Our resident columnist Jamie Martin exposes the word of airborne kiddypoo. Lovely.
Readers will have to excuse me if this article doesn’t appear to make any sense – I’m currently sitting in California, recovering from an almost-three-day journey from Icebox Ireland. I haven’t slept in sixty hours; I had to get a taxi to the airport, as my car doors were literally frozen shut; and soon it will be time to go to the frat house that we will be staying in. That should be interesting to say the least.
The worst thing about travelling on a plane is children. You might call me evil, but try sitting next to a toddler who has quite clearly soiled himself but whose parents have yet to notice, and who instead of changing him, let him run up and down the length of the plane, disseminating the smell throughout the cabin. One minute you’re struggling to get the single serving packet of cheese open, and a mere infant sprint later you’re struggling to keep down your quick-frozen chicken with creamy risotto (that was actually quite delicious, considering the environment).
A two-hour layover awaited us in JFK, where one of my friends discovered that the bottle of whiskey in his bag had smashed, soaking his entire backpack, which held all his clothes for the trip, and made him smell like a homeless person.
The Irish had arrived…. well, in New York anyway. There was the small matter of the awaiting seven-hour trek to San Francisco. I ended up sat next to an elderly Mexican who decided to make herself right at home by removing her shoes and socks, putting her feet right up to my face, and taking a nap. Several cramped and hot hours later we found ourselves landing in San Francisco airport with no idea of where we were going, what bus we were getting or who was meeting us.
By some stroke of luck the old number I had for my friend in the city worked and we were on our way. Already the trip has proven to be interesting, as we shared a dinner with a top detective from the San Francisco Police Department, and somehow managed to score a free meal in a top Italian restaurant by convincing the owner that my friend was the junior Taoiseach of Ireland. The week’s itinerary includes skiing in Lake Tahoe and the initiation rights of Delta Sigma Phi.
So, as always, I will keep everyone posted.