Sandwich’ed in

Sorry for being a little inactive in my posts.  I left on a jet plane, soared across the African Savannah, made my way over the pirate invested waters of Somalia and dropped down in Dubai, the capital of all things fake OR of human achievement. (Depending on your point of view.) But this is not a post about my love-hate relationship with the famous city, this is about something much more serious, it’s about my new-found sympathy for cheese. And peanut butter.


Isn’t flying awesome?
Borrowed from

Since the credit crunch/world recession/American bank bail-out, business travel have become far less glamorous than the fly-hotel-meeting-fly-hotel-meeting-fly reality it actually is. For now businessmen, unless you are real top brass, are forced to span the globe with Joe and family.

Not that it really bothers me, as I don’t care where I sit after four glasses of wine. With that being said at 6″4′, I appreciate the emergency exit as much as the next guy. And fortunately I have stunning good looks for I always seem to get one. Did I say always?

This specific flight to Dubai was filled to capacity and I was wondering if some of these people would be forced to sit on the roof like those Indian trains and ferry’s and buses we always see on the news. There was moments where I panicked, thinking a zombie apocalypse hit South Africa and the only safe place on earth was a massive mall in the middle of the desert. Relax, it wasn’t the case.

When I finally reached the check-in counter, I showed all of my not-quite-white teeth and charmed my socks off to get my favourite spot on the plane. Needless to say, the bitch at the counter had a massive fight with her boyfriend that morning and now hated all men.  It also took away her ability to smile. So I got stuck with a seat in the middle. Yes people not even an isle.

Some sanity prevailed as I didn’t call her out for what I thought she really was, and through clenched teeth I swallowed my pride and opted for a last resort, a seat as close to the front of the plane as possible, for at least I could disembark quickly on arrival.  (I wanted to use “get-off quickly” but that would just been a cheap laugh.)

After I sat in the business lounge and took my “sleeping pills” I journeyed through the airport to the departing gate and ogled all passengers for who might be my neighbours for the next eight hours. Like any sane person I was hoping for a hotty on my left and a midget on my right, but I didn’t see either. Then we started boarding the plane. People seated in the back were boarding first, so I board last. (Think about that for a while.)

I struggled pass business class passengers with condescending looks, air hostesses putting jackets away and numerous others who were trying to fit a coffin in the overhead compartments. What are people thinking? If you can’t carry or lift it, then it doesn’t qualify as carry-on luggage. Check that shit in.

I came to a halt at my designated middle seat. Or rather what was left of it. On the seats next to mine were two of the heaviest people I have ever laid eyes upon as they were literally spilling over the arm rests. This is why some people feel that largely obese people should pay more per seat, as they literally occupy more space. I know, I know this implies every single South African politician, but that’s another story.  Getting back to me and the only thought I had: How am I going to fit in there and last for eight hours? I should have inserted my catheter.

I don’t want to generate nightmares so I’m cutting the story short, having some understanding that I would rather eat of my own arm before experiencing another flight like that one. Between all the touching, rubbing, body odour, bad breath, fighting for the hand rest and movies, dinner was served. Being the nice guy I am, I was passing cutlery, plates, glasses but there is a very good reason why I was fired as a waiter.

You guessed it, it got worse.  I spilled water on the lap of the guy to my right. He wasn’t impressed.  And now I was stuck between two people who didn’t even like me.

That’s why I have a sudden appreciation for cheese on a sandwich, stuck between two slices of bread.  From now on, I will only have cheese on toast, allowing the critter a right to breathe before I shove it in my mouth.

I’m sorry ya’ll, I get a little emotional without the wife. And kids.