I like sitting on airplanes about as much as I like sucking the shit out of dead dogs, and since I have a long haul flight rapidly approaching I am currently piecing together a master plan which will see me in state of absolute unconsciousness for the entire duration of the trip.
Starting here in the northeast, I shall wildly indulge myself in my favourite tipple and buy the fucking t-shirt before bidding farewell to my unhygienic acquaintances in the local shop.
The next port of call will be the train station where I shall start making aggressive sorties into this handsome collection of receptacles.
Upon disembarking the train, I will hustle towards a taxi and have the driver chaffeur me to a little shop near the airport. The little shop will be a nondescript affair and will not, repeat not, be in the close proximity of any establishments where one might run amok for an hour or so with an aging masseuse called Waraporn.
Having given myself plenty of room to maneuver, the time should now be about 6 pm, my flight not until midnight, and the little shop of my choice will bear the brunt of a monumental siege as I struggle to rinse every last droplet of alcohol from it before check in time.
Come the check-in stage I aim to be absolutely fucking battered, and after being directed to the correct gate I shall endeavor to be sick several times in a public area in order to prepare my palate for several milligrams of the mother load.
Just as the pretty little stewardess grimaces as I stagger towards the plane, I shall drop a couple of these and come up smiling in Heathrow.
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