WAGs Palace - Hampton Court

This touristy business is very exhausting. As much as I love to move about, away from the ordinary everyday, I also would love to sleep in my own bed every night. But moving around is how tourism works I'm pretty sure. But you know who else was notorious for not wanting to sleep in his own bed every night? King Henry VIII. Which, in my opinion, wasn't an accident.

Actually though, can I live here please.

I hit up his mansion yesterday -  Hampton Court Palace  - famous for being home away from his 59 other homes and his six WAGs, before he killed half of them because they refused to watch Coronation Street with him.  

The WAG Palace is located on the outskirts of London town in Richmond upon Thames, just a train hop away from central London. I stormed through the gates of the mansion uninvited, in what can only be described as in an aggressive manner, because that's how HVIII would have rolled. He wasn't the kind of man who would calmly walk through a door no matter what.

The King looked a lot like my Uncle Frank, who would not be seen dead in woolen tights, tunics, or pointy elf shoes I am fairly certain, which sounds jarringly like a detail you didn't need to know.

The type of man who won't
undo his top button 

The WAG palace is pleasant enough I suppose, in an understated, restrained Tudor type of way, although it is replete with great ornate ceilings which is most definitely a recipe for disaster. Let's just pause for the poor damn cleaner who has been dusting them every week for the last 500 years...

But not even the grand old King of England had nice loot in the 16th century; it was all muted reds and browns.  Or maybe he just preferred simplicity in his furnishings, and kept complexity for his privy relations; trying to keep the WAGs away from each other sounds much like a fulltime job.

The WAG palace certainly doesn't have the grandeur of Windsor Palace, Buckingham Palace, or Alnwick Castle (yes, the Harry Potter one), all fancy establishments I have traipsed through in recent weeks, but I can tell it has drama but also secrets.

The gardens of the WAG palace are beautiful and expansive, as you'd expect from a monarch who reigned before the global financial crisis and Instagram, when people who lived off the public purse didn't pretend to care if they looked wealthy or ostentatious.

I love England. Look at it.

Although I suppose the King looking strong and powerful could be crucial in retaining the empire. Plus, you didn't want some French upstart with a trim girth stealing your monarch moment.

King Henry of the WAGs was a cad, but probably only engaged in behaviour that was expected of him throughout that whole unpleasant era.  His whole palace reminds me a bit of Kayne West, which is a regretability.

He went through multiple WAGs in his quest to produce a male heir and had a few of his exes beheaded - more angrily than was necessary - in his special beheading room, which he later turned into a trophy room with a pool table.  I imagine each of them almost immediately regretted their nuptials.

Two of his conquests, Anne Boleyn and Kathryn Howard, were in fact murdered in the Tower of London, which is another delightful yet disturbing place to visit full of death and torture but also secrets.

I love England, but the more time I spend here the more I am thankful that I was born in the 20th century.

Mind the Tourist.

Before arriving in London, the delightful capital of my mother country by another mother, one believes one would have benefited from a spot of boot camp, perhaps a style similar to that administered to London's Metropolitan Icecream Police force, to prepare oneself for the discipline and endurance necessary to tackle the crap out of London in summer.

A key part of the lean machine that is London is the underground, or the Tube, as it is affectionately known by those who can find affection for such things as infrastructure. Found deep under the earth, the cheerfully bright red and blue primary colours throughout the city denoting a station crypt below belie its cruel nature.

The Tube can eat you alive if you are daft enough to approach it during peak hour.  I imagine one's initial experience of the peak hour tube monster is akin to some tourists first experience of Bondi Beach.

Despite all the warnings they go out swimming, get caught in the rip and before they know it they have ended up in a place they don't want to be, ie. Brixton. No-one wants that.

The Tube map is the only colourful object to view in London. Despite its glossy appearance and 'I've been vomited on by a unicorn' facade, a sighting of the familiar map across a tube station crowded with deatheaters is a godsend for the many lost tourists who have their happy thoughts sucked out on the Picadilly line.  Although the rainbow-inspired transport bible often creates more confusion than anything else.

During the peak hour brouhaha, you have a split second to choose a tube line and a direction of where you want to end up, because the locals take no prisoners.

For some unfathomable reason, at any time of the day, everyone is in a big bloody rush. Must get somewhere urgently for some unknown reason. And you get dragged into their crazy shit, into the rip of all these commuters, because they want to get home and watch Corrie (Coronation Street; they love it) or get into the queue for the Eye, for the privilege of looking at dirty, grimy London from a different angle.

Eastbound, westbound, red line, yellow line, blue line, black line with purple squiggles, exit here, exit there, stairs, lifts, escalators, more bloody stairs, people using the long white corridors to tune their guitars and voices. They may be on vacation, but tourists are in pain.

London visitors have some of the more pronounced 'tourist face' that I have seen. Much like zombie face, 'tourist face' is not terribly different to the undead. Nothings elicits tourist face quicker than walking around out-of-towner-infused London for a few long hours engaged in typical activities like walking for fucking miles, and such.

Wide eyes, droopy open mouth, feet a draggin', a soft moan can be heard when a staircase of two steps appears before them, avoids sitting on the Tube because it will make it that little bit harder to mind the gap at the end of their journey. All symptomatic of tourist face.

Next time you see a 'tourist face', give them some pennies in empathy of their cause, because nothing cheers up tourists more than fucking pennies, what with their brassiness and usefulness.

Tourism is hard yakka.

Just spent a solid 5 days sightseeing in and around gorgeous London. You can't go a metre in this town without tripping over a crypt of a famous dead guy - literally, in the case of Westminster Abbey - or a South American school group - literally anywhere interesting in London.

I've been starting the day with a Starbucks latte (desperate times and measures) and seemingly the promise of a day filled wth more of the blue stuff and bright yellow thing in the sky.

First things first, which is how first things often works. Today began with a smooth cruise down the Thames, from Westminster to the Tower Bridge, catching the sights of landmarks such as the Shard, the Gherkin, the walkie talkie, distant views of stunning St Paul's and the Tower of London, the latter of which is the only interesting thing down river of Westminster. The rest of the junk on the banks of the Thames looks like it's competing in an ugly building competition.

After spending 20 minutes looking for a loo, we went back up river via the cruise boat and hit the mean streets of the City of Westminster that accommodate the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey and pesky pickpocketers.

As is often the case, I was in no mood for pickpocketers. To this end, I hatched a plan to behead anyone who dared bump into me with a plastic fork, part of my three pronged approach - the others being salt and pepper -  in the case of a salad emergency.

Turns out it's a bit difficult to make your way through the moneyshot areas of Westminster without being pushed, prodded, and dragged along with the tourist tide. Yep, Westminster has a rip.

We then popped into the very beautiful Westminster Abbey, the famous 10th century gothic church, to undergo the obligatory tour, which was easy on the London Pass because your fast pass entry guarantees that you don't have to queue with the peasants, and you get a free crypt if you spend more than 100 quid in the giftshop.

The Abbey is where Wills and Kate married in 2011 in an intimate ceremony in front of two billion of their closest friends and family.

Despite the enormity of its ceilings, it actually does feel quite intimate inside.  I didn't realise that the far end of the Abbey is essentially a cemetery, housing the crypts of Henry V, Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, and many famous poets and writers. So fabulously creepy.

That section of the Abbey sort of resembles one of those TV shows about hoarding, where the occupant can't move in their house without walking into a pile of newspapers or stubbing their toe on the crypt of a dead monarch. And most of them are wearing their "death masks", because that's not creepy at all.

London may not look big on the coffee stained tourist pocket map but it's a bit of a hike to get to the places the tourists congregate, ie the pretty places with oodles of history attached to them.

Not blogging much this trip. Too tired. Tourism is hard. Poor me. I have thoughts and opinions on the Tube, so maybe tomorrow I will catalogue such rivetting things here.

One's coinage.

Her Maj the Queen has recently named the UK's largest ever warship, an aircraft carrier, after herself.  Naturally. Lucky she's not called Barry.

We Elizabeth's do insist that nearly everything in the Commonwealth world is named after ourselves, thus ensuring our name is written in the universe more times than Coca-Cola. You name it, we coin it, so to speak.

To this end, technically all coinage that exists in the Commonwealth belong to people called Elizabeth. One should engage in a class action to retrieve one's loot.  

One is also rather entertained when people with odd sounding names get all excited on seeing their crazy name on a mug in a cheap and tacky souvenir shop.  I guess that's what you get when you call yourself Krystyna or Jyssyca.

I've recently learnt that, during the Queen's Diamond Jubilee in 2012, the tower that houses the Big Ben bell was renamed Elizabeth Tower. See what I mean. Everything must be named after us. It's the rules.

50 Shades of Green

As enticing as the title may sound, this post is not a saucy ebook about leprachaun relations. This is not that sort of blog. Sorry for any inconvenience.

Since arriving in Dublin five days ago we have had superb sunshine. I don't understand it either. It's very unIrish. But fortunately for me, I kept my weather expectations very low for my big trip to this region.

I had been warned about Ireland. You'll fall in love with it immediately in a very serious way.

You'll also be met at the airport by a leprachaun who speaks Martian (Gaelic, same thing) who drives you into the city through wild paddocks and forces you to down 24 Guinesses and then brands you on your forehead with a shamrock and crossbones. And then you have to check-in to your hotel drunk with this thing on your head.

Before coming to Ireland, most of what I knew came from cliches and 'an englishman, welshman and irishman walk into a pub' jokes.

Here's the deal about this place. It's such a cute little ditty. It is not naturally possible for the scenery to get any more lovely. The greenest green, 50 shades of leprachaun green, which is painstakingly borne out of torrential rain for nearly every day of the year. Except, surprisingly, when I've been here. It did rain yesterday but we were up in the hills, watching the leprachauns play with cows and goats. It happened.

The average summer temperature across Ireland is between 19-21 degrees celsius, which is hugely depressing. It's total blarney. I don't know any Aussies who could or would put up with that. No wonder the Irish spend their days in pubs scoffing Guinness.

We started our journey with 2 nights in Dublin at a quaint hotel in the city near the Christchurch Cathedral. Dublin is a vibrant, chaotic city, sort of a western version of New Delhi.

No-one can drive, the cyclists are nuts; they don't wear helmets and careen down the roads in between buses and cars. I'm all for sharing the road but it's probably a good idea to wear some sort of brain protection given that the car insurance industry is backed by the mantra that accidents happen.

Sleep time. I think I'll pen more tomorrow...

Gulf heat - Abu Dhabi in July

Having recently spent about 20 hours in an Abu Dhabian summer I can safely say this; I would never, ever live there. Not even an expensive arab gold bullion would tempt me.

Abu Dhabi is conveniently located in the fucking desert. Which is great if you are a camel or a cactus, but not so great if your skin melts off your skin like a golden gaytime. Speaking of gay times, I didn't really have one of those in my 20 hours.

The heat and humidity rudely hits you in the face about 8 o'clock in the morning as you are chauffered to your hotel. The heat is pure oppression.

Abu Dhabi is a ghost town in July which is probably due to Ramadan - no drinking, eating or fun having before sunset. It's probably also due to the fact that it's fucking hot, as I mentioned. I will mention it again because it is the defining feature of that little town.

When I say little, I mean extreme and over the top, as if the world's richest men were given a brief to compete with each other to build the biggest, weirdest, least pratical concrete structures they could come up with.

There is a permanent purpose built Formula One track. Whole complete grandstands built for one weekend a year where the desert town hosts Bernie Ecclestone and his racy mates.

One massive ugly building competition. You win, Abu Dhabi.

Early bird catches the plane

It's half past too fucking early in the morning. Do you know who's up at this hour? Worms, birds and those bloody annoying morning people.

I'm at a crowded but not so rowdy Abu Dhabi International Airport and I'm not especially happy about it. I'm waiting for things to happen. Specifically, in no particular order, I'm waiting, waiting, waiting for my flight to Ireland Land, my quadruple shot half strength cappucino to cool and my body to escalate my building fatigue into a cranky coma.

Must stay awake. Is carrying limp bodies onto planes part of the role of the long-suffering boarding staff? I would be devastated if I felled into sleep and missed all the interesting things that happen at airports in the middle of the fucking night.

Left Arm Training Academy

I've recently hurt my right shoulder in a way that is quite painful and exceedingly annoying.  A tear, bursitis, tendinitis, probably also appendicitis and definitely something else that I can't remember but causes me much crankiness and throbbiness.

I've been reluctant to take painkillers in case they do their job properly and kill the pain and I damage the stupid limb more than it already has been.  

In fact, I'm so hard core that I'm practically Jack Bauer, except without the annoyingly quiet whispery voice or the cool reputation.  And I don't generally pack heat when I go to my day job.

Although, as of the last few hours, I've been crunching down anti-inflammatories as if they were candy crush.

Add caption

I hurt my arm while out on a run up a mountain.  I slipped, fell on my arse and my stupid right limb pointlessly tried to save me from the mud and screwed itself in the process.  

So, in the absence of a working arm, I'm currently trying to train my left arm to take up some of the slack that my right arm usually has to put up.

Training The Left while The Right ventures reluctantly through the medical system has had its ups and downs.  Mostly downs.  The Left has no fucking idea what it's doing.  

It doesn't know how to open a door, drive a car by itself, open the fridge, a jar, type by itself, and it refuses to lean over and get a shopping centre ticket or swipe in my underground car park, so we all have to get out, much to the annoyance of the humanoids behind me.  I'm thinking of putting an L magnet on my car to indicate to morons that I'm a left-handed driver.

I try to stay away from writing about politics in my bloggeroonies, but, much like political leftists, my left arm is proving to be lazy and incompetent.  Like a leftwing Hollywood movie star, who have so much money they never have to mix with the proletariat scum they claim to champion, there is little point to my left arm.  

I really had no idea it was so damn useless.  It's toying with my will to live or, at the very least, my desire to do anything that requires upper limb activity.

On listening to me whinging about my left arm training academy today, a friend said this to me.  She actually said this: "I regularly train my left arm to do stuff in case I lose the ability in my right arm".  Seriously, what?

While I now sort of understand the plight of left-handers in Western society, fucking please, what is it with left-handers with their need for a special day - International Lefthanders Day?  

Here's an excerpt from Wiki on these oppressed people:

Thousands of left-handed people are discriminated in today's society, are forced to use right handed tools, drive on the right side of the road and even get harassed.  International Lefthanders Day is made to end this discrimination.

I suppose that's true.  But maybe they should regularly train their right arm to operate heavy machinery.  

London not all that old

I'm moving to London soon, because I fancy myself genteel. When I say I'm moving there I mean I am visiting it for a period of one week.

If only people knew how to use phone boxes.

London (or Lun-Den as I call it in a slightly pretentious Oxford accent) fancies itself as the capital of my mother country by another mother, and it is also very old.  That's how the story goes anyway.

If history is merely a cumulative account of all the ways a bunch of dead people have screwed up in the exactly the same ways living people are screwing up London right now, then it's also historical.

London has in fact confirmed that it is not really that old at all, it has just made all of its buildings look vintage and distressed to get a huge slice of the tourist market.

Thus, that whole story about London, or Londinium, being established around AD 43 is really just a bunch of hokum.

While there is much to admire about London during the day and also at night, a lot of it is not vastly improved by daylight.

In London everything is named something improbable or totally inappropriate in the way that only the English manage to get away with - Cockbush Avenue anyone - and the sky is all but permanently the colour of grey slate tiles.  That said, it is also full of delightfully british teatowels, tearooms and teapots, the ambience is mostly agreeable and I just love it to death.

Discontinued Things

Discontinued is one of my dislike words.  I wish people would discontinue using it all the time. Discontinue doesn't even end properly, it just keeps going until it runs out of vowels.  And that's just lazy.

Everyone knows the feeling when one's favourite consumer goods are so-called discontinued.  It feels personal.  As if the stupid big business involved sent their yellow cylindrical minions with their metal eye goggles into your home to trawl through your bathroom and kitchen cabinets looking for products that you clearly appreciate so they can condemn them to product pergatory just to piss you off.

If consumers buy a product by the bucketload apparently the obvious thing to do is discontinue the shit out of it and bring out a similar looking but otherwise inferior product just to screw with their heads. 

I've recently had two of my favourite products discontinued.  A lip gloss and some leg stocking type adornage, both of which I have been buying for years and years and both of which were always so darn popular that I could never find them on the shelves.

You had to be at the right Woolies at the right time to hook in that hosiery in the right size and colour.  A whole lot of star alignment involved. Have you ever tried to wrangle stars?  They just do their own gravity thing.  It's just impossible.

Revlon
Stupid Revlon have relieved me of the burden of having to buy my favourite lip garnish.  Back in the day, before it was discontinued, I liked this smacker so much that I bought five of them in Hawaii a few years ago because the price was a fifth of what they charge in Australia.  Revlon won't ever be anyone anyway.  Not with that attitude.

Wicked
Stockings, hosiery, pantyhose are a constant source of annoyance for all women.  And it's just getting worse because it seems women have lost the attention of manufacturers to the male market.

NFL football players, hunters, men with varicose veins, horseback riders and soldiers have been hogging the attention of manufacturers for years now. Apparently.  I don't have any empirical evidence to back up this claim, I just know it to be true because this person I know has a sister who knows someone who knows Wikipedia.

Speaking of stockings, my favourite brand, Wicked, has been discontinued.  I contacted their parent company, big mumma Pacific Brands, to get the lowdown on why they want to grind the hopes and dreams of my legs into the dirt and almost immediately regretted it.  I spoke to a lady - let's call her Apathy - who appeared quite bored with my annoying customer service dramas.  After enquiring if there was anything else she could do to make my life more wretched she popped me through to Sales.

As expected, Sales were super happy to speak to the general public.  After toying with my will to live Sales advised me to stock up at wholesale prices at voodoofactoryoutlet.com.au.  So I did.  I bought 46 pairs of stockings at wholesale prices.  Thanks Apathy.

A guide to Royal Stalking

Last week I went royal stalking on Prince Will and Duchess Kate's first proper day of being publicly viewed in Canberra, under the guise of being a monarchist.  This is apparently what we people do when there is monarchy in town.

Royal stalking, like any stalking, is really quite hard work.  It requires stamina, persistence, a continued elevated level of interest and lots of elbowing of little old ladies.  I just don't think I'm committed enough to care that much, so it was a lot of hard yakka.

Elbowing little old ladies may seem rather mean spirited to you, but most of them are not really as fragile as they claim to be.  When it comes to the royals, most of these women turn into menacing witches who will dupe you out of a premium spot at any opportunity.  They are tough as nails and know exactly how to worm their way to the front of the crowd by dropping a series of phrases that make you feel like a monster for being younger than them.

It's not my fault that I'm not 862 years old.  I'm so sorry that I wasn't born in the 12th century, but being old doesn't give you a front row seat.  You should have arrived earlier.

I "caught up with" the royals at Canberra's Portrait Gallery, the only place I could be bothered going to.  See, no commitment.  When they did eventually come out of the painted faces place they were greeted by lots of flashing cameras, baby girls with flower posies, big burly security men and the assorted other interesting/uninteresting folk that travel in and/or stalk a royal motorcade.

Kate was wearing a lovely shade of Kermit the Frog green so bright I had to wear my shades.  Fortunately she decided against wearing the bright yellow number she donned on her arrival in Australia that meant everyone had to look directly at the sun.  Bit of a public health nuisance, is the duchess.  I've still got white spots on my eyeballs.  I guess it was fortunate that she didn't wear it in England - it would confuse the hell outta the British.

Top Gun pilot shit

Yesterday I watched some Top Gun, a little known independent flick from the 80s that no-one watched or cared about.  The End.

And after that happened, I watched The Making of Top Gun and I thought to myself, "oh, THAT Top Gun.  I thought they meant the other Top Gun that crashed and burned the first time", or whatever.

Top Gun made Tom Cruise the weirdo he is today.  I suppose his perplexing Scientology interests and holy matrimony to Joey from Dawson's Creek and Nicole Kidman from Australia didn't help much.  Neither did any of the movies he's made since Top Gun.  Days of Thunder was satisfactory I suppose, but only because I feel the need the need for speed.

So The Making of Top Gun was damn fascinating and all, but it was kind of a buzz kill.  It's all aerodynamical nerds with their paper fighter jets and remote control planes.  Since watching it I've figured out that I don't even know what is real anymore.  I mean, does Australia even have a RAAF?

I certainly hope so, because we've coughed up over $12 billion for 72 Joint Strike Fighters.  I don't know all the details, but I believe they will be made of strong cardboard, because we Aussies like to get bang for our buck.

Slippery Slope

I do like to disparage those unfortunates who write about their running escapades on social media, as if their exercise tips, apps, times, routes or injuries mean anything to anyone.  HAVING SAID THAT, this is my blog party and I'll write what I want to, so today's captivating theme is my running shenanigans.

Much like your common mountain goat, I routinely run up a mountain track which, when the skies open up and douse me with haytchtwo-oh, is extremely capable of maiming or causing me enormous amounts of death, or at the very least ruining my enjoyment of each day I continue to do it.

And I feel that it needs to be written about in blogoform in the blogosphere so in centuries to come the denizens of Canberra will know about Asics running shoes and how completely fucking shite they were when it came to slippery, sloppy mountain deathtraps.  I may as well wear skis covered in margarine on my feet for all the benefits they provide in the rain and mud.

I write of this as I had a major stack on my butt on the deathtrap's trapdoor the other day.  The slope approaching my rocky mountain high likes to lure one into a false sense of security with its lush grass and seemingly low gradient, then pulls the mud out from under you.  Nothing is as it seems. 

Unless you stopped for a second and said to yourself, "ooh, that doesn't look as it seems.  That looks a tad treacherous.  Best to not venture that way today". Insight.  Sometimes helps to have some.

Following my somewhat graceless slide, I almost immediately regretted it. Mainly because I looked like I'd just survived a mining disaster and I needed to pick up milk on the way home. I've now noted this is a perfectly safe approach to the mountain on the proviso that you don't go anywhere near it when it has liquid on it. 

Speaking of articles for the foot, it has been raining pigs and horses lately - a shitload, in layman's terms - so I've purchased a stylish pair of gumboots because I'm tired of walking to work in cute but cheap flats that are made of Bangladeshi cardboard that disintegrate in water. Or sometimes they just disintegrate in thin air.

And speaking of 'air', and amazingly accurate segues, when you Google 'air' you don't get the atmosphere first.  No.  That's just silly.  No-one wants to know about 'air' when they type 'air' into The Google.  Want they really want to know about is 'Air', a presumably noisy and annoying French band that is named after the somewhat important atmospheric substance.  

Future generations won't know what the hell they are breathing in and out all damn day but they will know the name of some mediocre French indi band who were somehow noteworthy between April and May 2014.

Ants in Space

Last weekend the National Geographic Channel hooked up with NASA for 'Live from Space', a two-hour broadcast live from the International Space Station (ISS), to showcase what the heck it is that astronauts do all day when they are stranded in the middle of intergalactic nowhere on what looks like a flimsy-looking hunk of sheet metal.

I quite enjoyed the transmission, but for something so extraordinary the astronauts certainly did their gosh darndest to make it sound routine and run-of-the-mill; for example, advising viewers that Saturday morning is earmarked for vacuuming the aluminium foil vessel they call home for months at a time.  Boy, who wouldn’t want to be an astronaut.

I assume they were dumbing it down for the Superidiots, who doubtless think the ISS is located somewhere in Idaho.  Part of the telecast involved the astronauts looking out the windows and pointing at remote villages in Greenland that no-one cares about.  

Unfortunately they wrote on the TV screen what these places are called with special magic outer space marker pens, so now the Superidiots will think that earth looks exactly like an atlas from outer space. 

Those astronauts do however have a groovy but legless Robonaut aboard the ISS who carries out all the daunting work that they are too chicken to do, like beer runs to the next galaxy, or mundane tasks that they can’t be arsed doing, like beer runs to the next galaxy.  NASA are currently training Robonaut to remotely perform some medical tasks, like giving injections... I’m pretty sure I never want a robot jabbing a needle into my arm ever. 

The ISS is also currently running a research program for kids called Ants in Space.  It sounds kind of like the Pigs in Space program, but with ants.  Basically a bunch of really, really smart ants have been suited up in cute little astroant suits and their group behaviour in micro gravity is being monitored so a bunch of high school kids can watch live from earth and learn the hard way that even ants are smarter than them.

I hope that all the astronauts are informed of this experiment, just in case the ants escape and get a hit of Mortein up their noses.

How to stop losing shit

Many of us frequently lose common everyday items. Our patience, appetite, hope, remote control, teeth, eye glasses, sight, weight, trust, sanity, our mind, job, virginity, the left sock, motivation, fucking keys. I hate misplacing my keys.

I imagine the reason I often misplace my keys is because my butler, Jeeves (he is one gigantic stereotype), generally opens all doors for me, except not always. Jerk. Must fire Jeeves next time I see him.

Those infuriating people who never lose shit say that the best way to avoid losing shit is to keep shit in the same place you kept it before you lost it so it won’t be lost. Those people give me the shits, but their strategy has some merit, I suppose. You lose shit that doesn’t have a home.  Got it.

Which is all very brilliant, but that mystery plane that the world has lost had a home and a routine flight path, and now it’s not where it’s supposed to be. It’s 1000% lost, lost, lost.

Check in here. Is that the plane?
Oh, it's just a giant lemon.

Maybe it’s true what flight attendants say; the plane will fall out of the sky and you will plummet to your death unless your tray table is locked and secure when they damn well tell you to do it.

How do you lose a fairly sizeable plane? It’s baffling, and a little incomprehensible, that all the sophisticated technology and the support of the world’s best spy agency have not been able to find some evidence of the mysterious jumbo's location, or indeed of its existence.

It seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. So maybe we should check if it’s made a landing on Mars then. Sometimes I accidently put my keys in the laundry for some inexplicable reason, so it’s good to check in places you don’t think it will be. Maybe check Antarctica too; the earth’s fridge.