Bygone Age

On today’s seven hour journey from home (near Manchester) to Prague I had plenty of time to ponder the demise of the flying industry. Plenty of time to bemoan the lack of a hot towel and a sweet to suck at takeoff and landing. A time when the trolly service was more a case of pass the bottle and a warm meal was served on proper china and eaten with a real knife and fork fashioned from Sheffield’s finest. And the ladies doing the serving looked like proper ladies in skirts and stockings rather than the kind of slacks/trousers that you would expect to see your mom in. Hats off to KLM – at least they have retained a traditional uniform. The only problem is that the flight attendants have aged somewhat. They may have the clothes but they lost their wiggle back in the 80s. And, my in-flight meal today consisted of a choice between a poor man’s wagon wheel (those were the days) and packet of 6 Tuc Biscuits. Now I can be partial to a savoury biscuit with a glass of wine and some nice cheese but not with a complimentary coffee or a juice.

Travel by air is just not what it used to be. Czech Airlines decided to cancel my convenient hop from Manchester to Prague so today I was forced to go from Birmingham via Amsterdam. Thanks to Al Qaeda and the resultant enhanced security checks; the budget airlines who have brought international travel within the grasp of the great unwashed and unedificated; and, Japanese tourists, transit through airports has become a nightmare. I nearly missed my connection in Schiphol because of the twenty five minute queue for security. Standing in line for such a long time with my laptop in one hand and a bag of liquids and my belt in another, shuffling along like a man on death row hoping my trousers don’t fall down. Eventually I get to the top of the queue for passport control when an Italian – they are always Italian – gent pushes to the front declaring that he has “a two minutez to catcha a ma plane – do you a mind eef I push in?”. “They might” I respond pointing to the queue of people behind me. He pushes in anyway declaring “I canna a ask a them all”. I hope he missed his plane. I was taken on one side to have my bag searched because I had a “suspicious umbrella”. What could be suspicious about a Brit with an umbrella this time of year?

The flight to Prague was interesting. I sat throughout the flight with my eyes watering from the strong if, no doubt, expensive perfume of the elegant mature Czech lady sat to my left. She was more blinged up than your average rapper or Premiership footballer but with much better legs. I got wafts of her scent whenever she moved. She moved often because she was practising for a role in a hair product advert. The one where you have to flick your hair in a certain way “because your worth it”.

She was one of those skinny, bottoxed, glamorous fifty somethings that do lunch in Wilmslow and Alderley Edge and the like. She had expensively streaked colour to hide her natural blonde tendencies. She had boots with heels that a cat-walk model would break her neck on. Makeup. Lots of it. But not enough to hide the sagginess in her cheeks and neck. She wore a fur wrap which could have been the real thing and had eyebrows so perfectly plucked that they wouldn’t have seemed out of place on Peter Andre.

Travel really is such a drag. It flattened my mood somewhat from the high I achieved last night when Jedward were booted off X-factor. There is a god, or, maybe, Simon Cowell is a supreme being. Shame about Katie Price aka Jordan leaving the jungle though……..

Now I’m stuck in another nondescript hotel room. Don’t get me started……..

Scandinavian Saga

I recently had to travel on business to Oslo in Norway. Thanks to the demise of the airline industry post 9/11 and the credit crunch, I had to fly to Oslo from Birmingham International airport, rather than from Manchester, and, via Frankfurt in Germany rather than direct. This is like travelling to Aberdeen from London via Cardiff.

The cost of this mini European tour was some £750. For this I would normally expect the personal attention of my own stewardess (and a pretty one at that) with ready access to fois gras and a drinks cabinet. But, all I got in reality on the outward leg was the offer of a sandwich and a Twix bar, which I declined, and a small, unsatisfying square of cold chicken.

Oh, and we also got to sit next to/under a German man mountain.

I was travelling with my diminutive boss, who was rather technologically challenged when it came to checking in online (he is only European Vice President of IT after all). Consequently, he was sat in the aisle seat. I was sat in the window seat. I was, briefly, relatively comfortable due to the empty seat between us and the lack of a seat in front of me – we were by the emergency exit. Relatively comfortable that was until this huge German guy waddled down the aisle and grunted (the usual mode of communication of a German abroad), indicating that he was booked into the seat between me an my boss. This came as a surprise because there had not been a towel draped over the seat – the usual German method of reserving seats.

Now, readers of my earlier post – Letter From America- will know that the issue of fatties on board planes is an unnecessarily controversial topic. But this guy was fat. Obese. He had not seen his feet in a long, long time. I declined the advice of one fellow blogger to check whether this unseemly excess of blubber was due to a medical condition as it was clear to me that this was a lover of food and sofas in equal measure. Indeed, he may even have been partial to eating the odd sofa.

Fatty squeezed past my boss, causing the poor souls sitting in the row in front of us to adopt the crash position. He hovered over the empty middle seat, casting a large shadow over my boss and I. And, then, he lowered himself into the seat. When I say he “lowered” himself, I am describing a motion much like that of an elevator in freefall in a disaster movie having had the cable severed. Gravity did the inevitable. The arms of the seat spilled outwards and there was a groan of metal in agony as the plane sagged visibly in the middle. And, I lost all sensation in the right side of my body as it succumbed to the inevitable spillage of spare flesh and blubber over the arm of the seat. I sat for the duration of the flight with my shoulder and head pressed firmly against the wall of the plane.

I am sorry, but this has to be a health and safety issue. If we had been forced down by a bird strike or a Turkish refuelling policy, my boss and I would have been goners. There was no way that we could have summoned the inhuman strength required to extricate ourselves from the bulk of Herr Gross. The emergency exit would have been blocked and the ensuing fire would have burned for days as it consumed the fatty mass of the man sat between us.

You may be interested to know that Fatty also declined the offer of a sandwich and Twix bar. But, this was not because he was dieting. Rather it was because there was no way he would be able to lower his tray because eight of his nine bellies were in the way. Just think of Jabba the Hut and you’ll get the picture. (Ooh, Ive just had a Princess Leia flashback moment! ).

Incidentally, we were somewhat thrown by the safety notice on the leg from Frankfurt to Oslo.

 

It seemed to suggest that if you used your iPod then a black man would use his super powers to look through the plane’s wondow and set fire to the wing. It also seemed to suggest that Lufthansa had a less than pc approach to racial segregation on board, suggesting that black people should exit through the side entrance rather than through the front door with the rest of us.

This made me wonder what would actually happen if someone tried to open the emergency exit at 36,000 feet. I guess the only advice would be to hold on to the Fatty sat next to you and use him as an anchor. I assure you, that baby was going nowhere?

Indeed, this whole trip failed to satisfy on any culinary level. What is it with the Scandinavian obsession with fish, and, pickled herring in particular?! You know that you are not going to get a decent steak in a nation where the local delicacy is rotting shark meat.

I did try the sandwich on the return leg. The bread was hard enough to make your jaw ache ,while the tasteless cheese was hard enough to make the bread seem soft. Which reminds me, I must book a dental appointment…….The Twix was fine.

We nearly missed our connecting flight at Frankfurt. In part this was due to the fact that I got dragged off to a small ante room at the security check. The officious Non-English speaking security people were highly suspicious of my travelling iron and insisted on checking it for explosive residue……..fortunately they found none and removed their rubber gloves!

In any case, my boss and I were upgraded to business class for the final leg to Birmingham. We hoped that this meant a hot meal. It did not. Strangely, Lufthansa had chosen this month to celebrate all things potato. My mother-in-law would have been in her element – she is Irish and lives in Royston Vasey. Our fine fare consisted of ” sweet potato slices with tartar of smoked salmon, tricolour potato terrine, cumin potato wedges and sweet potato mouse, followed by marzipan and potato chocolate balls”. It was inedible.

I would have killed for a packet of Walker’s cheese and onion crisps!

By the way, why is it that all Scandinavian doors open outwards? In the UK and the rest of the world it is normal for doors to open inwards, with the possible exception of cubicles in the Gents where they have to cater for the possibility of a drunk bloke collapsing mid defication – the outward opening door facilitates  access by the emergency services. Strangely, I have it on good authority that this is not the case in the ladies. Anyhow, it seems nonsensical that in a region so used to heavy snow that you would elect to have an outward opening door – surely for 9 months of the year Scandinavians would be unable to get out of their front doors? Strange. It is also, as I found, embarrassing when you are stripped for bed in your hotel room and remember that you have forgotten to put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door – if anyone is in the corridor they will get an eyeful as soon as you open the door. At least she smiled…..

Related Posts:

Letter from America

The Elephant In The Living Room

Oh, the joys of flying and business trips! 

I endured a fretful night’s sleep. I never sleep well when I am expecting, and hoping, for my alarm to go off at an unusually early time.  

I showered with my eyes closed in an attempt to fool myself that I was still grabbing an extra few minutes of slumber. And, I got dressed as quietly as a mouse (or, as quietly as a mouse would do if it was getting dressed – you have to use your imagination here!) while fully aware of the disgruntled noises of complaint coming from C who was huddled beneath a duvet which was failing to block out my noise or the bedroom light. She surfaced briefly to check for breaches of Trinny and Susannah’s fashion rules on the part of her colour-blind other half, before returning beneath the winter-grade tog. I was very jealous.

Eyes still closed, I went downstairs and fed the cat. At least I think it was the cat…..it is difficult to tell in the dim light of the fridge light while still half asleep. Whatever it was was fat, fluffy and purred a lot.

It was with some relief that I did not need to de-ice the car. And so, I reluctantly opened my eyes and drove to the airport, bemoaning the tractor with trailer that had gotten up and out especially early to stop traffic and delay people with deadlines and places to go.

The short-term car park at Manchester Airport was particularly busy. I waited nearly ten minutes for a Vietnamese-looking family to fail to park in a tightish spot. They were in a Picasso, but, it might as well have been a Liebherr T 282 B the way this guy was driving. He tried driving in. He tried reversing in. He edged this way and that but to no avail before finally giving in and going off to look for an alternative spot. I drove straight in and parked without any problem ……..

I had already checked in on line, so I joined the depressing queue for security, toured the duty free shops for illusive bargains, checked my emails on my iPhone, and boarded the plane to Amsterdam without further incident.

I settled into my aisle seat immediately behind business class. Consequently, everyone who walked down the plane with a bag over their shoulder, clouted me on my own shoulder. It seemed that everyone had a big, heavy bag, some with rather sharp edges and corners. I wouldn’t be surprised if I am black and blue. Why can’t they just be a little more considerate and carry their bags in front of them once on board?

“Breakfast” was interesting and eventful. They served us two sandwich rolls. Now, flying KLM, I have recently got used to the one hard cheese sandwich and one marmalade sandwich, which has been typical fare for sometime now. Today they served two quark, red fruit, fig and cheese rolls. My neighbour asked what was on the sandwich and the stewardess responded in Dunglish (a mixture of Dutch and English), “It is written exactly on it!” Quark, red fruit, fig and cheese…..I am never a fan of curdled milk at the best of times and what on Earth was hiding behind the rather vague description of “red fruit”? These sandwiches were frankly inedible!!!

My neighbours, in the middle and window seats also struggled with their repast. The Old Boy next to me asked for tea, but couldn’t get his head around putting creamer in it. He asked for fresh milk, but there was none to be had. So, he ordered an apple juice instead. He seemed most upset when it arrived in a little can and sat and harumphed for a while, leaving his juice unopened. His neighbour, an American, did open his apple juice. And then he spilled it all over his nice cream chinos. Not a good look! Old Boy was obviously an infrequent flyer. As we were standing up upon arrival at Schiphol he informed me that until he had seem me hang my jacket on it he had always wondered what the little notch was for on the clip that holds the tray table up…………..duh?!?

My meeting was at the airport at the Sheraton Schiphol Hotel – which is difficult to say without gobbing in someone’s face. A little piece of America in the heart of the Netherlands. I was sat between two sets of TV screens – one showing non-stop American Football and ice hockey; the other, CCN News. While all the time, Bruce Springsteen and other similar American muzak attempted to drown out the TVs. Five hours passed quite quickly as I met with two Dutch colleagues over a coffee, a ham and cheese sandwich (this being Holland!), and a couple of cokes.

And, soon enough, I found myself back on board the plane home. Possibly as a consequence of the recession and the credit crunch, the plane was only two third’s full. Business class was almost empty.

I was intrigued by my neighbour. He caught my attention when he sat down and took out a big pad of paper and wrote in capital letters using an ink pen with a proper nib: “THE ELEPHANT IN THE LIVING ROOM”. He was an obvious creative type. Very tall, he wore an open denim shirt over some t-shirt declaring allegiance for a 1980s rock band. He had a domed, bald cranium and was left-handed and wore rimless spectacles. Having written in his pad he became distracted by the myths and legends piece in the Holland Herald in-flight magazine before falling asleep. It’s hard work being creative. He didn’t even open his paperback – Clive Barker’s “Mister B. Gone” – which was a relief. You don’t want demons getting loose on a Boeing 747.

I didn’t even bother with the silly little triangular things that were masquerading as sandwiches on the return flight. But, I did partake of the red wine.

And so back home

 

 

And Then The Knob Fell Off……

I had to fly in and out of Schiphol Amsterdam airport again this week. This was a bit of a shock to the system because my 4am get-up followed a leisurely two week holiday. 4 am doesn’t look good from any angle, but especially when you have to drive yourself to the airport.

The second shock to the system was the new security and departure arrangements at Manchester Airport. You now have to go upstairs, where you will be lost for quite some time in a queuing system akin to that you might find when they open a new ride at Alton Towers. It is slow. Lots of grumpy bleary-eyed red-faced holiday makers and stressed businessmen shuffling behind each other with all the enthusiasm of shackled prisoners walking the Green Mile.  I felt like shouting at some of the parents with kids: “Why aren’t your kids at school!” The schools here have gone back a good week or so at least, so clearly these parents were prioritising a cheap week in Marbella ahead of their progenies’ education. Mind you, the kids themselves did not look overly concerned.

Consequently, they were already boarding my plane when I arrived. This did not help my stress level as, as regular readers will know, I like to board early in order to ensure I have space for my luggage in the overhead lockers, and, so that I can check out the other passengers as they file past…….checking for potential hijackers and terrorists and the like (see here and here for a better explanation). Nevertheless I boarded fine and tried to reconnect with my human side after the trials and tribulations of the early start, the dash to the airport, the queue and the rather disgusting egg and cheese sandwiches that were served as my breakfast.

I was relieved, however, that my trip this week was to be a short one. I was keen to avoid travelling on Thursday, it being the 7th anniversary of 9/11. Al Qaida seems to have a thing for anniversaries and for the number seven. I was also a tad concerned that I would spend my last seconds alive in a foreign land as a result of the Big Bang (Large Hadron Collider) experiment in Switzerland creating a black hole and causing the end of the world or something.

So, it was somewhat with relief that I found myself safe and sound back at Schiphol airport in good time to make my flight home, having survived the two hour drive from Doetinchem to Amsterdam – my boss, who was driving, seems to get a speeding fine every other trip and likes to change lanes as the best mechanism for ensuring he stays awake!

At the airport I bought a newspaper and read all about the collapse of the Liquid Bombers Terror Trial – which was probably not the best material to be reading just ahead of boarding a plane. In good time I made my way to gate D6, knowing that this was a security check and holding area ahead of boarding the shuttle bus which takes you to the plane. Exiting via D6 makes it even more difficult to ensure that you are amongst the first to board as, a) there is no obvious place to stand/queue in order to ensure that you are first on the first bus (it generally requires two busses to ferry all passengers to the plane) so people push in, b) you need to know where to stand on the bus to facilitate a quick exit at the optimum position to be amongst the first up the steps of the plane. This is not as easy as it may sound because there are doors on both sides of the bus and there are three doors on either side. Usually the middle door on the right side is best but you still have to gamble on how close to the plane the driver will park. Also, you cannot always retain your position on the bus due to people pushing and frequent requests to “move further inside please”. Today, my desire to be amongst the first group was even greater due to the fact that I was sitting in row 1, meaning that my overhead luggage compartment options were limited and I would not be allowed to place my bag near my feet. Also, it was a smaller plane which meant that if you couldn’t stow your luggage it would be removed to the hold which would mean a further hour of one’s life being wasted at the luggage carousel at the other end.

Gate D6 was horrible. It was hot and everyone was a little sweaty and agitated. The queue for security was long and chaotic due to a number of drunk Geordies who had left it to the last minute to leave the bar and head to the gate for their flight to Humberside – they pushed to the front. Security was strict, so, the laptop had to come out of my bag, and, my see-through resealable liquid bag was checked (a bit of a worry as a colleague who had flown via Birmingham had had her’s tested and her shampoo had tested positive for traces of explosive – mind you, if you could see the shocking red colour of her hair you could see how this was possible . They also insisted that I removed my shoes and my belt. It is not the most pleasant experience being frisked by a large, sweaty security guard when you are half naked and trying to hold up your trousers!

Fortunately, I positioned myself leaning against the optimal pillar to be first through the ticket check to get on the bus. The wait until boarding was thankfully brief as, as well as being hot, I was becoming irritating by the annoying spiv who was walking up and down in front of me talking loudly into his mobile and by all the elderly people who insist on going to the desk to confirm “is this the flight to Manchester?” – can’t they read the bloody sign?! I was third on the bus, behind a Chinese couple who pushed in the queue just ahead of me. I was able to retain my optimal position on the bus. The driver parked optimally. I was second up the stairs, stowed my bag successfully and sat down to survey the cabin crew and passengers. This was far from ideal, however, as most of the passengers seemed to be carrying large, heavy bags and insisted on bashing them into my shoulder (I was in the aisle seat of course) on the way past. Nevertheless we all boarded in time and they were just about to close the doors for an on-time departure……..when the doorknob on the door to the cockpit fell off!

They tried to fix it unsuccessfully with one of the stewardess’ harclips and a piece of chewing gum. It took them a further ten minutes or so to find a maintenance man with a  screwdriver. He seemed more intent on chatting up the stewardess than fixing the knob. They then decided the knob could not be fixed and that we would all have to offload, get back on the boss, and move to a different plane, which fortunately they had spare and fuelled. I did wonder why it would be quicker and easier to relocate a full plane of passengers with their luggage and to prep a new plane rather than, a) fixing the knob (presumably they could have used the one from the spare plane), or, b) swapping the door.

The joys of business travel eh?

Travel Is Fun

Don’t you just hate travelling on business at this time of year? Especially flying. This week I had to fly from Manchester to Amsterdam. As ever at this time of year the great unwashed are allowing their kids to bunk off school in order to take advantage of cheap flights and holidays to places like Spain, Turkey, and various other all-inclusive destinations strewn with British Bars (or Irish Pubs at the better places), advertising “English Breakfast”, “Sunday lunch with real Yorkshire pudding”, “karaoke”, “Sky Sports” and “Happy Hour”. You can spot people on the flight for Bodrum a mile off. Blackpool abroad. Morecambe in the sun. 

 

Consequently, the airport is like something reminiscent of the bar scene in the original Star Wars movie. Aliens of all shapes and sizes everywhere you look. It is filled with shaven-headed blokes with earrings, gold chains, signet rings, “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, and “mother” or “Kylie” tattooed on their arms. The women look as if they have just come off set from a Britney Spears video – after her breakdown. They sport bleached blonde hair. They have orange fake tans or have blue-veined cellulite peeping out of mini skirts. They are muffin tops with bellies which hang over the front of their jeans, while their thongs and ubiquitous tattoos are all too evident at the back. And, how any of them manage to get through security with all those body piercings. Jailbait 14 year old daughters, Goth teenage sons, and grizzling sprogs who have been forced to get up ahead of the time that they would normally have switched off their X-box and gone to sleep. Everyone is suffering the effects of sleep deprivation and nicotine withdrawal. Personally, it makes me feel like taking up smoking myself. The viewing figures for Jeremy Kyle must take one hell of a dip at this time of year. And, at least the benefit offices will be quieter. 

There is a total lack of fashion awareness. All are inappropriately dressed for the beach with flip flops or white stilettos, shorts and football tops – Manchester United, Liverpool or “Engerland” in the main. And, that is both sexes. And there is nothing so attractive as a middle-aged man in a beer-belly hugging football shirt. Oh, except, that is, for the sight of a middle-aged woman in a beer-belly hugging football shirt.  

Everywhere you look there are fat unattractive couples with fat unattractive kids in tow. The queue at Burger King is longer than the queue at security. And the bars are full of people quaffing pints of lager and vodka cocktails. Even at 6am! Mind you, all of that heaving flesh and cleavage is difficult to take so early without the benefit of alcohol. 

Everyone has a mobile phone clasped against their ear while wrestling with their bags of duty free and pulling an inappropriately sized piece of so-called hand luggage behind them with the same piece of Christmas tinsel wrapped around the handle. None can read the flight display screens from a distance of more than two feet. They are all wandering aimlessly, seemingly blind to all directional signs and deaf to all announcements. “Could the person who has left their small child and their brain at security please return to collect it.” “Would Mr Skally travelling to Puerto Plata please make his way out of the bar.” 

The only redeeming feature is the check-in staff. They might not give you a safety demonstration but at least they get their uniforms from the same shop as the air stewardesses.

Oh and great, I have to fly back later tonight. I cannot wait to get home.

Letter From America

Letter From America

Part 1 – The Journey

I recently returned from Atlanta, Georgia in the US of A. My new employer had decided to throw me in at the deep end by flying me out to the corporate head office on my very first day. For two weeks. It was my first day; my first time in America, and, my first time flying economy for a long-haul flight. 

The flight out was not too bad at all. We flew with Delta Airlines who are a partner of KLM. My Frequent Flyer Card was, therefore, valid for the flight. I had not flown since last February, so on the way out I was welcomed like a returning prodigal son.

My bag received a “Priority” sticker. I don’t know why they bother. As far as I can tell, most of the world’s baggage handlers are illiterate and assume that the bright yellow labels attached to certain bags means “sit on me”. 

I was given an aisle seat. As readers of my earlier post – Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 2 (Belgium) – will know, there are certain strategic advantages to having an aisle seat. Unfortunately the air stewardesses resembled the great grandmothers of Desperate Housewives. They were stick thin. Artificially blonde. And, caked in garish makeup which held their grins in place. They looked like Peter Stringellow on acid. 

I was even given a sticker on board to identify me as a Frequent Flyer. This meant that I got extra cheese with my smile and free booze. Not to be sniffed at. 

The flight out was nine hours long, but as we had taken off at noon and were landing at four in the afternoon, sleep was not an issue. And, I had great fun playing with my new PC which I had just collected from my new boss. Yes, I lied when asked if “anyone has given you anything to take on board”. I just had to take it on trust that my new boss wasn’t an international terrorist. In truth, the jury is still out on that one…… 

The flight back was a very different story. We were flying out at eight at night to arrive at nine in the morning. So, sleep was very much an issue. This time, however, it seemed that all of my Frequent Flyer privileges had been revoked (except lounge access which, with three hours to kill at the airport, was as welcome as the free Makers Mark bourbon).

I did not get an aisle seat. I was sat in the middle of three. The lady who sat on my right. And I mean on my right (not to the right of me) was like a female version of the James Bond baddy, Whisper. She was as wide as she was tall. And, she was really quite tall. And she squeeked in a ridiculous whisper which was impossible to understand.  

After the first five minutes she gave up apologizing for knocking me. And then she decided to sleep. She donned her iPOD headset, her blindfold, and rolled, with all the grace of a hippopotamus in quick sand, onto her right side and began to snore…..very squeakily. I spent nine hours with her huge arse in my face and spilling over my chair arm, making it impossible for me to adjust the controls for the muti-media console.

She slept like a babe. A really huge, fat baby. And, I slept not at all. I must have managed just 30 minutes or so shuteye in the whole flight. How does anyone get THAT fat? Not only was I awake but also I was incredibly bored. There was no video on demand. The plane was so old it may even have been a bi-plane. There was just one movie at a time being displayed on a single big screen. I was a good twelve rows back from the screen and, being in the center seat, my view was obscured by the heads of everyone sat in front of me. It was like watching a bad pirate copy. But, as the “entertainment” consisted of the latest Mr Bean movie, I wasn’t missing much. 

I was very glad to get home. I was very tired.

There’s A Bomb!

I have never understood why my parents worry so much about overseas travel. They seem to have this view that the UK is safe and that the rest of the world is about to get blown up at any time. This perspective has, of course, hardened since the attacks on the Twin Towers and the emergence of Al Qaida. It has, however, never really been my view.

I am fully aware that Britain is often just as violent and at risk of terror attacks as anywhere else. I survived the Handsworth race riots. I lived in London at the height of the IRA bombing campaign. I was at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris when they carried out a controlled explosion on a bag. We were in Manchester in 1996 when the IRA blew up the Arndale Centre (for which we are eternally grateful – it was a dump! We now have a Selfridges and a Harvey Nichols as more than adequate compensation). 

I am not sure why my mom and dad hold onto this xenophobic view of the world. Mom is from Warrington, which the IRA bombed to devastating effect in 1993; my dad was working late in Birmingham and was just yards away at the time of the pub bombings in 1974, and was outside Harrods during the bomb attack of 1983. Hmmn, come to think of it, I’ll have to keep a closer eye on my dad. I hope it is just a coincidence. He has never shown any tendency towards Irish republicanism…and I’m not sure that he is the mercenary type. But, it is always the quiet ones……. 

Nevertheless, fear of Irish Republicanism and Al Qaida terrorism has led to a couple of notable experiences. I should start by saying that I am not anti-Irish. I love the place. I love the people. One of the best holidays I ever had was cycling and camping around the southern counties aged 18. There were these two American girls………The friendliest people you could hope to meet. And, my mother-in-law’s maiden name (and we do not have a typical mother/son-in-law relationship – we like each other) is Hoolihan (the origin of the word “hooligan”), first generation immigrants from Ireland. 

When the IRA bomb devastated the centre of Manchester in 1996, C and I were living in Alderley Edge. We lived next to “mad Val” and Irish lady, who when not with her toy boys, lived alone, and who took regular holidays back to the “old country”. After the bomb, the police immediately sent out a plea for public support in the hunt for the bombers. They said that a typical profile would be a group of young Irish men who would have moved into a suburban area of the city a couple of days before the incident. Well…….

1996 was the time of the European Football Championship in England (we got knocked out by Germany on penalties in the semi-finals…so no change there). V, our neighbour, had gone on holiday but, unusually, left us a note explaining that she would be gone, and, that while she was away, some friends would be staying at her place. Some male Irish friends who were over to watch the football. However, even before the bomb, I had commented to C that these four blokes were the strangest football fans I had ever known because they were never out when the games were on at the Manchester grounds, and were never watching the football when they were next door. We would know. The walls were paper-thin. This was why we moved. In fact, it was because V played “I Want To Know What Love Is”, the Shirley Bassey version, non-stop, for a whole weekend. That is why we moved. I can still hear that bloody tune. Anyhow, C laughed at my suspicions. She pooh poohed my suspicions as obvious racism….until after the bomb. 

Fortunately we had a friend who was in the Ant-Terrorist Squad at the time. He took my concerns seriously and a constable on the Manchester team that was investigating interviewed me. They were very interested and put a watch on V and her friends. Indeed, it never did lead to anything. They decided that V and her friends were not the ones they were looking for. But, they could have been, and I felt that I had done my duty by reporting it…….But, I am often (jokingly) derided by C (3rd generation Irish immigrant) and my friends for my anti-Irish racism….but not by my mate in the force! 

Then there was the occasion of the on-board bomb on a plane between Manchester and Amsterdam. This was not long after the London bombings of 2005, when fear of Al Qaida was still high. It was another of those oh so typically frustrating journeys to Rotterdam. My plane had been delayed due to a technical fault. There was a lot of hanging around, but, eventually, we boarded. I was sat in the first row behind the business class section. As ever, I was first on board – I am well practised in the art of where to stand on the shuttle bus to be sure to alight before other passengers. As ever, having already checked out the on-board totty (the stewardesses), I paid attention to the talent that might be boarding in the guise of female passengers – I have to explain that this is typical male behaviour and does not mean that I am a pervert or anything – while looking for potential hijackers, bombers and the like. As you do. As I do. 

I noticed one obviously African couple get on board. I say obviously African because both of them were in traditional tribal robes and headdress. T his was what had brought them to my attention. That and the fact that the guy was carrying the biggest, squarest, reddest holdall that you had ever seen. He placed it in the over-head lockers in the business class section and went to sit towards the back of the plane. This was not suspicious in itself, as often passengers would leave their luggage at the first possible spot they found in the overheads.

No, my suspicions were raised by subsequent events. The cabin crew carried out the passenger count. They did this three times. An announcement came asking if anyone on board was actually booked on the later flight to Amsterdam (which due to our delay, was scheduled to now leave just 10 minutes later). The announcement was repeated, twice. Eventually they must have cross-referenced the boarding ticket stubs and they identified that the extra passenger on board was, indeed, this African man that I had seen earlier. He was asked to leave. He left. He left without the big, red, square bag in business class……..(at this point, if this was a movie, there would be suitable mood music such as the da da music in Jaws…..) 

I was suspicious. I discussed my suspicions with the guy next to me. He was suspicious. I discussed my suspicions with the cabin crew. The stewardess was suspicious. She sent for the captain. The captain was suspicious. The captain checked and a number of us had noticed the man place the bag there when boarding. The captain tried to lift the bag down but as he did the African lady came flying down the plane to explain in pigeon English that the bag was hers and that the man had merely been carrying it for her. Very suspicious.

 We were all still suspicious, and a number of passengers around me told the captain that unless the bag was removed that they would leave the plane. The captain went to speak to the air traffic people and, it would seem a security protocol was put into place. This security protocol seemed to hinge on making sure that if we had a bomb on board, the loss of life and damage to the terminal would be kept to a minimum by moving the plane to a safe area. With us on board. The doors were shut, the engines were started, and, we taxied to a far corner of the airport. Clearly, it was not our potential loss of life or damage to our plane with which the controllers were concerned. The bag was removed to the safety (not) of the galley area with the curtain closed. I hadn’t realised those curtains were bomb proof. I still suspect that they are not.  The bag was searched by the captain, and declared to be safe……….. 

I can look back and smile at the incident now. It is a good dinner party story. Admittedly though, it is not as good a story as Smithy’s. Smithy is the boyfriend of my sister-in-law, Debs. He is a pilot. He once diverted a plane en route from India to Manchester to Germany because of a suspicious package on board. The package turned out to be an embarrassed passenger’s colostomy bag…… 

You all be careful out there and do it to them before they do it to us. 

Planes, Trains, And Automobiles Part 4

Part 4 – More Leg Room Please

 I’m back. Did you miss me? We had a wonderful time. I am even a little brown. And, I know that you don’t want to hear another word about my holiday, do you?

But, how do the airlines get away with it!?! This was my first experience of economy-class long-haul. I know, I know. I’ve been spoilt and I should count myself lucky. But, seriously, how do they get away with it? I have seen sheep transporters on British motorways that have offered more wiggle-room than we had. Air France, shame on you!

We flew out from Paris Charles de Gaulle/Roissy . The French give the airport two names just to confuse you and to make it quite, quite clear that they are different. The airport is known everywhere in the world as Charles de Gaulle. Everywhere except France that is. CDG is even used as the international shorthand for the airport. You will get CDG on your baggage tickets. But, as soon as you land it is “Bienvenue a Roissy!” This is just some sick Frenchman’s pitiful attempt to disorientate you; to make some weary traveller panic that he is in the wrong place. Shame on you Charles de Gaulle. Shame on you France. Shame on you Air France.

We flew out on a 747 Jumbo. C and I were in row 25, in the window and middle seat. C likes the window seat. I am not sure why. You can hardly see very much in the dark and they make you shutter it for most of the time on long-haul flights. Except for take-off and landing of course.

Apparently, according to my mate Smithy the pilot, they dim the cabin lights and insist on having all windows open (well the little blind thing up – I haven’t actually been on a plane with windows that open) so that your eyes are adjusted to the ambient light. So that you can see better in the event of something happening. Something like crashing, catching fire, or being hit by a terrorist’s shoulder held surface-to-air missile. To be quite frank, that is the kind of thing I would rather not see coming!

As readers of my previous blogs will know (see the Planes, Trains and Automobile entries), I prefer an aisle seat. My motives for this are, well, many and varied but on long-haul the main ones would be a) you can get out of your seat whenever you want to for toilet or booze without disturbing those weird folk that tend to be placed in the seat next to you, and b) the extra leg room. You cannot imagine the relief of brief opportunities to stretch a leg down the aisle in between trolleys.

But, on this occasion, C got her window seat and I got stuck in the middle. A petite Vietnamese lady sat in the aisle. She was about five foot nothing and her legs dangled off the end of the seat without reaching the floor. So, the aisle seat with its leg stretching opportunities was clearly wasted on her! My legs, however, were parted either side of magazine pocket and my knees wedged firmly against the back of the seat in front of me. Now at six feet and an important half inch tall I am hardly a midget, but nor am I a giant. This leg room was frankly pitiful.

I was wedged in and there I stayed for the better, no, the worse part of eleven hours. The twee Vietnamese lady to my left popped a couple of sleeping pills during the safety demonstration, which for some strange reason does not include any reference to the fact that being completely comatose in the event of an “ on-board incident” can clearly damage your health and the health of the poor sod wedged into the seat next to you. Me. She was out of it. In the event that this plane went down, C and I were going down with her!

Those little bottles of water that they give you on long-haul flights aren’t to prevent dehydration you know. No, they are designed to be emptied and then used as a personal relieving vessel (piss pot) by people wedged in the middle seat and who cannot get out to go to the loo.

It is impossible to sleep well when your knees are stuck firmly against the seat in front of you. It is impossible to sleep when the dainty Asian lady next to you keeps wriggling in her sleep and banging her arse against your armrest. Sleep would not come, despite the best endeavours of the Air France trolley dollies who plied me with alcohol and tried to induce slumber via the in-flight “entertainment”. I use the word incorrectly. It was not entertaining. Normally, the movie “A Night at the Museum” followed by back-to-back National Geographic documentaries, in French, would be enough to bring a coma on. But not when you are wedged in the middle seat of an Air France 747. Not when you have lost all feeling from the knees down. Not when your knees are bleeding because they have chafed against the seat in front. Not when your next-door neighbour keeps rubbing her bum against your elbow. Not when your thoughts are filled with the prospect of deep vein thrombosis and the growing awareness that your bladder is full!

Please Air France. Can we have more leg room?

More Leg Room Please!

I’m back. Did you miss me? We had a wonderful time. I am even a little brown. And, I know that you don’t want to hear another word about my holiday, do you? 

But, how do the airlines get away with it!?! This was my first experience of economy-class long-haul. I know, I know. I’ve been spoilt and I should count myself lucky. But, seriously, how do they get away with it? I have seen sheep transporters on British motorways that have offered more wiggle-room than we had. Air France, shame on you! 

We flew out from Paris Charles de Gaulle/Roissy . The French give the airport two names just to confuse you and to make it quite, quite clear that they are different. The airport is known everywhere in the world as Charles de Gaulle. Everywhere except France that is. CDG is even used as the international shorthand for the airport. You will get CDG on your baggage tickets. But, as soon as you land it is “Bienvenue a Roissy!” This is just some sick Frenchman’s pitiful attempt to disorientate you; to make some weary traveller panic that he is in the wrong place. Shame on you Charles de Gaulle. Shame on you France. Shame on you Air France. 

We flew out on a 747 Jumbo. C and I were in row 25, in the window and middle seat. C likes the window seat. I am not sure why. You can hardly see very much in the dark and they make you shutter it for most of the time on long-haul flights. Except for take-off and landing of course.  

Apparently, according to my mate Smithy the pilot, they dim the cabin lights and insist on having all windows open (well the little blind thing up – I haven’t actually been on a plane with windows that open) so that your eyes are adjusted to the ambient light. So that you can see better in the event of something happening. Something like crashing, catching fire, or being hit by a terrorist’s shoulder held surface-to-air missile. To be quite frank, that is the kind of thing I would rather not see coming!

 

As readers of my previous blogs will know (see the Planes, Trains and Automobile entries), I prefer an aisle seat. My motives for this are, well, many and varied but on long-haul the main ones would be a) you can get out of your seat whenever you want to for toilet or booze without disturbing those weird folk that tend to be placed in the seat next to you, and b) the extra leg room. You cannot imagine the relief of brief opportunities to stretch a leg down the aisle in between trolleys. 

But, on this occasion, C got her window seat and I got stuck in the middle. A petite Vietnamese lady sat in the aisle. She was about five foot nothing and her legs dangled off the end of the seat without reaching the floor. So, the aisle seat with its leg stretching opportunities was clearly wasted on her! My legs, however, were parted either side of magazine pocket and my knees wedged firmly against the back of the seat in front of me. Now at six feet and an important half inch tall I am hardly a midget, but nor am I a giant. This leg room was frankly pitiful. 

I was wedged in and there I stayed for the better, no, the worse part of eleven hours. The twee Vietnamese lady to my left popped a couple of sleeping pills during the safety demonstration, which for some strange reason does not include any reference to the fact that being completely comatose in the event of an “ on-board incident” can clearly damage your health and the health of the poor sod wedged into the seat next to you. Me. She was out of it. In the event that this plane went down, C and I were going down with her! 

Those little bottles of water that they give you on long-haul flights aren’t to prevent dehydration you know. No, they are designed to be emptied and then used as a personal relieving vessel (piss pot) by people wedged in the middle seat and who cannot get out to go to the loo. 

It is impossible to sleep well when your knees are stuck firmly against the seat in front of you. It is impossible to sleep when the dainty Asian lady next to you keeps wriggling in her sleep and banging her arse against your armrest. Sleep would not come, despite the best endeavours of the Air France trolley dollies who plied me with alcohol and tried to induce slumber via the in-flight “entertainment”. I use the word incorrectly. It was not entertaining.  Normally, the movie “A Night at the Museum” followed by back-to-back National Geographic documentaries, in French, would be enough to bring a coma on. But not when you are wedged in the middle seat of an Air France 747. Not when you have lost all feeling from the knees down. Not when your knees are bleeding because they have chafed against the seat in front. Not when your next-door neighbour keeps rubbing her bum against your elbow. Not when your thoughts are filled with the prospect of deep vein thrombosis and the growing awareness that your bladder is full! 

Please Air France. Can we have more leg room?

A Bientot!

A Bientot!

The Middle Man is going on a very well-deserved holiday. I’ll be away for a couple of weeks, so you have no excuse for not catching up on reading through all my posts to date.

For those of you who know me well (or, who think you do), you will know that I only really begin to unwind upon arrival. Safe and sound. In thirty degrees and luxurious splendour. The first “holiday beer”…..

Getting the cat to the cattery (today’s unpleasant task) and inter-continental air travel are not without stress, as my entries “Planes, Trains & Automobiles” and “My Family and Other Animals” and other various escapades of the furball baby, Maslow, show. So wish us “bon voyage”.

And I don’t care about my carbon imprint! This long-haul flight is for C and I, and, this is one holiday we deserve. However, this is my first experience of inter-continental economy class. Wish me luck. Perhaps those nice people at Air France will take pity and upgrade us. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, happy blogging everyone. See you in a couple of weeks.