The Art Of Letter Writing # Seat 79J - The Long & The Short Of It

Written from a great height by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Airline Seating Tsar,

There are class divisions in almost every facet of life. A distinct clarity exists between those who toil at the coalface of the hottest, noisiest jobs, and those who employ them. Air travel, as you may be aware, embraces these differences and charges accordingly. From economy to business class, and from first class to that nine star oil tycoon class that Emirates have, the airline industry makes sure that people know their place. I bear no ill-feelings towards those seated ahead of me. They have worked hard, or at least been born into the right family to earn those seats.

I travelled in business class once. Oh yes, I too have experienced the joy of a 6’6” bed, privacy walls, pull-out plasma screen TV, champagne on take off, hourly hot facial towels, edible food, and a constant stream of quality wine and cheese. I was so pampered that I almost forgot the crippling back injury that had forced me to upgrade from cattle class in the first place. Sheer bliss. Alas, that was then, and this is now. I am back in my rightful place with the rest of the battery hens, and boy do I have a bone to pick with you.

For as long as I have been travelling on long haul flights, I have had my own seat. It is fundamentally the same as any other seat in economy. You watch the same movies, you use the same toilets, you attempt to eat the same tray of featureless gruel that the others are served. The difference is that there is no seat in front of yours, meaning that your ankles are not wrapped behind your head for 22 hours (and let’s take this moment to appreciate that I’m too classy to make the obvious mile high club joke here).

That’s right, I’m talking about the exit row. No bags under the seat. Deploy the fun slide if things don’t go to plan, and make sure the ladies take off their heels before they slide down it. I know the drill, because the exit row is my domain, just as it is the domain of all passengers who have to duck to avoid hitting their head when they enter an airplane. It’s like a little club for the genetically superior. We share stories about living in a short man’s world, the difficulty of finding shoes in a size 13, and that smug feeling we get when regular folk ask us to get them something off the top shelf in the supermarket.

Eons ago, before online check-ins and unattended baggage related panic, the exit row was bestowed upon those that looked like they could handle it. You’d present yourself at the check-in desk, and state your case. You’d be looked up and down in order to assess your exit row worthiness. Tall, strapping lads with a look of reliability would be given preference. The midget classes might suffer a little paroxysm of jealousy as they regarded the fine specimens manning the exit row, but by gum, jealousy would swiftly be replaced by the reassurance that should things go pear-shaped, they were in good hands.

Those halcyon days are long gone. Now we find ourselves adrift in a sea of poisonous equality, where the exit row is available to anyone willing to pay an extra £30 – per leg. Oh yes, the significance of paying £30 for my right leg to travel from London to Singapore and another £30 for my left leg to travel from Singapore to Melbourne wasn’t lost on me. I get it, very funny. Do you know who won’t get it? Short people. They barely have legs, let alone a sense of irony.

You may think that by introducing a charge for the exit row you have quelled ill-feeling and disquiet amongst the potentially volatile gaggle of minimum wage earning, swine flu ridden plebs at the back of the aircraft, but you’d be wrong. We are simple folk, and we have simple desires. We shall endure poor in-flight entertainment, screaming children, and sub-par food, but we shall not allow our exit rows to be staffed by a trifecta (or quadrella, depending on the aircraft) of dwarves that had a spare £30 lying around.

This is one of those rare occasions where it is absolutely right to discriminate against someone based upon their physical appearance. You cannot let anyone under six feet into the exit row. Short folk have more important things to worry about, such as if their oxygen masks are deployed, will they be able to reach them? You can’t seriously entrust them with opening those massive doors and sorting out the inflatable slide. They will panic, and we shall all be doomed.

The exit row should be like a ride at an amusement park – if you’re under a certain height, bad luck. If your feet struggle to touch the ground when you sit down, the exit row is not for you. Console yourself with the knowledge that you could easily gain employment as a jockey, or a mid-level manager who spends their days taking out their little problems on their tall underlings.

The tall community shall not endure this casual extortion. Let us call this charge exactly what it is – a tax upon the lofty. Perhaps, like many taxes, its origins were honourable; a temporary measure to dissuade diminutive passengers from interfering with the time honoured tradition of entrusting the safety of passengers to a group of people with wingspans as vast as the aircraft itself. It has served its purpose. The little tykes are back in their rightful places. We large folk, on the other hand, are still being charged for providing a vital service and peace of mind.

This casual extortion shall lead to an ineluctable conclusion – tall industrial action (we have an excellent trade union). Who then will get your groceries from the top shelf? Who will play for your basketball teams? Who will pose with midgets in hilarious photos for the Guinness Book of World Records? Oh, sure, we’ll still travel by air, but don’t expect us to help anyone under six foot down the inflatable fun slide. We’ll sort ourselves out first, and probably slash it when we get to the bottom.

This problem isn’t going to go away. Ironically, it’s only going to get bigger. Evolution is a topical and inconvenient reality, but even the most ardent creationist will grudgingly admit through clenched teeth that each generation is getting taller. Sure, it may take a few hundred years, but eventually the bulk of the population will have grounds to object to this blatantly illegal fee. Take heed of my warning, and remember this – the meek shall inherit the earth, but they won’t be allowed to sit in the exit row.

Hot Hits With Hans # 3

Written by Hans Öffmeinbürger

Gutentag, mein reizvolle leute! It has been a busy few weeks in the music world since I last imparted my vast party knowledge upon you. Everybody has been asking me “Hans, what do you think of Michael Jackson dying?” and “Are you going to dedicate your next article to the King of Pop, who is now dead?” and “Did you once date Michael Jackson, who is now dead?” And I answer no, no and kind of, but that is really none of your business. If I wanted to waste precious words on a pale, skinny, drug addicted freak who was considered to be a developmentally retarded pervert on a good day, I could just have written about our entertainment editor, Peter File. I feel nothing but jealousy when I think of Michael Jackson, for if at 50 years of age I happen to shuffle off the turntables of life and out on to the eternal dance floor at the hands of an unscrupulous Hollywood doctor pumping a kaleidoscope of barbiturates into my veins, I will consider it to have been a good day, week, and life.

Anyway, here is the rest of the news that is musical.


Put Your Hans In Ze Air, Und Wave Them Around As Though You Are Unconcerned

Since the dawn of time, there have been particular traits and nuances that have set each musical genre apart from one another. Death metal has its growling vocals and bowel liquefying guitar riffs, French house has its funky bass and infectious party time grooves, whilst nu metal (Limp Bizkit et al) is identifiable by deftly substituting talent with whingeing misogyny. Of all musical idiosyncrasies though, hip hop possesses the most vast array of unique attributes. From gold ropes to 40oz bottles, the excessive party culture of hip hop is unmistakeable and entirely infectious to the maximum level.

This week, however, it emerged that one of the most sacred tenets of hip hop phraseology is under threat. Giving the keynote speech at the 28th Annual Hip Hop Symposium, rap pioneer Dr Dre voiced concerns that far too many artists nowadays are unwittingly commanding listeners to put their hands in the air and wave them around like they just don’t care.

“This shit has got to stop,” urged Dre. “We in the middle of a global recession, and there ain’t no way the brothers runnin’ the banks is gonna start lending to each other again if they all throwing they hands in the air like they just don’t care.”

Stopping short of blaming unscrupulous lyricism for the global financial crisis, Dre suggested temporarily shelving the iconic lyric, or at least amending it to better match the current climate.

“Think before you spit a verse. Ain’t no redundant factory worker that wants to hear about you poppin’ bottles of Dom in the spa with lingerie models. Don’t front. Be real. Be relevant. Put your hands in the sky, and wave them around like you want achievable fiscal policies to be applied.”


Adult Contemporary Christian Rock Now Targeting: Hearing Impaired Fatties

In yet another sickening report of musicians shunning the excessive hedonism synonymous with the industry and replacing it with socially responsible (and, surprise surprise – profitable) endeavours, a select few adult contemporary Christian rock groups have released their very own fitness DVDs.

Ambassadors of mediocrity, Creed, have released Beat Greed With Creed, which advocates the wearing of ill-fitting leather pants whilst dancing to Creed songs, the theory being that the monstrously fat consumer will be so distracted by the sweating and chaffing that they will forget all about food.

Nickleback have taken a more aerobic approach to reducing waist size with Blast Your Nicklefat Away With The Chad. Front man Chad Kroeger is fetching in a bright red and black two-piece as he delivers the introduction. “Hey there, I’m Nickleback’s Chad Kroeger. You know, some people think my moves in our music videos are just complex artistic extensions of my deep inner torment. Sure, they are, but they’re also a great way of staying in shape. Follow me as I show you how invisible chin ups and catching invisible insects can get you the rock hard abs you’ve always dreamed of. LET’S GO!”

The concept presumably relies upon the target audience being at such an advanced stage of obesity that the fat has entirely covered their ears, preventing them from hearing how awful the music is.

Gossip Blogger Attacked By Prehistoric Birds, Authorities Mildly Amused

In an incident that can only be described as a timely reminder that swift and brutal retribution from targets of internet gossip stalks us all, professional bottom feeder and occasional gossip blogger Perez Hilton has reportedly been attacked by a swarm of ill-tempered pterodactyls.

Following standard big fat moron protocol, at roughly 3:45am EST last Saturday, Hilton Twittered “I was assaulted by a group of pterodactyls with big nasty claws. I am bleeding. Please, I need to file a police report. No joke.” Although renowned for possessing the largest concentration of idiots in the Milky Way, the internet responded with a refreshing scepticism to claims that an assemblage of winged predators thought to have become extinct over 60 million years ago had returned to earth and were now targeting effeminate gossip bloggers.

In a bizarre twist, the Los Angeles Zoo issued a statement verifying Hilton’s claims, explaining that in a Jurassic Parkesque move to arrest dwindling patronage, they had hatched and bred a pack of the leathery beasts. In what the statement described as an unfortunate oversight, the pterodactyl enclosure was constructed without a roof, which zookeepers believe may have contributed to the escape of the creatures.

As top plastic surgeons attempt to repair the undoubtedly horrific facial disfiguration caused by the razor sharp talons of Hilton’s assailants, authorities are searching for a motive for the attack in between real police work. While not confirmed, Hilton allegedly penned a column a fortnight ago in which he outed members of the new pterodactyl enclosure as overweight closet transvestites, writing “let’s face it, they were losers 60 million years ago, and they’re losers now. The public want tyrannosauruses, not trannyosoreasses with outdated wardrobes and cellulite.”

Silence Is Golden, As Long As You’re Not In The Precious Metal Business

Written by Logan Bluetooth and his assorted hangers on

A most peculiar thing occurred over the past fortnight, or rather, it did not. After month upon month of hard hitting, well researched and balanced articles, an eerie silence blanketed the Mobar Gazette (syndicated in Myanmar and China’s Xinjiang Autonomous Region as The Truthful Times) headquarters for not one, but two ghastly weeks.

While most media coverage was uncharacteristically restrained (The New York Times carried the limp headline “Online Smut Peddlers Fall Silent”), the British tabloids stepped up to the plate and gave us the attention we crave, like the filthy base-heads that we are. “Nobar: Gazette Staff Abducted And Probed Repeatedly” chortled The Sun. “MG & MJ Dead, World Mourns MJ” guffawed The Mirror, whilst the fork and spoon operators at the Daily Mail went for “Mobar Gazette Silenced: Immigrants, Gays and Gay Immigrants Questioned By Scotland Yard”.

So what really happened? Lamentably, none of us were abducted or probed repeatedly, though not for want of wishing. Truth be told, we just dropped the ball. I was the keynote speaker at the17th Annual Efficiency Experts Conference, where I was giving a presentation on the streamlining of macro attrition techniques in the current economic climate. Ironically, the conference was anything but efficient.

I neglected to name an interim chief editor in my absence, partly through carelessness, though probably more through a well placed distrust of the capabilities of my underlings. Upon my return, I discovered that my lack of faith was absolutely justified. All staff members had been working on various articles, however the quality of these pieces was at best poor, at worst on a par with lyrics from a Des’ree song.

Asking them to turn in another article would have been pointless. If you pay your staff with expired antidepressants, you get garbled nonsense with the occasional sentence of genius. So instead, I have selected from each article the paragraph with the least spelling errors, then spliced them together to form a confusing and pointless article – business as usual, in other words. If you can work out which writer is responsible for each paragraph, seek medical advice immediately, though preferably not from us. Enjoy. Or don't, whatever.

It is difficult to recall a product that has provoked greater ethical and moral bewilderment; it is a hot potato being passed from neo conservatives to liberals, though neither of them are able to pinpoint exactly why the potato is hot nor if it should be eaten once it cools down. Fairtrade® cocaine is the brainchild of Diego Escobar, nephew of the late cocaine godfather Pablo Escobar. After seeing his family’s business decimated by draconian anti-drug laws, while at the same time watching the fat cats of the Colombian banana industry grow even richer, Diego saw a business opportunity and grasped it with both hands. Fairtrade® cocaine ensures coca farmers and cocaine manufacturers receive a fair price for their product. At the same time, white guilt symbolically vanishes up the nostrils of society, leaving it with a grossly inflated sense of moral superiority and a strong desire to tell anyone who will listen how unbelievably amazing it is.

Perhaps I am just getting old. But I tolerate many other stupid fads adopted by the youth of today: touch screen phones, social networking websites, The Pussycat Dolls. The yashmagh is where I draw the line. The only people fit to wear such an item are members of the Palestine Liberation Organisation. Wearing one does not show your solidarity with the freedom fighters of Gaza. You just look like another spoilt middle class arts student debating the meaning of Donnie Darko with your mother’s tea towel tied around your neck. Get a job and a haircut, you wanker.

Deliberately contracting swine flu was by far one of the worst ideas I have ever had. It is now painfully obvious why there are no decent swine flu jokes. This is just common or garden flu with a new name. What’s in a name? That which we call Puff Daddy, by any other name would still be a talentless moron. And so it is with influenza. I put it to you that even if it were called platypus fever, swine flu would not be funny. Perhaps if the animal rhymed with flu it would be better. Emu flu? There’s nothing funny about emus. I think I’m delirious.

Not for a minute am I suggesting that there are blogs with any artistic merit whatsoever. My point is that Mommy (or Mummy, depending on where you’re from) bloggers have less worth than every other thing on the internet. Unsatisfied with mastering what the majority of women on this planet accomplish and keep to themselves, Mommy bloggers feel it necessary to give a blow by blow account of rearing their snotty, screaming, bed-wetting spawn. Get out. You made lunches AND drove the kids to school today? Call NASA immediately, this could be valuable information. On second thoughts, why don’t you shut your word hole and concentrate on raising your children so that they don’t develop into the obese little delinquents that pollute the streets these days? You cook the dinner, and the internet will do what it does best: hardcore pornography.

So how exactly does a superstar international DJ and acclaimed music journalist find himself watching the most boring sport on earth? An ill-conceived office bet with a colleague whom I was unaware possessed superior staple gun archery abilities. I could have been “researching” Fairtrade® cocaine. Instead I am watching a collection of fashion victims stand in a field in Wales for five days hitting a ball to each other. There is no music, just polite applause, and for what I don’t know. If I wanted to bore myself to the point of sterility by watching creatures in woollen vests stand in a field doing nothing, I am certain there are plenty of Welsh sheep farmers that would have indulged me. From a musical perspective, I can only hope that cricket has an evil doctor that will soon inject it with a fatal dose of Demerol.

So anyway, there I am, balls deep in Bolivian marching powder, dead hooker on the pool table, Johnny Lampshade and Joe Tuckus passed out drunk in the corner, and who do you think shows up outside? The Feds, bells and whistles goin’ like openin’ night at a disco or a prize fight! Marone. They’re bangin’ on the door like they’ve got somethin’ to discuss, real important like. I’m hooverin’ up the posh, and what can I do but throw a towel over Starla, God rest her smutty soul. They kick the door in, pieces out, tellin’ me to keep my hands where they can see ‘em. The big cop, he sees Starla and asks her if she’s alright. And what can I do but say, “I’m sorry, Officer, you’ll have to speak up, she’s wearing a towel!”