Miami – Will Smith
Car services picks me up. 9 bells. Slightly late. Balls. Farewell to Bob. Out the door. Back to London. Single parenthood over. 9.15. Good to go. Off to Van Nuys. Private airport. Same one in Entourage, I’m told en route. The Man. The Jack. Chowder. Charlotta. And a late ape. Weekend break in Miami. The Man’s generosity knows no boundaries! Giddy up! Flight leaving at 10 bells. Are we going to miss our time slot because of the late ape? Nay. No check-in. No security. Nothing. Drive up to a gate. Press the buzzer. Stay in the car. Drive through. Drops you off at the jet. Hassle free. Private on. Nice jet? Unreal. Like a G6? I think so. Oh Jesus. Jump out. Driver takes care of your luggage. You can just admire the view. No ID check. No shoes off. Belt off. Pants down. Nada. Just stroll on. Sit down. Stewardess says hi. Champagne? Bloody Mary? Cup of tea? Ehhh. All three? Oh Betsy!! Drug barons must be zipping to and fro? Miami on!!!
Second time I’ve flown private class. Quite the fortunate fool. Vegas before. Remember… Monkey Free Crap Fun! However, two reasons why this flight was waaay better. One: Bigger jet. Two: Longer flight. Flying on a private jet is like going to a spa. Unreal. Fluffed. Buffed. Pampered. Pumpered. Sheened. Shined. Whipped. Massaged. The lot! (Never been to a spa, by the by.) Platters everywhere. Fruit. Sandwiches. Salads. Desserts. Treats. Funking funreal. Basically, you don’t want it to end. At one point I checked how long was left until we reached Miami… 2 hours. Gutted. Only 2 more hours?! No way!? Can we just not keep flying around? This is unreal!!! Champagne. Bloody Marys. House music. All flowing from the get-go. Literally dancing. 45,000 feet in the air. Closer to space than to the ground! Kings of the Sky! Bathroom as your throne! Huge. Whole jet, massive. Leg space as far as the legs could see. Could’ve fit 15 people. Only downside, private jets affect my bowels. Similar to certain women, oddly enough. Small downside. Built a bridge. Booze on!
Stag Do's And Hen Dont's
Taking off, you actually almost go straight up vertically. No slow gradual rise. Almost like a helicopter. Two seconds. Up, up, wahey! Barely have time to take a chug of champagne. Ears. Pop. Landing, you also scuttle quickly down. On the ground before you know. No seatbelt talk. Or seat up gibber. Just land. Safe as house. Walk out. Feeling like a champ. Limo waiting. Bags taken care of. Driver opens your door. Jump in. Sit back. Treated like a king. Farewell to the private jet. Miss you already, dear. Chauffeured off to your hotel. Total time from being collected at my apartment in LA to arriving at the hotel in Miami: 6 hours. Door to door. Kobe to Sobe. Ridiculous speed. Only way to travel! Private dancers on!
Bloody Marys were flowing, so it was only when I got to my hotel room that I copped on. Hang on a minute. I’m in Miami. Mighty! Although. First impressions. Slightly dodge. Ultra Music Festival. Place was jointed. Felt like Benidorm. Magaluf. Crete. One of those places. Full to the brim. Soon settled though. First thing I realised: Women to men ratio is about 10 to 1. Seriously. Stag heads, take heed. Quantity. Lots of women. High quantity. Quality… Let’s just say it’s like a halfway house between LA and Las Vegas. Few gems. Lots of emms. Moving on. Hen heads: Steroid-pumped clowns roam free like angry aggravated apes. Abnormally shaped. 7 foot tall monsters. All pumped up. Raring to roar at anything. Good hoot if you bump into these guubers. Just like the guy at the hotel bar. Couldn’t figure out if he wanted to fight me or be my buddy. Part UFC fighter. Part engineer, (who repaired toasters). Ok? Didn’t seem to be able to talk. Just shout. You’re not Irish! I’m more Irish than you!!! How so? I JUST AM!!! What’s your name? VLAD! Ah, good Irish name. Where are you from, Vlad? WISCONSIN!!! And you’re Irish? Yes. Vladimir O’Connell. Half Russian. Half Irish. Fully ape. And then he ripped off his shirt. Ran into a bush. And pumped some more steroids into his forehead. If you’re reading, well done, Vlad.
Ignore the dopey nutters. Back to having fun. Daytime, by the pool. Nighttime, dining and wining. Unreal pool. Music pumping. Lounging all day. Stroll to the beach. Big. White. Huge. Mighty. Cocktails flowing. Mango Delanos all the way. Second night we went to Mr. Chow’s. Out of all the savage restaurants I’ve been lucky enough to go to, Mr Chow’s might just be the best. Finest of dining. Unreal food. Ridiculous service. About 10 waiters looking after us. Put your chopsticks down to take a drink, fresh set in its place. Barely even notice it. Drinks constantly topped up. Table full of the best food. Lamb dishes. Chicken rolls. Beef somethings. Roast duck. Fresh seabass. Octopus. Squid noodles. Rice. And so on. On and on. And on. And on. Keep going. Until you’re perfectly full to the brim!
Wendy The High Class Who-What?
Head to the bar afterwards for a booze. Nice bar, Mr Chow. Order up. Look around. Gaggle of supermodels sitting close by. Unreal looking. About 10 of them. Except. All surrounded by small, overweight, bald men. Kind of odd. Like really small. Really bald. Really sweaty. Conversations. Haggling? Elegant lady sitting on the couch above, behind them all. Girls going over and back to her. Murmurs. Back to the guys. Eyes twinkle. Like robots who were just turned on. Now they’re acting like dates? Hmm. Odd. Hottest girl had to sit down on the back of a couch so she could reach down and kiss a really small fat bald man. Pennies started to drop. Something’s up. Maybe he’s the soundest guy in the world? They weren’t acting like a couple. But they are now? Just seconds after shaking hands. Barely introduced. What’s going on? C’mon, penny? Anything? Drop…
Ping! Oh right. High class who, hers, what. As in actual ones. Kind of like Vegas. Just with supermodel looks. Everything going on right in front of everyone. Transactions. Bargaining. Introductions. Odd to witness. My mind associates whures with the slightly street corner looks. Not supermodels?! And right in the open of such well known spots? Naive. Mind. Slightly. Blown. Happened at most bars. Girl sitting on her own. Looks. Smiles. Sparks up a conversation. Hmm. Suspicious. If a girl’s first reaction to me isn’t slight bewilderment, something’s up. Particularly good looking girls. Well dressed. Sipping champagne. On their own. Red flags all over the shop. Apparently. All the signs. Red flags to some. Green lights to others. Fair enough if so. However. Not a fan. Who off. Dodge on.
What The Duck?!!
Back to fun. All in all, mighty weekend. Two nights. Three days. Bliss. Capped it all off with riding a yellow floating duck around the pool on the last day. Yellow ducks and pink champagne. As you do. Duck on. Until. Time to leave. Dose. Flight in the evening. Unfortunately the jet was Caribbean bound. Ape, LA bound. Back to the slums. American Airlines. Tut. Normal airport. Shudder. Observe how much unnecessary chaos actually goes on in airports. Compare them to train stations. Disproportionate hassle! People forgetting how to function. Queueing up to check in my bags. Zig zag queue, cordoned off with ropes. One rope fell down. Chaos ensued. People skipping. Confused. Pandemonium. Unable to figure out why other people are getting angry. No rope?! Need the rope to keep chaos in my life! F**k you! No! F**k you. F**k the rope! Mental. Although not too many others seemed to think it was too mental. Just carried on around the chaos, while I stood there bewildered. Making me wonder if it was me who was mental. Or. If I was actually just a tad drunk. Not too sure. When I got to the desk I did realise I’d been pointed to the wrong queue. Dose. Still. Seemed mental to me. Just a three foot section of roping missing. Law and order is on a thin edge!
Mile High! Elbow Deep...
Flying Gods must’ve known how I flew to Miami. Evened things up on the way home. Morons all over the place. Simpletons. American Airlines canceling flights. Changing gates. And again. One more time. Complaining people trudging around to the furthest corners of the airport acting as if they were personally chosen for such treatment. Finally board the plane 3 hours later. Sit down. Cramped in. My body is not made for economy. Dose. I know. Head dangling over the back of the headrest. Knees up around my chest. Trying to fit in. Sitting there. iPod on. Staring at the ceiling. 6 hours. Hangover kicking in. My own fault. I know. Fun.
Arrive into LAX. Raining. Cab. Get home for aboot 3 in the morning. 12 hours of traveling. Twice as long. 6am Miami time. Wanting to just live on a private jet. Something smells. Realise my kitchen sink is filled to the rim with sludge. Pipes clogged. Sludge being a nice term. Ughatha. Unclogging for the next hour. Empty reaching. Shoveling it out. Cursing the flying Gods. Ye whures! One minute you’re jet setting and private dancing. The next, you’re elbow deep in sink sludge. Mighty. Giddy up the Miami! Mucho gracias to the Man! Ran. Dumb. On!
Gettin Jiggy With It – Will Smith
Now this is a classic Blogaruu! The Ape has returned. Bummer for you though, once you get a taste of “the jet”, you can never go back. But I have a feeling you will return to the friendly skies. Giddy up!
Might plug for a private jet before the house in the hills with the first bumper payday. Only way to travel! Giddy up!