It increasingly comes before marriage so the word of the week is SEX.
I am currently cruising towards London at 28,000 feet returning from Bologna. I am not air born to renew my mile high club membership but am returning from a normally uneventful factory trip. As usual, I stayed in the village hotel, which is spotlessly clean, convenient and quirkily stuck in a time warp. I have been staying there for years and love it in spite of the fact that both the staff and décor appear to have one foot in the grave (think Steptoe meets Fawlty Towers), the three star atmosphere is definitely more Dignitas than boutique. But there is something strangely brilliant about hotel's in thetwilight zone.
On the first night I was invited for supper with friends, Emilia Romagna is famed for being the gastronomic centre of Italy, so needless to say dinner was a feast.
We started with tiny tortellini in a clear chicken broth, perfect little knots said to be inspired by Venus's belly button, although a worldly guest to my right was quick to point out that tortellini belly buttons were actually invented by a randy priest with a wistful imagination.
The main course was roasted guinea fowl, followed by 'English Soup' (an Italian nod at trifle and the royal wedding) by half past midnight I was back in the twilight zone, stuffed to the gills and ready for a good night's sleep. The temperature had dropped dramatically and room 301 felt colder than usual in the flickering neon light, one thin sheet and blanket topped the small hard single bed. Stalwartly I buttoned my coat over my pyjamas glancing hopefully up at the crucifix as I got into bed.
No sooner had my head hit the pillow did 'it' begin, this was no small 'i' - but it with a capital 'I' stuff worthy of an ASBO.
As a regular traveller I am used to the odd headboard jostle, but this Italian stallion and his partner were so graphic, so loud, and so paper-thin-wall close, that despite the overcoat, I was beginning to feel like an off side extra in Debbie Does Cento.
I laid back and thought of England and it was not long before my mind roamed into bunga-bunga styles. What struck me most about room 302 was that she was making all the noise, or should I say all the right noises. She squealed encouragement and appreciation from the touchline like a Stepford cheerleader. Yes! (Si!) give me a ... Oooh! Si!! Si!! Si!! She bigged that bloke up so much that when I saw the little rat at breakfast he was both floating and gloating as he quenched the nights antics with a glass of Loo orange juice, the taste of bitter sweet irony was not lost on me.
I concluded that cheer 'lays' must by virtue be very young or very grateful, once a girl has been played by a few jocks there is no willy-nilly cheering from the pillows, man of the match is an accolade that has to be hard earned and it takes more than a few bumps of the balls to get an older woman to throw a Mexican wave. Someone would have to be removing my toenails to get me to scream like that. I though about Italy's Mr Lubba Lubba Silvio B, was Bunga Bunga just Italian for Big Me Up Baby? Is that why older men like younger girls, because they 'frill' them with their alphabetti cheers?
Back on Easy Jet I am reading about Kate and Wills and wondering how far she will go to cheer her prince on, and as I sit here pondering the royal romp, a rather forward Easy Jet steward has just announced the imminent sale of Stelious's Easy scratch cards.
"And if you are feeling lucky today, do not hesitate to stop me as I pass through your aisle"
Needless to say I showed him where to get off without even moving my lips.
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