I sat in my seat,
Awaiting the announcements,
As what looked like a small stag do came on board the plane,
Bringing a cloud of cigar smoke with them.

Judging by their attire,
The party’s theme was either 80s or Armed Forces.

The man,
Who I assumed was the groom,
Was drowned in tacky gold jewellery and clad in camouflage.

His party forced him into his seat.
He wasn’t happy.

The groom was shouting how he didn’t want the plane to take off
And tried to climb out of his chair.

The group laughed
And pinned him down.

An air hostess,
Worried about the rest of the passengers,
Warned he’d have to leave if he didn’t relax.

The handsome guy,
The face of the group,
Charmed and calmed her down
While the mad one of the four squealed and howled as the grey haired member,
Old enough to be the groom’s father,
Although racial differences between the two suggested otherwise,
Took out a white bottle from his bag.

He poured liquid,
That he claimed was milk,
Down the groom’s throat.

The groom wiggled,
Smiled,
And drifted off.
‘Bailey’s,’ I thought.

An hour later the party started drawing on the sleeping groom’s face in marker pen.

One drew a cock either side of his mohawk.

I couldn’t help but pity the fool.

© Carl Burkitt 2013