Airports.

I like what they represent, sure – holidays, new horizons, returning darlings, departing weird relatives, another haul of unpasteurised soft cheeses successfully smuggled through customs in vacuum-sealed packs in your underwear. But unless you like ham sandwiches that curl up at the edges, paying for parking with gold bullion and staring at the back of other peoples’ heads, the novelty of airports can wear off after fifteen or sixteen minutes. They shit me.

The Shopping

WHO IS BUYING THINGS IN THE SHOPS AT THE AIRPORT? Souvenirs, I understand. Things from the chemist, okay fine. Something to read or eat or drink – totally feasible. But clothing and accessories? You’ve just had a few days to pack your suitcase. Yoiu’ve possibly even written a list. If you’re going somewhere with a pool, pack a swimming costume. If you’re going somwehere where you might need an Oroton wallet and an acompanying ugly scarf, pack a fucking wallet and ugly scarf. If you’re going somewhere cold, pack a fucking coat. And ultimately, if you’re going somewhere carrying a swimming costume, an Oroton wallet, an ugly scarf and a coat, then PACK A FUCKING SUITCASE. You’re buying a suitcase at the airport? Come on. All those shops are doing is taking up space that might otherwise be used for roller-discos.

The Terrifying Toilets

Under no circumstances flush an airport toilet while you’re still sitting on it unless it’s always been your dream to have your genitals sucked suddenly and violently into the Mariana Trench in under a second. Airport toilets flush loudly and they flush quickly, and the only thing available to take away the stench of fear and strangers’ faeces is weird frothy pink soap that smells like medicine. As a bonus, on the back of each cubicle door you can learn about all the horrible afflictions and diseases that can befall you while you’re travelling, from a bung ear to rampant diarrhoea to weeping, foetid gonad-rot. And whether your fleshy parts have been sucked into the sea or are slowly decomposing from your badly chosen sexy-times, it makes it very hard to attend roller-discos.

The Class System

You don’t fool me with your Qantas Clubs and your Virgin Lounges. I’ve seen what it costs to join those things, and all you’re doing is paying for your crappo airport coffee, weird shiny mini-croissants and anaemic slices of honeydew melon in advance. You’re paying for the opportunity to sit with jaded, spicy-smelling businessmen who would rather sell a testicle than give up a power outlet. You’re paying for the opportunity to get on the plane forty-five seconds before other passengers, which then gives you the opportunty to sit waiting on the plane for longer than you were sitting waiting in your stupid lounge. You’re paying for the opportunity to be addressed by name when you walk into your club lounge, which for some reason is supposed to be less creepy than any other circumstances where strangers know your name. You’re paying for the opportunity to be thanked by the pilot before you take off which, admittedly, makes all the fucking difference. And YES I sound jealous, because I have a feeling you’re hiding a roller-disco in there.

The Fourteen-Thousand-Dollar Dishwater

Coffee at the airport is for wealthy masochists with no tastebuds who like hearing their name shouted out by bored twenty-year-olds an hour and a half after they’ve ordered it. Roller-discos.

That Departure Lounge Down the End Of The Airport That Feels Like It’s Built As An Afterthought Out Of Plywood And Sticky-Tape That’s Full Of Passengers Who Look Like They Won Tickets To the Gold Coast Just For Being Centrelink’s Most Consistent Customers And Their Fat Kids

Nup.