It’s 11.52pm and my ordeal is finally over. Who would’ve thought that a simple flight from Melbourne to Launceston could be so fucking difficult?

I was off to an ominous start this afternoon when I lost one of the rubber inserts on my in-ear headphones. I had to ride the tram with one headphone in, and was forced to listen to some cunt talking about his Christmas party which was, “gunna be totally rad, man!”

What a fucking arsehole…

My woes worsened when I arrived at the Virgin check-in counter and was greeted a line longer than the gruel queue at a 1940’s Soviet gulag. For some strange reason, if you’re booked in an exit row, Virgin requires you to physically check in instead of doing it online (presumably to ensure that you aren’t a dead ringer for Quasimodo & have at least some capability to pop the emergency exit if the plane goes down…)

So, 55 minutes later, I was checked in. The whole idea of getting to the terminal and lining up on time is ridiculous, because the staff were allowing anyone who was late to jump the queue and check in first anyway. Note to self – in future, be an inconsiderate cunt and turn up 5 minutes before check-in closes for my flight, then yell loudly that I need to check in and get escorted to the front of the line by an attractive Virgin staff member…

At this stage, I was close to inconsolable. As I waited in the departure lounge, fully aware that an hour-long journey to Devonport via car awaited me, I took some comfort in the fact that I’d pre-booked an exit row seat and would have adequate space to stretch out and have a snooze while I waited for my torture to re-commence on the ground in Launceston. I even ran into one of my good childhood mates while waiting for the flight, and we shot the shit for a bit and caught up (as I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years).

I entered from the rear of the aircraft, headed for row 14A (my favourite seat by the window). Normally, I’ve got stacks of room, hell, I can normally swing a cat above my head in 14A and not hit a single thing.

Then I saw her…

A big, fat, sweaty, piggy-eyed female human, so large that she was impeding both the aisle and window seats. She had her short, dank hair tied back in a tight ponytail, her poorly-cut fringe stuck messily to her damp forehead as if it were some sort of demented roving art installation. She was reading the in-flight magazine whilst resting her elbows on her ample gut.

My heart sank.

Now, I’ll admit that I’m not the most svelte guy kicking around, but at least my extra kegs have come from drinking beer while interacting with people, whereas this woman most likely gained hers from sitting alone in a darkened room in some shitty suburban flat on a two seater couch littered with cigarette burns, eating bulk blocks of Home Brand cooking chocolate and whole roasted chickens, then rubbing her chocolate smeared, oily hands on her gravity challenged bosom to soothe the bedsores forming in the crevasse-like cracks in her skin.

There’s a subtle dance to seating oneself on an aeroplane too; your arrival at your seat largely dictates whether or not you get control of the armrests or are relegated to the ‘shoulder shrug’ (where you hold your elbows up in some sort of weird anti-gravity dance). In this case, there was no argument. I couldn’t even see the arm-rest. Also, if you’re a bigger person, generally you’d make an effort in this situation to make allowances for the people sitting next to you. I know I always do. Not this chubster – she was happier than a pig in shit, taking up as much space as humanly possible. When she ordered dinner (of course she ordered dinner, the cunt), witnessing her devour the warm chicken wrap she’d ordered was reminiscent of watching a silverback gorilla sitting on its arse in the zoo, eating bananas. Her head was massive, and reminded me of one of those statues from Easter Island, except sweaty.

I ended up having to contort myself into a question-mark shape in order to avoid my skin touching her slippery, clammy arm. I’m pretty sure I fucked my back doing it. She wasn’t even fucking tall either, and it’s not as if they make the exit row seats WIDER for fucks sake. GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE EXIT ROW, YOU FUCKING BITCH!

Also, this isn’t a misogynist post – if it were a fat guy doing the same thing, I’d be raining on his chubby parade too. And no, I don’t ever want to hear that tired old line that fat women are more ‘real’ than thin women. That is horseshit. Thin women don’t feel the need to go around telling people they’re ‘real’. You know why? Because they’re thin, that’s fucking why.

Chubster – “You just can’t handle me because I’m ‘real’, not like that skinny bitch!”

Me – “No, I can’t handle you because you’re overly unnecessarily sassy and generally just a fat pain in my arse. Find another fucking seat.”

/end communication