The Tiny Gangster and the Pornography Mountain

Thirst drove me to the Dickensian horror that is WH Smith. This shop is an oddity, it is not a bookshop, though it sells books, it's not a newsagent, though it sells newspapers, and it's most certainly not a pleasant place to be, yet their always seems to be a queue at the till points. I grasped a bottle of water quickly and headed to the line of people, not wanting to spend any more time than I had to loitering by the racks of overpriced crisps and biographies of plastic people. I was lucky; there was only one person in front of me.
This particular man looked as if he belonged in a very cliche British Gangster movie. He was short, the kind of short that indicates psychopathic tendencies. This was coupled with a long black trench coat (well, it was long on him, but in reality it was a tiny doll's coat) and a silk scarf tucked into the lapels. His grey hair was swept back hard, revealing a lined and tanned forehead that, like a coastal horizon, captivated the view with its long, curving magnificence.
I though he may be quick, but I was mistaken. He lifted, with great effort, a large stack of magazines onto the counter. It took me a while to realise that they were all pornography, the cover images obscured by white plastic. The kid behind the till maintained a stony face as he began to put the filth through the scanner. Eventually, after the stack had been processed, the screen on the till read £63.80. I'm not sure how many magazines that is, I lost count, but the price indicated some kind of erotic desperation. After the till operator read out this price Tiny Gangster tossed a copy of Loaded magazine onto the pile - a light pornography sorbet to follow his full slap-up pornography steak dinner. It was a harrowing sight, but one strangely fitting to represent the decay that surrounds the airport.

I have noticed that porn and travel seem to go together as if their flavours mingle as perfectly as garlic and lamb, or cheese and tomato. Motorway service stations are full of magazines and "erotic literature", and I can only speculate why. I would be too busy concentrating on the driving to indulge in Adult Entertainment. My God, do these people occupy aeroplane toilets and satisfy the entrance policy of the Solo mile High Club? Or worse, do they pre-empt their journey by attending the stalls in the filthy airport toilets? I never want to know answers to these questions. It all reminds me of when I saw a fat man in a shop at the airport, his arousal showing through his jogging suit trousers...