Unhappy Ending
How one simple trick can renew Western civilisation.
When reading about an incident on a budget easyJet flight between Tenerife and Bristol, my mind wandered.
For the unacquainted, easyJet is a criminal organisation moonlighting as an airline. They're criminally successful, too. One can fly from London to Rome for a princely £39.99—around seven minutes' rent here in London.
EasyJet supplements cheap-as-chips tickets by plaguing the self-affected and vain. Chuck them an extra tenner for 'speedy boarding.' A Botox-frozen steward squeezes you onto the plane minutes before they stuff the other plebs into the overhead lockers and beneath the seats.
I'm not complaining. EasyJet does what Wetherspoon pubs do. They give us daily-breaders what we want. But low fares beget high drama. Each flight I take reveals new money-spinners which entrap the gullible, the vain, and the self-seeking.
Personally, I'd gleefully surrender £50 for stewards to duct-tape the mouths of insolent, Ritalin-addled children, and those with sonorous, affected regional accents.
A recent outrage onboard an easyJet flight monopolised the seedy attentions of the British tabloid press. A young couple had 'performed a sexual act' on a flight back to Britain.
Wow! I thought. Those easyJet creative minds have excelled themselves yet again. What will they think of next? This sexual act, I thought, was a new premium feature for the adventurous but price-conscious consumer. After all, airlines allow emotional support animals to soothe both nervous flyers and to coddle blue-haired Cluster-B-afflicted social workers.
My illusions dissolved somewhere between the first and second sentences of the article. The words, outraging public decency, scorched my giddy excitements.
In a nutshell, a young couple on a return flight from Tenerife landed in court after ungently 'engaging in a sexual act.'
Minutes after take-off, these two raffish young adventurers took matters into their own hands. To be precise, Antonia Sullivan, 20, took Bradley Smith's matter into her hand. This common French approach to in-flight jitters sparked mid-air mutiny.
Recollections may vary. Prosecutor Maree Doyle told Bristol magistrates' court: "After a few minutes the witness was aware that the couple had rearranged some coats over Smith's lap and there followed vigorous hand movements beneath the coats." Imagine that. A comic Greek drama above the clouds.
In the Council Estate English of my youth, Smith, 22, unemployed, whispered to his inamorata: "Toss us off, then?" Needless to say, Smith was tossed off before a captive, bleary-eyed audience.
Once it had been established that this flight of fancy was not, in fact, a premium feature available to more discerning customers, outrage ensued. The cabin rained scorn on the amateurish Romeo and Juliet. Even The Sun newspaper, the first draft of proletarian tabloid morality, a newspaper which, until recently, proudly printed bare tits on page three, condemned the pair.
I've no doubt passengers and readers share my dismay. How appalling that in 2024, handjobs—the most ineffectual and desultory of sexual acts—still exist amongst the sophisticated and cosmopolitan British youth? The dismal detail sullying this sordid little saga is that, for all their progressive and reformist affectations, for all their oppression and justice fixations, young Brits have yet to abolish the primitive handjob.
Once a bourgeoise concession to quell the ferocious appetites of unmarried men, handjobs are a relic of bygone age. Handjobs belong in the ashes of history alongside polio, bearbaiting, and arranged marriage.
Such barbarism has no place in modern Britain. Or so I would expect the yoof to believe.
Perhaps some good may come from this mildewed ordeal.
To adopt a more positive stance, handjobs remind us of a bourgeois-liberal past built on the solid foundations of thrift, industry, sobriety, and delayed gratification.
For good reason, handjobs are usually the first sexual act one encounters. And they serve a vital, civilising function. Fabled amongst teenaged boys, the ineluctably disappointing handjob teaches young men that life is not fair. That one can work tirelessly for months on end, only for a meagre reward in which one party feigns unblocking a sink and the other party counts to one thousand and one.
That said, the handjob renaissance may serve us well in the long run. As we all know, British youths must steel themselves for the inevitable disappointments of growing up in post-Yuppie Britain—a nursing home masquerading as a country.
Nothing concentrates the supple mind like searing disappointment. The handjob—an exercise in futility and disappointment—provides plenty of both.
It remains to be seen whether such crushing realities inspire young men to better themselves in pursuit of more consummate sexual rewards, and the renewal of Western civilisation itself. Upon their sacrifices, all else depends.
Suffer the little children.
“Scorched my giddy excitements” - I had to take a moment to recover after laughing so hard at that. Thank you.