Christmas came twice last year (the Christian celebration not my stripper friend of the same name) when my sister called me on the 23rd to tell me that she had bought me a return ticket to visit her in Hong Kong. This was both a generous and impressive present because, get this……. at this point she hadn’t even moved to Hong Kong!!!! Think you know some one with ‘Madmin™’ (short for mad crazy organised bitch administrative) skills……… think again. They ain’t got shit on my big sister. A girl so damn organised that her unborn grandchildren’s Bah Mitzvahs have already been booked………. she’s not even Jewish!!!!!

So complete with my gratis Lufthansa booking, 38kg suitcase stuffed with baby products rarely found in Asia and a very sexy chest infection probably self induced from my love of scotch I found myself at the check in desk at Heathrow. “Sorry sir but your bag is 15kg over weight, is there anything you can take out?” Didjyandyabagin and in his thick Inidian accent. I paused. I thought over the items in the suitcase and took into account the look on my sister, husband (hers not mine, I will die alone) and my two year old newphew’s face if I arrived with no nappies, no wipes, no baby oat bars, no scrapbooking art materials, no cushions for a baby helmet, no Heinz ketchup, no Weetabix and no phone screen protector. Yes lady and gentleman, (not a typo, my fan base is small) my sister who lives in the electronics capital of the world, ordered a tempered glass phone screen protector from amazon, had me cart it half way across the world and hand deliver it to her. Madmin™ (she actually prefers the term ‘Fabmin’, short for Fabulous Admin. I’ll let you decide.) I also imagined the look on my sister and her husband’s face if I turned up without gifts…….. they know full well that I never travel sober……… I had packed them three bottles of Mummy Juice (red wine) and two bottles of Hackney Gay Juice (Jonnhie Walker Black…… in case you were thinking of buying me a present). So I had just two (legal) options to get my bag on that plane, bribe Didjyandyabagin (persevere with that one, it’s worth it) with the promise of mind blowing ‘Pilot and Cabin Crew’ role play sex or heaven forbid get rid of some of my beloved clothes. As I unzipped my case to start the latter (Didjandyabagin was just not feeling the sex bribe….he only wanted to play the pilot) all the people around me saw that more than half of my allowed bags were packed with baby items and I was travelling with no baby, I was either involved in some strange sex ring, incontinent or an incredible uncle/friend/hot gay manny *pauses to let own back door brag about how kind I am sink in**hopes reader will not remember that sister had actually paid for the return flight so it’s only right that I do her the favour of carrying so much crap for her*. 


So still knelt over Mandora’s box, the more senior check in staff memeber to Didjandyabagin’s left tells me (in what can only be described as a sweet angel’s voice) to “zip up my case and come over here”. I can only assume what he did next was some king of miracle, magic act or a form of air cabin crew witchcraft……… he puts a sticker on the bag that reads “HEAVY”. Heavy? A word that fuelled years of my teenage body dismorphia and has cost me thousands of pounds in nutritionists, gym memberships, liposuction and once a very expensive wrap style procedure called the ‘Mary Kate Olsen’ is now the salve to the scratchy dry skin problem that is my Lufthansa bag drop nightmare.

I saaaaaaaiiilllllll through security and find a bar to buy a glass (bottle) of Hackney Gay Juice and call my sister in Hong Kong who at this point in our whatsapp chat has turned to whatever Mummy Juice reserves she has left in the house to calm her Madmin™ nerves. 

What just happened? Was Didjyandyabagin’s colleague in love with me? Am I the star of some weird Truman Show style TV show where I’m universally famous the world over? Was I touched by an angel? Did my wonderful grandparents guide me through the process from the beyond the grave with love? Have I reached ‘that’ leve l of handsome that people just do shit for me by smiling at them? I reach for my wallet to pay for said glass (bottle) of HGJ to realise I had walked all the way through security and put both bags throught the x-ray machine with an unopened litre of Marks and Spencer water in my case!!!!!!! I’m not ultra handsome, my dead grandparents don’t care and I’m not in the Truman Show………. No, Heathrow terminal two had a meeting that morning, here’s the minutes from the meeting-

  • Do what you feel like today gang.
  •  Wanna be an arsehole to people? Be an arsehole. 
  • Wanna make people’s days and let them think they’re getting their own way due to their looks. Do it! 
  • Wanna expose people to water based bomb threats in the shape of middle class high street food brand packaging? Done.

Luckily my flight and my water caused me no harm, however the free pouring Hackney Gay Juice on my flight is another story.

Right off to explore Asia. You know in two weeks. Totally doable.

再见 (Bye for now)

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