Karma Air


I have trouble with insomnia. It’s par for the course, I am told. Getting old. When numerous nights of intermittent or non-existent sleep pass, I succumb to a sleeping pill and have been known to enjoy eight hours in a row.

Such a sleep occurred last week. I was a walking ghost before plumping for the pill. And so, I drifted off into the land of slumber snoring away to my heart’s content.

When I awoke I had to chuckle. What a dream I had just had! If only the world was ready to accept my dream, it would be a finer place. The human race would give up warring and maybe we’d have a crack at getting on together once again instead of worrying about enemies within.

In my dream, I was Chief Executive of Karma Air. A collection of DC9’s operating out of what looked like Luton airport. A no-frills airline – the only airline outside of cargo with less frills than Ryanair. As I told Sky News in the dream, what made Karma Air stand apart from the competition was that all passengers who entered a Karma Air plane would leave it by parachute.

The interviewer from Sky added, “what also makes you stand out from other airlines is your destinations, Mr Browne. Your planes only fly to four destinations and no-one else is flying to Raqqa in Syria.”

The interviewer was right. Raqqa was one of our more popular routes. The UK Government’s decision to give the UK’s Britain-hating Islamist extremists a real taste of the Caliphate in exchange for their British passports meant that every Monday and Wednesday the Raqqa route was a burgeoning one for Karma Air. Coaches full of long-bearded Islamists from Dewsbury, Tower Hamlets and Alum Rock were arriving at the Karma Air private terminal. Passengers were carrying just enough luggage to jump with and sat back pre-flight to the sound of relaxing nasheeds, enjoyed a complimentary bottle of Panda Cola and a bag of nuts. Airport security loved the Raqqa flight as they enjoyed checking in an assortment of weapons and grenades – far more interesting than the usual baby buggies and wheelchairs they would be requested to stow away during competitors’ flights. The Islamists seemed so excited – not caring one jot for this world, they were happy to be set free in the Syrian charnel house and, no doubt, soon in the arms of their seventy-two virgins, drinking milk and honey rather than infidel Panda Cola.

Tuesday was a far more difficult flight to get on board the plane. Lots more whining from passengers for the Tuesday Caracas Express for Corbynistas. No Panda Cola or nuts for them. Instead for a pre-flight snack they’d make do with lime juice and rice cakes to get around a preponderance of allergies. Occasionally airport staff would have to break up fights between these reds – usually whipped up by accusations of misinterpreting Rosa Luxemburg or, worse still, belonging to New Labour. Tuesdays, Rentokil were brought in post flight to manage flea and lice manifestations and clean up the awful, selfish mess that these Corbynistas left behind before their jump into Maduro’s socialist chaos. However, there was always that consolation, as one pest exterminator remarked, “it’s the only job on the schedule we do where the real vermin have cleared out before we arrive.”

Thursday’s morning flight was a short hop over to Transnistria for Far-Right activists – the only land (well, it’s not actually a country yet) that would put up with them. In some ways, the terminal was easy to handle on a Thursday as there were no crying mums or girlfriends anywhere to be seen. Just a bunch of single men in anoraks who happily traded in their passports which they childishly defaced with swastikas and Hitler moustaches. Their pre-flight snack was an orange juice with a pack of kosher pretzels, which they all hapily tucked into without at all getting the irony.

Friday was generally a free day – set aside for the incorrigible. The Government contract to drop Britain’s worst Remoaners over Greek slums had only taken a couple of DC9’s and a crate of pre-flight Prosecco. The rest had soon changed their tune – the BBC changing its middle “B” overnight from Broadcasting to Brexit. Karma Air had some questions to answer over this particular route. There had been some complications with the parachutes which led to AC Grayling being suspended from the branch of an olive tree for several hours while Tim Farron was too cowardly to jump and had to be given a kick up the backside by an air hostess as he disappeared into the clouds over Athens screaming, “Nick made us become a protest party. It was the only way we could survive. I didn’t mean it. I love Brexit”.

Karma Air – Turning Your Dreams into Reality.

We can but dream.

*This is no endorsement for sleeping pills. If you can’t sleep, watch Newsnight. 

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