, all that is dandy has to end, and today I flew back in to UKland after an extended weekend at home (there was a proper large-scale family celebration I had to attend). After saying my goodbyes, and making it through the security check unscathed (hope you loved your rock-solid-yet-still-somehow-liquid-according-to-you curry paste that used to be mine, UKland control officer), I seated myself in the optimal position on the aircraft - just behind the magical reserved seats, aka I'd be the first zooming out of there once the plane hit the ground. Just as I made myself comfy, they made their appearance.

The Magical Alliance caught my ear first, then my eye when I turned around to see what was making the racket. The racket was being made by three very fine young gentlemen in Adidas track suits. The leader looked like a carbon copy of one of the dunderheads who used to pick on me in middle school. His right-hand crony seemed to be so stupid that blinking and walking at once must have been too hard for him... I guess he did the leader dude some wrong, as he was seated next to the window. With all the mental capacity the window-sitter could muster, admiring the views outside could literally take his breath away. The third member of the group, and the hero of the story up ahead, sported a ridiculous mohawk-mullet hybrid that would have looked dreadful in the early nineties, let alone now. I just scoffed at their barbed language, writing it off as the lads being excited before embarking on a trip to the depths of the job ladder.

Spurting idiocy apparently wasn't enough. At some point mid flight, the hero of the tale produced a bottle of alcohol. I'm not sure exactly how they distributed the grapefruit vodka or whatever the hell it was, but said hero held the empty bottle when I noticed them taking their party to the next level. Also, somehow, it was him swaying in the general direction of the toilet moments later as his comrades remained seated. As such, I guess that his brain cell didn't think it was a bad idea to down the whole thing. Soon enough, the flight attendants got the guy in check, and he was placed in the magical fenced off reserved seats. Right in front of me.

Lovely.

As The Great And Powerful Rumpy is a walking example of mild-to-average emetophobia, I spent the rest of the flight bunged up in an embryo position with my bag and coat (fuck regulations, no way is it under the seat where there's a fraction of a chance he'll barf on it somehow). Ugh. Not fun at all.

My mood was slightly improved when the boss of the pack went to speak with the fallen. At first they were exchanging bro-hugs, but soon enough it degenerated into a shouting match with the drunken dude doing his best to hit the sober one. Once again, flight attendants had to step in. The Magic Alliance, shattered before the plane even touched down at their final destination. I can't help but have my spirits a little raised.

Now, I'm back in the place where I lived, and one lamb jhallosa later I'm pretty settled in. Conclusions from the journey - take the seat one row behind the reserved seats.