MORONS ARE BLOOMING ON THE INTERNET.

bring back gatekeeping.

frosty flowers

My first memorable insight into the global foray of cognitive dissonance, came a decade ago during a flight to Ibiza.

Went via City airport. Small and quick like a mouse. Was heading to a yoga fitness retreat, as you do. I was in good shape. Went with a friend of mine who I would get pissed with. Cool, smart and attractive but purely platonic. I’ve always found it easy to make friends with women. Having grown up with so many. I wasn’t looking for anything. She was looking for a husband and I did not fit the bill even if the vibe was there. But we had fun together. So an impromptu trip on account of health was added to the list of side quests. I got a discount if I posted about it. That kind of shit.

When checking in, I found myself behind a guy holding what looked like a massive carpet. He was locked in a dispute with the airline.

“Look, I’m a leather-smith. I need this. It’s part of my work.”

“I’m sorry sir, you’ve already exceeded your baggage allowance. I don’t know what else to suggest.”

That sort of thing. Part of my emotional baggage, certainly at that time, was a need to please if possible. To help when I can. Go out on a limb for people I have literally never met before and have no idea about.

Of course, this man who was unknown to me and has quite long hair and likes hemp or linen or something boho like that has ultimately fallen foul to his own organisational skills or maybe he thought he could blag it when he got here or whatever either way it’s not working out for him and this could be a huge life lesson if the mishap was completely experienced.

Of course, it won’t be. Because I am the person behind him and part of me wanted to just get the check in over with and I knew I had another bag on my luggage allowance and maybe I hadn’t been fucked over enough in life yet at that point so I thought why not listen to my impulses.

“He can use my luggage allowance if he wants.”

The lady at the desk looks a little startled. Rightly so. He’s masking his bewilderment or he’s fallen in love with me or both, I don’t know but it’s quietened everything right down, that’s for sure. Zara’s already checked in so I want to go catch up with her.

“Are you sure, sir? It’s your responsibility if it’s something dodgy.”

“Yeah, I don’t care.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks dude.”

The Boho Man responds with the air of someone who might convince themselves later on that I am a spiritual apparition. When relayed as an anecdote I might well take the form of an angel.

“As long as you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The man, sincerely says he owes me one. Leaves the fucking leather carpet thing and glides off somewhere. I check in and meet Zara.

Couple hours later, during the flight, me and Z are chatting shit, as we do, and the guy fucking comes over. Which is fine. I’d already mentioned the debacle to her but we would have been mid gossip, it’s guaranteed. We fuckin’ loved that shit. Anyway the seats in front of us were free, so he plants his knees on them, and leans over to us like it’s a garden wall. Or a toilet stall. He stretches out an arm and he’s holding a leather wallet.

“Here you go, dude. Just as a thank you. This is the kind of stuff that I make.”

I take it from him. An undeniably sweet gesture.

“That one is actually slightly faulty, I cut the leather wrong, but it’s still usable.”

Bittersweet. The guy’s eyes slightly widen when he sees Zara.

“Hi, I’m -

I can’t remember his name so he’s called Boho.

- Boho. Who are you?”

“Oh hi, I’m Zara.”

“Cool. I’m a leather-smith.”

“I can see!”

Zara’s not interested. But he lingers. And continues. Regardless of invitation. He no longer seems aware of me at all.

“I do photography too.”

Zara and I nod in unison. I respond.

“What kind of photography?”

Boho man remembers I exist.

“Oh, like… I love black and white. Pictures in nature. Sometimes I do… nude stuff.”

Zara and I nod in unison. Boho turns his attention back to Zara.

“I’d love to take pictures of you. You look great.”

Yes, he really said that. No, Zara didn’t agree. We politely diverted. Wild, in hindsight. Perhaps he felt flattery was enough to override an unbelievably lazy approach. Either way, what followed was some more dead air, while in the air, and we thought maybe he’d fuck off, but he didn’t. Instead he said something that I’d never heard before. But would unfortunately, somehow, hear more of in the years that followed.

He gestured towards the tiny plane window, with the same arm that handed me the faulty wallet, and said.

“Look out there. At that skyline… No curvature.”

We look out of the window. Confused as to what it is he means.

“What do you mean no curvature?”

“Well, there’s no curve, is there? And the world is supposed to be round. Doesn’t make sense. There’d be a curve, wouldn’t there?”

Let me be honest. When he first said this to me. And bare in mind, I’d never ever