"So, somebody needs to do an analysis...". Yeah! How about you get your sorry arse over there and buy me a cake? Analyse that! Anything as long as I don't have to listen to your rubbish any longer. You know the sort: out comes their smart phone as they consult some figures and pretend to be the font of all knowledge, when really they're just a font.
I'm sitting at a table on the flight side of Dublin airport awaiting a plane – the 1735 to London Gatwick Airport – and not more than a few yards away from me is a know-all and his pitiful stooge who, as I write this, is looking at his mobile phone in a vain effort to stop the know-all opposite him from pontificating.
"I heard Richard Branson saying that...". Why does old beardy get a mention? "The stats are all published. If you come to Canada from Syria... I think they should stay in poverty...they shouldn't have luxury, they need to contribute, like they do in Barbados, they can serve tables..." He's really going on and on and on and the stooge hasn't got a word in yet. "So you don't have to have a 20 hours per week day job... so maybe Brexit is something that should happen. You can't blame everything on Brexit." [Try me!].
"Four years! 480 million." He's talking sewage problems I think, debt problems too. "You guys need to find 75 million. I just don't know what she's gonna charge." Percentages are flying all over the place and the stooge hasn't got a clue what this know-all bastard is talking about. He (the know-all) is wearing a cheap open neck shirt, his phone and his glasses are on the table in front of him, his suitcase and suit jacket opposite – the former resting against a chair, the latter on the back of the same chair, which is next to the stooge who sits diagonally across from the know-all.
When there's silence it's because he, the know-all, is looking at his phone. Both of them are doing that right this minute, looking at their phones, and I pity the stooge if he's sharing a transatlantic flight with this bozo as the know-all probably has plenty to say about air travel, probably talks during take-off, what a nodule!
The stooge has gone to the restrooms and he's left the know-all alone with his phone, no doubt he's boning up on some shite to unload on the stooge when he returns from the toilet. I bet he's gone to a cubicle for a bit of relaxation ahead of the next onslaught.
"Hi, it's B----." The know-all is on the phone and his name is B----. "Don't worry, the guy was so insistent... alright, that's good, man, thanks for everything, I'll talk to you later." And silence. The stooge has yet to return. He's probably still sitting fully clothed in a cubicle, getting some much-needed peace and quiet and is considering flushing the toilet and coming back out. He knows he has to pull the flush – or press the flush – and he'll have to wash his hands too, even though he hasn't taken a dump or pointed Percy at the porcelain. He has to go through the motions to legitimise his stay in the cubicle otherwise people might think he's strange, they might call security. "Hey! There's a guy in one of the cubicles, he hasn't even taken his trousers down, what's he doing in there if he's not taking a dump? Is he snorting coke? How did he get through security with a load of coke?
The know-all is checking his bags, he's putting on some headphones, earphones actually, those white ones you get free when you buy an iPhone. I wonder what he's listening to? A TED lecture? Or maybe he's playing a game of some sort. The glasses are on and there's no sign of the stooge – perhaps he's being frisked by the police who are going to strip-search him for drugs. The know-all's brow is furrowed, he's looking suspicious, as if he's listening to a voicemail from somebody who hates his fucking guts. "We've got your stooge in the toilet Mr Know-All, now cut the crap, stop boring people to death and we'll release him free of charge." For a minute I thought it might be the stooge. "B----, I'm stuck in the toilet, can you come and rescue me?" But no, it's not. In fact, the stooge has returned and is now playing with his own phone. Silence reigns supreme. The stooge is probably hoping it continues, he doesn't want to be exposed as somebody who doesn't really have a view or an opinion, he just wants to be left alone. So he's got his lap top out – good move, man! Something has been spilt on the table. "Is that a chocolate bar?" asks B---- the know-all.
B---- is short and paunchy and now has his laptop out – a Hewlett Packard PC, typical. He's typing something, probably an email, but the stooge is happy as it means he's not engaging him in a one-way conversation. I'd better go and check out my flight as time is moving on and I don't want to miss it. I think he's said enough, he's quiet so I'm assuming that he's talked himself out or he's replenishing his armoury of arseholery, ready to give the stooge another ear bashing – and I don't want to be around to hear it.