Jack Of Albion

Jack didn’t know who was in charge of the music for the grim cafe he found himself in at 3am in Bristol Airport, but whoever it was must have learnt the art of playlist-creation from the guys who run Guantanamo Bay. Weird, no-label blues/jazz fusion from an album presumably named “elevator classics”. It’s as if they locked an AI in a room and fed it nothing but pre-jazz compilation albums and forgot about it for a few million years until, crazed, unblinking, snapping its fingers, it emerged to deliver its masterpiece solely to him; picking the remnants of his bacon (burnt) sandwich out of his teeth in sleep-deprived 4am departure-lounge drudgery. He’d yet to reach the coffee part of his cappuccino, Christ knows what a double espresso looks like here. He doubted it had the legs to climb out of the cup. Announcements blared out every now and again about security so he moved to the “quiet zone”. Actually it was more like the fucking twilight zone. Not a single soul there, and every time he nodded off the lights dimmed, and then blared back on again like he’d just jumped the fence at Colditz. 

Airports are strange places. It’s impossible not to feel tired in one, even though time ceases to exist, relatively speaking. Double whiskey at 7am? Sure. Buy yourself a pair of sunglasses and a massive toblerone while you’re at it. It’s not any cheaper, it’s just bigger. Occasionally on farms they allow the cattle to wander around a field for a few days before they’re chucked back into their sheds. Apparently it boosts milk production. It’s not a perfect analogy however, for the cows know they’re in sheds. The most astounding thing about this 21st century neon plastic wonderland is that it’s not really anything truly new – the only difference between this and feudalism is that in the 15th century the peasants knew they were peasants. Today, the sleight of hand is so subtle that every year the free people of the world jet off to their fields, wander about for a bit, then go back to the sheds to create milk for the unquenchable thirst of the shadowy figures who govern their captivity; all without ever knowing they are prisoners. But if they did, what would they do? The crowds wandered around the departure lounge, gazing into the empty windows of shops due to open. What would happen if they knew about the whole thing? If, suddenly, they all saw the bars of their gilded cage surrounding them, would they believe it? The question that hit Jack however was, as the throngs of people drifted through the duty-free like bloated locusts, full of food that will kill them, on their way to destinations where everything is a buffet, to take photos they’ll never look at again – are they lonely? Do they feel it too?