Business Class Gas

I can understand something like this happening in Economy Class. (See how quickly one Business Class trip to Europe makes me to the manor born?) And the guy looked like a decent-enough chap, probably 40, had that “still playing in a mid-list rock band” look about him. And there were only ten of us in Business Class for an overnight flight to London. After the nice lady came by with the midnight snack, let’s call him “Clive,” pushed the button which fully reclined his seat into a flat position.

I’m a snorer. I don’t usually like to fall asleep in airplanes or buses or even cars because of my feral snoring. In any event, I seem to be predisposed to staying awake anyway. I’m one of those nervous travelers. I'm up all night, searching for movies and music.

So when Clive began farting in his sleep, I was amused at first, then horrified when it got worse.

For some reason, I became fixated on the fact that Clive’s farts were pressurized, like the cabin, and I actually began to worry whether this fact would render Clive‘s farts explosive? My God, he could go off at any moment!

Like I said, I'm nervous on planes, and I have a lot of time to think.

No, he’ll stop any second, I thought. I jammed the headphones on and reclined my bed too, facing into the aisle. I adjusted my air jet to blow in Clive’s direction.

But I found that the main attraction of the business class experience on this airline -- its comfortable sleeper seats which they claim will have you waking daisy-fresh in London -- was lost on me. I felt like I was in a coffin. I couldn’t sleep on my side because it wasn’t quite wide enough.

And Clive the farter was still going strong.

I couldn’t hear him now, because of the headphones. But you get the drift . . .

The worst embarrassment of the whole flight occurred when a flight attendant walked by me laying there like a patient on a gurney. She smelled it too, looked down at me, our eyes locked, and she gave me a piteous look, as though I were the farter!

I was now completely mortified and reached into my bag for a sedative. If I can just grab a couple of winks, I’ll be fine for the morning. Everything else about this trip was fine. I dozed off to Frank Sinatra singing “How High the Moon” and just as I was approaching alpha, Clive stood up and squeezed past me into the aisle. I looked up at him and he gave me a “Sorry mate” kind of look. No problem, I thought. In fact, this little trip could be the answer to both our prayers.

No matter. I promptly fell off to sleep, fart-free for the first time and eager to grab my moment. I stretched out on my stomach, my head in an unnatural right angle to the rest of my body, but I was somehow able to go to sleep. When I got up at Heathrow, there was Clive, sitting upright in his seat, sipping an orange juice, and appraising my awakened state through bloodshot eyes. I half-smiled in his direction and he put his juice down.

“You know you’re an ‘ell of a snorer mate.”