Criminal Behaviour

They prowl the concourse, their shining, naked heads speaking of aggression and a love of Stella Artois. The only way you can tell one from the other is that he has a tiny, trimmed beard, pencil thin and pathetic. They walk on the balls of their feet, ready to pounce, their ties have ludicrously large knots, thick, short bits of striped fabric falling over the buttons of their designer shirts.
"Alright mate," they bellow in their laddish tone. "You like the footy?" Or:
"Hiya Geezer, you want to help a brother out?"
Normally pretending not to hear them, or walking very fast so the Airport Pass round your neck sways violently, fends them off. But these "geezers" represent the clawing, materialistic and most embarrassing aspect of our society.
They are, of course, The Credit Card Men.
Spike used to call them The Two Fake Tits on account of their matching heads, bald, shiny and fake, like a tacky glamour model.
The other morning I was pounced on, the Tit latching onto me.
"'Ere, mate. You want to help me out and fill this in."
"Not really." I took the tone of an aristocratic English lord, that usually makes people abort conversation. But no...
"Just fill this form in, mate," he said, unperturbed. "You don't have to get the card if you don't want."
"Then why should I fill the form in if I don't want a card?" I asked this, the poshness of my voice reaching Brian Sewell on the toff-o-meter.
"Well, you just get the literature," he said, loud and proud.
"The literature?" I questioned. This is what they call the junk mail that comes through the door, the word no longer representing great works of art, complex and haunting novels that have the possibility to inspire and improve. No, Literature now represents the pre-filled application forms that the average person receives 7 times a week. This is the reason why I own a shredder - if not for this filth my home would less resemble an office.
"Yes, the literature," he replied, still thinking he could sway me. "All you need to do is fill it in. It'll take five minutes."
"No, I don't think so." I was adamant, he was oblivious.
"Come on man," he whined. He called me "man", as if we were arguing in a pub. "If you fill it in I get paid. Help me out." A laudable reason, if not for one thing...
"And what do I get for using my time to fill this form in?" I questioned. "Are you going to split your wage with me?"
"Erm," he stuttered.
At this I carried on walking, hoping I had emasculated him somewhat. But no, he had merely taken it in his stride and had started talking to a young woman. I heard his first question:
"Alright love, are you over 23?"

With this, the airport has turned into a 1920s Gangster movie. We are surrounded by loan sharks, the very companies we work for extort us by claiming they have paid us "too much", the airport also getting their share of the pie by charging the worker £27 a month in order to park their cars on a piece of waste ground miles from the terminal. The airport is a microcosm of the business world - grasping criminals of various rank, minds clouded by other people's money. Christ, where have all the good people gone...?