I left Kelowna early morning Thursday, the flight to Calgary takes one hour. In theory I should have been in Calgary by midday, and we were right on course, I slept from take off to just before landing. We landed, taxied and came to a sudden stop just short of the gate. The pilot mumbled something about a lightning storm coming in, and that we should get comfortable because, it turns out, Canadians are shit scared of lightning, rain and thunder.
The WestJet stewardesses were great, somehow they managed to keep everyone calm. Even when everyone found out that they are not allowed to serve booze while on the ground. I say everyone, but I may have been the only one asking for it. But I asked enough times for everyone on the flight. There are a few things that one can do when faced with boredom of that calibre; drink, smoke, have sex or masturbate. Oddly, and it is to the detriment of the human race I think, only one of those things you are allowed to do in public. Even then, there are rules enforced to make sure you are never actually enjoying it. I never got that drink.
The storm hung around for a while, I sat on the plane for 6 hours, not including the hour it took to get there. My friend Martin, who lives in Calgary spent the 6 hours waiting for me in a bar in the airport. At least someone was having some kind of fun. I sat a while and chatted to a lady because her kid was watching old Disney films on her laptop without headphones. After a couple of hours of conspiring and watching Disney films I decided that the best course of action would be if she grabbed her left arm, hit the deck and fake a heart attack. It was the best idea either of us could come up with to get the fuck off that plane.
She wasn’t up for it, and anyone who has seen me acting will tell you that I could never have pulled it off. Put me in a penalty box and I will convince any ref that I have been fouled, I am an incredible diver (I once punched myself in the eye to win a penalty), but faking a heart attack was out of my talent range. We were in this for the long run.
Eventually the wee storm passed and we were finally released from our tubular aluminium prison. I walked into the terminal which by now was resembling a post- natural disaster emergency shelter, it was jam packed with disgruntled should-be passengers, all grounded because of a wee storm. I can’t mock them too much I guess, it is exactly the same reaction the British have to a tiny bit of snow.
I met Martin in the bar, he was already deep into the drinking. I had some catching up to do. But first I needed to get my bag.
Two things stood in my way of this relatively easy task. First the back log of baggage, secondly I suffer from a little known visual impairment called Luggage Blindness. I‘m not racist, but all luggage looks the same to me. Luckily I had prepared myself this time and had some garish ribbons attached to the handle. Sadly, some other smart people had the same idea. It was a clusterfuck.
I threw my hands in the air in celebration when I finally clocked my bag. I let out a yelp. Grabbed the bastard and left Calgary airport. Martin had managed to talk his housemate, an Irishman called Dave to pick us both up. Knowing what Martin is like, and throwing an Irishman into the equation, I smelled booze soaked mischief.
I am now in Calgary, I have been here for a day and a half (at the time of writing), I have just stopped partying. I was sad to leave Kelowna, but I figured that with all the crazy shit that happened from the International Drug Smuggling job offer to my last Saturday night when I ended up spending the evening safely tucked under the wing of one of the Kelowna’s head Hells Angels, ending my evening in their clubhouse filled with Angels, strippers and low lifes. There were few things left to do in that town after that I felt.
Kelowna had the most amount of women I have ever seen in one town. According to someone who works at the local uni the intake ratio is 13:1. I would suggest visiting.
I am amazed I made it to Calgary. I had some help. I will be working hard labour for Martin to pay off my flight and make some money to try and get home at some point. But I am not thinking about that too much just now.
Once again my Internet access is limited but as and when I have something to tell you I will happily go and steal the internet from the wanky scenester coffee shop at the bottom of the road. I have already got into an argument with a bellend with a shite hairdo about the queue, of all fucking things. He lost. Obviously.
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