Hold Me Closer, Private Dancer


Elton John

Dancing In The Moonlight – Thin Lizzy

Thirty minutes in. I think I might be drunk. A tad tipsy. High as a kite. On my way to skunks who are drunks town. In the non-literal sense. Obviously. Literally, I’m 45,000 feet in the air on the way to Miami. High flying. Fly in the sky. It’s early. Half seven or something. One hour earlier I was in bed. Two hours before that I was watching the end of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Mighty movie. Sidetracked me from packing though. And also meant I stupidly only had two hours sleep. So it’s early. I’m drunk. And I’m on a private jet. Oh yeaaah.

Private jets are funking mighty. Have I said that before? Perhaps. Regardless, I’ll say it again: PrivatejetsarefunkingMIGHTY! Non stop buzz. First time seeing it on the runway. Buzz. Walking up the steps. Buzz. Pose for a photo. Buzz. Smile hello at the blond flight attendant. Buzz. I’ve been lucky enough to travel on a good few private jets now but the buzz is still going strong. Although I do miss getting the rickety old bus back in Cork, I swear. Anyway, I’ve noticed the flight attendants are always more motherly and older than you might expect. Homely. Friendly. Comforting. Always give a sweeping hand motion, ushering you into your private air carriage while also bowing and whispering,

“My Lord.”

Then I tap her on the crown of the head and say,

Rise my child, there’s no need to be afraid.

In my head this conversation is going on anyway. In reality I’m just a weirdo tapping a confused woman’s head. But anyway: My carriage awaits! A vast cream ocean of fine Italian leather, expensive Norwegian wood and beautiful global leg room. Plush cream carpet under foot. Smooth wooden trimmings that shine like marble. Marble wood, I think it’s called. Cream leather seats and couches throughout the carriage. Fifteen seater, by the looks of it. Plenty of room for the seven of us. Chairs that recline, rotate and tilt to suit your every pampered need. Which one of the fours flatscreen TVs would you like to look it, they ask. Hmm, not too sure seat, I might reply. Let’s do a swivel! Accidentally bang into the flight attendant. Apologies. She smiles.

“Can I interest you in a cup of tea? Glass of orange juice? Bottle of water? Bloody Mary? A glass of Moet?”

Her smile still doesn’t crack with the reply:

Yes please. They all sound mighty!

Private Jet

Up front we have The Man, the Jac, Charlotte and Chowder. On the couch there’s Patti. And bouncing around with happy glee in the seat facing me is Kailand. All pumped. All well dressed (look sharp for the high life and all). All ready for a fun long weekend in Miami. Oh yeah! Smiles and mental high fives. My bladder joins the fun. Must pop to the bathroom. Door shoongs open with a wave of your hand. Another haven of smooth shiny wooden surfaces. Leather toilet seat. Buttons. Compartments. Footrests. Almost as comfortable as the chairs outside. Although… Where’s the flusher? No sign. Voice activated maybe? Flush. Flush. FLUSH I SAY! Eventually spot the computer screen on the wall. Press flush. There we go. Back to the main cabin. All senses being tingled now. Slight buzzing. Bang. Ears. Pop! What was that? Realise we’re already in the air. How long was I in the bathroom? I didn’t even turn off my phone? I thought that was a vital procedure!? We’re up? We’re off? We’re away! Just like that. About fifteen unannounced seconds. Up, up… Wahey!

All five beverages already waiting for me upon my bathroom return. Followed by a food platter or two. Chicken. Ham. Salmon. Turkey. Ox. Dodo. Whatever you want! Salad. Greens. Tomatoes. Tomatos. Potatoes. Olives. Potolives. The works! Freshest of fruit, literally still hanging from tiny little trees. That fresh! Bananas. Grapes. Melon. Lemon. Waterlemon. Maltermelon. Mango. Womango. Manog. The whole shebang! It’s heaven. A slice of private jet heaven. And then, before you can barely polish off a few bottles of champagne, you’re landed, you’re in a tinted out Escalade, and you’re on your way to your hotel. In fact, you arrive in your room at your hotel on South Beach in Miami about five hours after you just woke up back in the West Hollywood of L.A.

Five hours, bed to bed, east to west coast. In fact, that’s the mightiest part of private jets. No airport gibberish to deal with. A car picks you up. Takes you to within ten feet of the private jet. You get on. And you’re off. No queues. No checking in. No baggage check. No idiots. No security. No little containers. No shoes off. No pants down. No finger up. No awkward coughs. No hanging around. No manky food. No killing time. No standing around. No herding. No sheep. No weirdos. No crying babies. No no room. No stale air. No smelly feet. No tiny seats. No aches. No pain. No fuss. Just pure unadulterated private jet joy. The best and only – when possible – way to travel. Private. Dancer. On!

5 thoughts on “Hold Me Closer, Private Dancer

  1. Pingback: Miami Vice. Very Nice. | Enough Talk, More Writing!

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