Mobile phones in the air are virgin’ on plane ridiculous

Dear Sir Richard Branson, What have you done? Seriously, what the hell have you done?

Hopefully Sir Richard will install these on his aircraft

I admire your stunning business acumen, your ballooning skills, your outrageous PR stunts,
I’ve bought many Virgin records over the years – in fact I still have an original vinyl copy of Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols. Love your work.

However, what’s this about allowing mobile phone calls on Virgin Atlantic flights? Tell me you’re taking the piss.

Cramming hundreds of people into a flying metal tube for endless hours is fraught with social problems as it is – screaming brat children kicking the back of your seat, rabid seat recliners, dickheads cramming everything they own in the overhead storage cabin so there’s no room for your stuff, über-backpack wielding morons dislocating shoulders as they bump their way up the aisle, farting businessmen, the list is endless.

Now you want to add annoying expletives-making phone calls? I beseech thee, please reconsider.

“I’m on the plane… yeah, I’m on the plane! Hang on, I’ll look out the window, yeah, no… I think we’re flying over eastern Siberia. Is Aaahliya there? Hello sweetheart, it’s daddy. Yeah, I’m on the plane…”.

Or: “We need to have some face-time on the core competency, but if we buy-in and open the kimono and get some leverage, I think it will be scalable…”.

You can only imagine the riveting conversations you’ll have to endure. You will feel like ripping your ears off, and ramming them down their throat to muffle the noise.

Sir Richard, there is a reason the other airlines put the kybosh on this insanity. No one wants to sit next to someone using a mobile phone. Sure I don’t have to fly your airline, but if you go ahead with this madness, the others might reconsider, and then life will end as we know it.

Might I suggest if this does happen, your flight attendants hand out baseball bats and parachutes.

Words ©Steve Williams 2012

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*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au

We all turn into cliched stereotypes on holiday

You meet a lot of interesting people on holidays. Well when I say “meet”, I mean observing people from a safe distance and mercilessly taking the piss if warranted.

I would have smirked if he fell

I stayed at a rather nice beach resort in Malaysia over Christmas and it was simultaneously a pleasurable and fascinating experience. I think the five stars were awarded for the characters that were staying there.

It really was a microcosm of humanity, mixed with sand and the odd Pina Colada. In no particular order we had the delightful Poms from Bogan-On-Trent who thought the dress code in the restaurant where breakfast was served was footwear optional. I love the look of tinea in the morning.

As well as not being able to afford shoes, their pantry must be a bit light on, because each morning they would they would knock off the teabags and sugar sachets from the table.

They must prescribe to the hotel buffet school of thought that “I’ve paid for it, so I can have it”. Similar to the family I saw at a hotel seafood buffet in Singapore stuffing prawns and oysters into Tupperware containers they coincidentally had on them. As you do.

I was wondering how to get the dining chairs into my suitcase.

I also have a bit to learn from the people (stereotypically Germans, though I’ve never actually seen a Teutonic type do this) who bags a sun lounge by the pool at about 3.24am, and then turn up to use them at 3.25pm.

Speaking of sun lounges, the Natasha twins with their “uncle” Boris (I suggest the ladies were on an hourly rate, and yes, I admit my range of Russian names is garnered from watching “Rocky and Bullwinkle”), weren’t content with their three sun lounges, they thought they’d take over the adjoining ones as well.

Their $4,000 Louis Vuitton handbags and over-sized sunglasses obviously needed a tan.

Also providing a bit of cheek, literally at the resort was “Arse Boy”. We encountered this middle-aged bandanna and budgie smuggler wearing “dude” by the pool, who pulled said budgies halfway up his date to get some sun on his bum and proceeded to strike poses like a cross between a Bondi lifesaver and the centerfold for Playgirl magazine’s special Wedgie edition.

Thanks for that mate, talk about New Moon. Another highlight was the bloke who pranked his son with the hilarious game called “Let’s Pretend Daddy’s Dead”. He would float, face down, legs and arms akimbo in the classic drowned position in the kids pool. His seven-ish year old son, obviously concerned, started anxiously poking him, saying the word “Daddy” in ever increasing degrees of concern.

Only when he thought his son had reached the right level of hysteria, the guy stood up, pissing himself laughing. What a strange man. He must have great fun at home lying in a bath filled with red food dye clutching a razor blade.

There were plenty of other characters, “Blue Leg Boy”, “Buns of Steel”, and the wannabe bikini supermodel with her wannabe bikini supermodel photographer, as well as the usual pasty white bodies basting themselves in baby oil, so they can return to their -14 degrees European snow-bound homes boasting the trophy tan (and third degree burns).

My pick are the people who feel it necessary to take those Hindenburg size inflatable pool toys on holiday with them. I saw someone being crushed in the pool by a life-size blowup killer whale, but then again it could have been another round of “Let’s Pretend Daddy’s Dead”.

Words and image ©Steve Williams 2012

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*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au