Scary Mechanical Noises

There are certain times one doesn't want to hear scary mechanical noises. For example when a supervillain has you strapped to some fiendish death machine. Of course that's only happened to me once, but the story of my time in the Slovenian Secret Service and my encounter with the diabolical Professor Karlyle van Overpass must wait for another time. Suffice it to say that the world was saved although by a more narrow margin than most realise.

Another time you don't want to hear scary mechanical noises is when you're sitting in an aeroplane owned by a company you chose solely on the grounds of cheapness. Suddenly the mutated killer stick insects of Professor van Overpass didn't look quite so fearsome. For reasons best known to the shadowy puppet masters who broadcast instructions into my head I had decided to fly Tiger Airways to Melbourne. Of course I would have preferred to fly Qantas (and how rare that statement is becoming) but they have banned me since the day I (and my loyal Slovenian sidekick Svej) were forced, in the name of simple humanity, to shoot down a fully loaded Qantas 747 over the Pacific. Apparently the fact that the passengers on board were no longer entirely human cut no ice with Qantas management and I have been banned ever since.

Tiger Airways is essentially where aircraft from Singapore Airlines crawl away to die. They are one of a number of low cost airlines trundling back and forth between Australia's major population centres (both of them). In the interest of fairness I should say the plane did eventually stagger into the air and got me to Melbourne safely. They didn't even lose my luggage.

One of the major issues with air travel, in my opinion, is that it requires you to go to an airport. At least for the takeoff. When you're as experienced in HALO jumping as I am landing is purely optional. Airports must be one of the most wretched pieces of the urban landscape imaginable. This is why it is a good idea to have them out in the country where wretched pieces of landscape are more likely to go unnoticed. For me the airport experience is made worse by familiarity with what goes on behind the scenes. I look around and see a sordid collection of secret policemen, drug smugglers, depraved hookers, diabolical cultists, secret cabals aiming at world domination and aliens from other planets slumming. And that's just the security staff. The passengers are something else again. In certain venues it is expected that people will make an effort to dress up, airports are the diametric opposite of these. People drag out the crappiest most wretched clothes they possess and rather than throw them away put them aside in case they need to go to the airport.

I arrived safely in Melbourne slightly to my surprise and after a three hour taxi ride (I made the driver take a roundabout route in case I was followed) I arrived at my hotel. The Intercontinental in Melbourne has doors that open outwards as you approach which made me feel like I was in an episode of Get Smart. I hummed the theme tune all the way to the lift. Later that night while eating my chargrilled kangaroo I hummed the theme tune from Skippy (true).

I got a fright in the lobby however; there were two women in air stewardess uniforms. Had they followed me from the airport? Was my cover blown? I couldn't be sure so I imitated a pot plant for half an hour until the coast was clear. Fortunately my time with the Iracibili tribe on the Orinoco delta has taught me to flawlessly imitate plant material. Finally though I got to my room, crawled under the bed and settled down for the night.

PS. For those interested I hear my old mate Svej has produced a fifteen part documentary of our time together. It will be screening on Slovenian television beginning in late July. For security reasons it will be titled Diary of a Psychiatric Nurse. Should be good.