The Flying Game

Having made the return journey between London and Brisbane just shy of twenty times in fourteen years, my relationship with flying is by far my longest. Filled with hate and begrudgingly topped with a smattering of love, it mirrors more than its fair share of romantic unions. I say love but it's respect more than anything else. Primarily because despite it's shortcomings, it gets me to where I want to be. I respect the fact that no matter how bumpy the ride, it ultimately serves its purpose. Perhaps I'm not in a relationship with flying after all, but having a series of regular one-night-stands.

Regardless, my hatred is not so much directed at the flights themselves. Sure they're no picnic, but at least they're consistent. When you board a plane for a long haul flight, you know what to expect and most times you get it. As unfortunate as that is.

No, the primary focus of my wrath is my fellow travellers. The creatures known as people.

We fly together for up to sixteen hours at a time, sat side-by-side. It's unnatural. Is it any wonder I've developed anthropological abhorrence? Only Bar-Tailed Godwits fly together for longer, but at least they're clever enough to regularly change formation.

People are annoying. People are stupid. When travelling, I have no time for people. People are responsible for Billy Ray Cyrus being someone we've heard of. Billy begat Miley. And anyone who has a copy of Achy Breaky Heart in their possession has metaphorical blood on their hands in relation to the crime that is Hannah Montana. But I digress.

If you've concluded that perhaps I'm not the most sociable traveller, you'd be correct. Have a biscuit.

We all seem to cope with the stresses of an extended journey in different ways. Some pray, some withdraw and others chat incessantly. The latter rarely drawing breath, as if they believe any potential disaster will have the courtesy to wait until the completion of an anecdote before occurring.

I do none of the above - I hate. I hate everything associated with the experience. From the boarding pass to the overhead compartments. Hate, hate, hate.

If we're to believe Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People" (and why wouldn't we?), the key to making oneself appealing to others is to ask questions of the person you're addressing and allow them to speak at length about themselves. These rules of social discourse don't translate well to an airplane. The idle chit-chat, small talk and fleeting pleasantries that make up the menagerie of interactions every day have no place on anything designed by Boeing. Indeed if Mr Carnegie had ever had the misfortune of my experiences, he'd have been more likely to pen 'Snakes on a Plane' over anything designed to nurture interpersonal relationships.

If we're going to be conversing during a flight and you don't want me to hate you, you do the talking. I'm quite content pretending to listen. Nodding at the right moments, throwing in a well-timed "I see..." - these are the skills I've developed over a lifetime. Don't be fooled, however. This doesn't mean I like you and it most certainly doesn't mean I'm interested in anything you have to say. The entire time you're blabbing, I won't be listening. I'll be sitting there wishing you'd shut the fuck up. Or die. Or both. If you were aware of my true feelings, you'd probably be less blasé about leaving your cutlery unattended. Rest assured, if you turn your head, even for just a second, I'll put my headphones on. I'm always waiting for that opportunity.

While I'm being morbid - if you were to suffer the misfortune of dying, you'll have unwittingly presented me with a dilemma. I wouldn't know whether to alert the cabin crew or just enjoy the serenity. Even in death, people have the potential to piss me off.

Over the years, I've been assigned seats beside an eclectic mix of characters. Not one of them possessing the three combined attributes of my perfect travel companion: female, attractive and single. Not one. Are you reading this Singapore Airlines? Give me a break. Would it really kill you to sit me next to a nymph with no morals, rather than a Nan with no molars? I've served my time. I've served my fucking time.

Oh, and don't get me started on the food.  I probably get more agitated than I should if my meal isn't up to a certain standard. But I'm on a plane, for fucks sake. A metal behemoth that could hurtle to the ground and end my life at any given moment. My sustainence should be afforded the same consideration as that given to someone's last meal on death row. It just makes sense.

*Disclaimer/Warning: David Guinea will be flying on Singapore Airlines flight SQ321 from Heathrow on the 17th of November, 2011.*

Goodbye

It was never my intention to post anything sad here - and yet here I am, in my second entry, about to get all emotional on you. Apologies in advance.

A remarkable woman lost her battle with cancer today. The official battle was a short one - just over a month in length. She'd been in ill health for a while before being diagnosed, so I suspect her time in the trenches was significantly longer. She was stoic, brave, stubborn and refused to 'bother' anyone with her problems - lest we worry about her. That's the kind of woman she was. Everyone else's needs were far more important than her own, if you were to believe her. And no one could convince her otherwise.
When I say my Aunt was like a second mother to me, it's no exaggeration. She never married. She lived two streets away from our house and would visit six days a week when we were growing up. I have very few childhood memories that don't feature her prominently.

As small children - myself and my brother, unable to annunciate 'Margaret', referred to her as 'Gaga'. Long before poker faces and  meat dresses. As we grew older 'Gaga' changed to 'Peg'. She was never Margaret, never Aunty Peg. She was just Peg.

Our relationship was a special one. I've been living in London for 14 years. For the first 12 of those years, Peg sent me two letters a week, each a hand written account of all the goings on at home. 20-30 newspaper clippings would accompany each letter. Sports stories, politics, individual letters to the editor - anything that she thought I might be interested in. Despite her arthritic hands, Peg would hand-cut each of the articles from the paper and send them off. All for me.

When I think of how many letters in total there must have been, how many hours of her time it had taken over the years, how much pain she endured to cut out those clippings, I feel genuinely humbled. She only stopped sending them when I absolutely insisted on it. She never let me feel unloved. 

I hope that there are people in my life that feel as unconditionally loved by me as she made me feel. She gave so much and yet expected so little.

I visit Australia every year and bidding farewell to Peg as I returned to London was always emotional. She cried (as did I) each and every year without fail. And when I'd say "See you later in the year", she would always answer "God willing". This year, that goodbye was poignant. For this year, I was farewelling an older and frailer woman. The thought that this might be our final goodbye weighed on my mind as I drove away from her house.

Words could never do justice to her, so I'm going to stop pretending they can.

Rest in Peace and sleep well, my lovely Peg.

Come one, come all. Just one will do. Yeah, you.

Welcome.
I have no clue what this blog will be about. I haven't planned as far ahead as the next sentence let alone the next few months.
Shit-weasel (I think that took us all by surprise).
I suspect this will evolve into a kind of diary. Possibly even used as evidence at some point.
The authorities will no doubt ask those of you who read the blog why you didn't do anything to stop me. Consider that fair warning - you'll probably want to have a decent excuse prepared well in advance. "Schadenfreude" is always a good one. 
With that being said, let's crack on.  A sensible place to start, given this site, would be my stand-up.
Comedy is a relatively new addition to my life - joining the ranks of Werther's Originals, ear hair, and an overwhelming urge to  switch the lights off whenever I exit a room. I've been at it for over a month now and have performed a grand total of six times. Gigs, they're called. Gigs. I have to get over my aversion to the word and use it. Gigs. 
I threw myself into it to see if I could swim, approaching it with very much a 'nothing to lose' attitude. I totes did like, totes.

My Dad always told us kids that there was no point in doing things half-heartedly. His exact phrase: "If you're going to be a prick, you might has well be a complete prick".
With those words ringing in my ears, I set myself to it. 
I had (and continue to have) two primary goals - get some laughs and maintain an acceptable level of continence whilst on stage.  I can proudly boast that, at this point, I've achieved (at least 50% of) those goals.
 
The first four gigs were great - I started off with a set that relied on heavily on punchlines. That was fine - but there's always the risk that if you don't get a laugh when you expect one, you're on a downward slide. I'd yet to 'bomb' but I didn't feel as confident with the material as I would've liked. It was quite audience specific and dark at times....and I knew that sooner or later, I'd be performing to a quiet room.
I made a decision to put the punchlines on hold until I start doing longer sets and concentrate more on story-telling for the time-being. The first time I tested this was a couple of weeks ago. It was something that I'd come up with on the morning of the gig (in the shower....just to leave you with an unsavoury mental image), and although I felt relatively confident with it - I didn't have anything to begin and finish with. As a result, I felt it came across as a bit mixed up with the best material wedged in between a weak beginning and end. I wasn't overjoyed with that night, despite being assured I'd done well by friends and another couple of comedians.
  And then came Monday night.... 

Halfway through my set on Monday is when something 'clicked' and I felt eerily at home on stage. The closest thing to an epiphany I've had in recent years. I've had epiphanos and even the occasional epiphanas...but not an epiphany.
Don't get me wrong - I had enjoyed the experience previously but the least enjoyable aspect was the performance itself. I loved the writing and the post-gig glow but the actual stand-up itself was a blur. It had been like a schizophrenia-simulation. On stage, I would be almost entirely focused on the voice in my head telling me what my next sentence was, rather than concentrating on getting the current line right. 

That changed on Monday night, when about two minutes in....I relaxed, and I loved it. I don't know why I relaxed - it certainly wasn't continence related, before you ask - but I just did.
 
The organiser of the night sat me down at the end of the night, the lights dimmed, the room began to empty.
He put his right hand on my shoulder and said "Dave, tonight you walked on that stage to 'do' stand-up comedy. When you walked off, however, you were a Stand-up Comedian".
A girl appeared from nowhere, kissed me on the cheek and gave me a card with her number scribbled on the back. She'd dotted the 'i' in her name with a love heart.
The organiser smiled, pulled an amulet on a chain from his pocket and placed it around my neck. And on whispering the words "Welcome, comrade, welcome", he disappeared into the shadows. 
That's not necessarily accurate, but only in relation to the facts. 
What did happen is this: He said "Fuck, you seemed to enjoy the second half of that". And then he told me to get myself a beer. 
However I am confident that if he had access to an amulet, or indeed an appreciation of what he'd just witnessed...it would have played out exactly as I previously described.

Tonight - gig number seven.