It's no secret that us trolley dollies spend our idol time on board talking about bowl movements, food and sex, only broken in flow by the constant moaning that us Brits could classify as our favourite past time.
Such is the vulgar talk amongst the crew that I could tell you the time of the last bowl movement of each of the 14 crew on board, the colour of the shit and the substance, I could also tell you to the second the last time each of the Queens on board had a little bit of 'me time.'
The vulgar talk is quite fitting to our surroundings, the smell of stale piss that clings to the carpet is enough to make anyone gag, add to that the smell off the crusted shit smeared on the toilet seats and you can understand why us crew go running into the shower with a bottle of bleach and Brillo pad instead of shower gel and a sponge when we land. Such is the glamour on board our modern 1940's jet that you frequently experience a tsunami of turds when sat down the back on touch down.
It's easy to see why the favourite conversation is sex whilst us crew are stood up having chicken or beef for breakfast and drinking tea out of doubled up plastic cups; we're not getting any. In our defence it's not because the crew are mingers but in the planet's most behind the times country bars aren't legal, nevermind the bars that sell martinis to men in tight white vest tops whilst a hideously vile drag queen blasts out a little tune from Boy George, so the chances of pulling are minimal.
Working on a metal tube for hours and hours it's understandable that the crew might start to suffer from a little bit of cabin fever and divulge information that later they perhaps wish they didn't. The last time we had such a vile conversation a certain crew member, let's call him Wayne, because that's his name, decided to inform us all of his last date. Just when things were starting to get romantic and a certain throbbing membrane was about to enter a certain black hole an unmistakable smell, the same that is often smelt at the back of our aircraft, hit him and killed the moment. His date is yet to call him back.
This was followed immediately by a conversation of preference to cock; cut or uncut? Personally I wouldn't know what to do with a cut cock, I much prefer to pull something back, however my senior disagreed, remember her the 'ride him like sea biscuit lady,' she simply stated that she prefers cut cock for hygiene reasons. If I recall correctly I think her words were 'I much prefer being able to go under the rim without using a toilet duck first.'
Happy New Year.