by Sloan, Phil
I blame my terror of flight on an overactive imagination. You honestly won’t believe the crazy shit that I stew over as I sit in a cramped seat thousands of feet above the ground travelling at hundreds of miles an hour biting my nails down to the quick.
I panic that a meteorite will plunge through the atmosphere and hit the fuselage causing a huge tear in the hull of the aircraft which will suck passengers out still attached to their row of chairs hurling them towards the ground to their certain doom. I wonder whether you would freeze to death first or if it would be the impact that would kill you? I guess either way you are fucked and if this does happen no one survives to tell the tale anyhow.
I then worry about when the plane was last checked over by the airlines maintenance guys. Was the team thorough enough in their testing or was it Friday afternoon just as the pub was calling so checks were rushed or forgotten completely?
How about a lightning strike or clean air turbulence? I have heard about planes suddenly dropping thousands of feet and passengers who were not buckled in to their seats breaking their necks or backs as they hit the ceiling. In my head snowstorms, random clouds and even a light drizzle of rain can bring a jet down, no sweat.
Flying over The Bermuda Triangle is obviously also a concern. Hundreds of flights have gone missing in this part of the world. Although even I do not ponder over this too much on a pan-European trip as we are miles away and going nowhere near the place. You never know though as the plane may end up getting diverted there for some obscure reason, so I can never scrub this worry fully off my ‘shitting myself list.’
I am also ‘crapping it’ about engine failure from a bird strike, pilot error, a total loss of hydraulic power and whether there is enough fuel in the tanks? Even when I hear the ping of someone’s call button my guts start spinning around like a butter churn full of shite.
Every time the pilot puts on the seat belt sign I convince myself that major trouble is in store. The captain is telling us over the Tannoy that we will soon be flying through minor turbulence and it is nothing to be worried about but I know that in reality we are going down quicker than a five dollar whore.
Don’t even mention Hijack or terrorism to me but I always cast a good eye over my fellow travellers on board just in case, reassuring myself that I could spot a nasty bastard at ten paces and would ‘hero up’ if need be to prevent a catastrophe. In reality I wouldn’t, I would just sit there quietly filling up my underpants.
I also dread alien beings in a UFO abducting the pilots in mid-air thus bringing the plane down. I definitely saw this in an episode of The X Files which as everyone knows are based on true stories. I admit this could have just been some weird old reefer induced dream I once had though and is pretty unlikely to really happen, but you never know.
My fears of being airborne have only been reinforced by Hollywood. As special effects get better and better the aeroplane crashes in the movies get ultra-realistic and totally believable. The graphic sounds, images, smashed up body parts, twisted metal and massive explosions make my arse go well slack. Watching these films, it is almost like you are a passenger on board and on your way to an urgent appointment with The Reaper of Grimness.
If they wanted to totally terrify the entire plane during a flight they should just serve up the following films on a continuous loop to all the lowlife in cattle class:
1] Final Destination. The plane becomes a huge fireball, it’s never explained why, it just does. Death by melting!
2] Die Hard 2. The baddies reset sea level by two hundred feet on the radar so as the aircraft comes in to land they are way too low and hits the deck like a blue bottle fly hitting your windscreen. Big Boom! Dental records required for body identification.
3] Fight Club. Two planes into the same air space do not go. It’s a long way down if you have not packed a parachute. Night, night!
4] Cast Away. Plane comes down in a hurricane and you end up the sole survivor on a desert island with only a volley ball to converse with. This would probably be preferable to being stuck with some of the riff raff they allow on planes today. DIY dentistry with the blade from an ice skate is also available.
5] Alive. Proof, if you need any, that you cannot fly a plane when the fucking tail has come off it after hitting a mountain in The Andes. This movie is based on a true story so is even more distressing as they have no food left and have to chow down on the corpses of their friends. Bet it tasted better than a horsemeat burger.
6] Fearless. Plane comes down well hard. If Jeff Bridges touched your shoulder as he wandered through the cabin before the crash you survived. If not, you are well over cooked and crispy by now. You will not be able to have an open coffin at your funeral.
7] Knowing. Aircraft added to overhead power lines gives you bad CGI fires. This movie has got great sound effects of tearing metal and a well mangled up airframe to recommend this scene to the discerning lover of air crash porn.
8] The Grey. An arty crash sequence but still shit me up, where has the side of the plane gone? Survivors end up as wolf tucker.
Hopefully after reading all this old tosh about my flying fears, I have somehow managed to infect you with my concerns then I won’t be the only prat hyper-ventilating during the next flight I have to take. Enjoy! Welcome aboard Flight Paranoia.
And so the time has come for us to teach dear old Paddy a lesson. He has been silent for at least ten minutes now, deep asleep due to all the illicit substances he has snuffled up.
Revenge will be ours. Amnesty has a big pack of chewing gum which he has been dishing out to all the lads sitting around the plane.
Everyone is chewing away like a cow chomping down on some cud. Amnesty has told us all to mould little cock and bollocks out of the gum which we will then stick on to Paddy’s face.
It is a military operation. One at a time we go into stealth mode and creep up the aisle to where Paddy is giving it some pretty major Z time. Then as quietly as possible we affix the penis of chewy onto Paddy’s boat race.
Somehow we manage not to wake him as it is a real effort not to scream with laughter at the sleeping simpleton, as he looks well funny with a face covered in tiny nobs.
By the time we have all paid him a visit, Paddy looks like that Pinhead demon creature in the Hellraiser flicks but with miniature meat and two veg all over him, not razor sharp pins.
He has become a living breathing work of modern art, we could string him up in The Tate and all retire on the dosh we would be paid for our handiwork.
People are walking down the plane to point and chuckle at the comatose chap with a canister covered in chewing gum cocks.
It is brilliant. Even the cabin crew come along and take photographs of the buffoon to show to their mates. They love it and ship us in some free tinnies of lager to thank us for cutting the gobby tosser down to size.
Paddy is snoring away still in blissful ignorance of the fact that he has a face full of mini man meat models. A legend is made, a star is born.
Unfortunately the peace and quiet does not last long. Soon the beast awakens and he is not happy. We can see Paddy pulling off all the gum-nadgers off his face. In his drunken state he has managed to get some of the sticky stuff stuck in his Barnet and he is going spare.
Paddy repeatedly buzzes the call button above his seat and is asking the two old biddies next to him if they know who did this to him. The pair of them cop a deaf ‘un and want no part of it. The coffin dodgers stare out the window wishing they were sitting anywhere else on the plane and wondering why they always end up lumbered with a head case in their row. They decide that they are going to fly club class next time to avoid the pond life scum you get seated in economy.
Finally one of the air stewardesses reaches Paddy’s seat and ask him what the problem is. He then has the audacity to blame her for the penile protuberances that have mysteriously appeared while he slept. He is really going into one asking why she stuck the crud all over his face and that he wants to talk to the pilot and
/or his local Member of Parliament to put a strongly worded complaint in.
The poor woman is desperately trying to calm Paddy down apologising for the incident and asking him if he would like some free coffee to sober him up.
He then starts demanding his membership of The Mile High Club which he swears blind was promised to him when he booked his ticket. ‘Come on Air Bint how about a quick knee trembler in the bog? You know you want to, you dirty slag!’ he shouts.
That’s it. The air stewardess has had enough and she slaps Paddy around the face with an open hand, hard! It is a beauty of a smack as we all heard it from our seats way at the back of the plane. Serves him right, she should have just opened the door and flung him out to his doom.
She storms off leaving Paddy sitting there with the perfect imprint of her hand in red etched on his cheek. Bet that stung like fuck. He doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered by the slap and sits there grinning away like an imbecile.
All the other passengers around him are stunned into silence and all look away not wanting to catch the mad man’s eyes. You could hear a pin drop through the aircraft until the old broken record starts up again with a yell of:
‘THERE’S MORE TO IRELAND THAN THIS!!!!’
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER…..NOT ONE………IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE YOU COULD LEGALLY SMOKE ON A PLANE AND JOIN THE ELITE RANKS OF THE ‘MILE HIGH TAB CLUB’…………………..…36 TO GO.
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 3 MINIATURE BOTTLES OF TIA MARIA…..REMEMBER THE RULES….ON A FLIGHT DON’T DIE SOBER.
Chapter Twenty Five: A Quick Nightcap, I mean Recap.
As we have now rechristened all our barmy band of hard smoking and binge drinking bastards here is a quick recap of who is who:
Kid A: Deviant
Kid B: Amnesty
Kid C: Village Idiot
Kid D: Euro Boy [Stag of Edinburgh Trip AKA Your Narrator]
Kid E: Mule
Kid F: Burke
Kid G: Gap
Kid H: Hit
Kid I: Run
Kid J: Chariots [Stag of Amsterdam Trip]
Kid K: Light [or was it Weight?]
Kid L: Dung Beetle
Kid M: Paddy
Kid N: Weight [or was it Light?]
All these lads were given perfectly acceptable names by their parents at birth, but I’m buggered if I can actually remember any of them now. Their legends live on……
Chapter Twenty Six: The Luggage Carousel of Doom
‘Thank you for flying flight 69 from Amsterdam. Welcome to London Gatwick, where the temperature is sub-zero, it is pissing down with rain and the local time is 5:25 PM.’
Arse! It’s Sunday evening and the pubs turf you out at ten thirty. That means I have less than five hours to puff my way through the remaining thirty six smokes.
I calculate my FPH speed (that’s Fags Per Hour) is about seven or approximately one cigarette every eight minutes. That should be a breeze or should I say a huge nicotine cumulus cloud of gas to inhale. But I am going to do it!
What started as some macho bet has now become a matter of family pride. I will get through that carton of ciggies if it’s the last thing that I do. I’ve always wanted lungs as knackered as a 1920’s coal miner or a 1950’s asbestos worker and finally my wish is coming true.
I am wheezing away like a ninety year old codger trudging down the local high street through a snow storm to collect his pension from the post office.
They say that over indulgence is a great way to finally stop smoking and I could not agree more. It is lucky that the same principle does not apply to alcoholic bevvies otherwise I would be a tee total by now!
The plane finally lands, taxis to the gate and comes to a stop. The front door is opened and we all troop down to baggage reclaim to grab our bags. My pooper stops going ten to the dozen and my heart rate goes back down to normal now I am off that aluminium flying bird in one piece. I light up a cigarette to chill me out.
We get to the reclaim area and are prepared for the usual lengthy wait for our luggage to appear. All the lads around me are bored already and have started arsing about.
Chariots has his two giant vibrators out again which are merrily buzzing away, waiting for the moment when they will be shoved somewhere that the sun does not shine.
Amnesty and Deviant are giving some Doris standing near them the glad eye. Hit and Run are playing ‘Penny up the Wall’ together, gambling the minutes away until hopefully our bags appear. Unless of course they have ended up anywhere else on the planet but where they are meant to be. This is a distinct possibility.
Village Idiot and Mule are well pissed up, having spent the flight quaffing mini bottles of champagne and are now play fighting, acting out the final scene of The Karate Kid. One of them stands on one leg while shouting out ‘Wax on! Wax off!’ and then does a high flying kick that narrowly misses the balls/gut/throat/moosh of the other fighter.
This is not a sensible course of action as they are both well bandy and there is a great chance that claret will be spilt. Although a spray of arterial blood will certainly liven up a well dull wait for the luggage carousel to start up so we leave them to it.
After I have sucked through two more smokes the thing finally grinds into life and the belt starts going around but without one single item of baggage on it. Folks start to crowd around hoping that their bags will appear first, so they can get home.
The carousel is a huge oval shape that goes around the hall and then disappears beneath strips of plastic that look like a huge jelly fish has been stuck to the doorframe leading out to the loading area behind. This plastic stuff stops you peeking out at the room where the baggage handlers stand around scratching their back sides, reading newspapers and generally doing anything but unloading the suitcases awaiting collection.
(Dear reader I don’t mean to be condescending by explaining to you what a luggage carousel is. I am sure the vast majority of you are well travelled intelligent individuals. I have put this paragraph in for the plebeians who have never boarded an aircraft before and think that I am talking about a funfair carousel for kids. They are expecting some garishly painted horses to appear in this tale instead of suitcases and for that horrendous pipe music to start up that goes on until you want to rip your own ears off!)
Occasionally a lonely bag does travel around the carousel until someone claims it or it disappears out the back again to then return, minutes later for another victory lap.
Mule and Village are getting well close to the belt now and their fight has become serious. They are doing some mad karate moves both of them looking like Bruce Lee if he had been on a twenty-pies-a-day diet. Suddenly Mule does a crazy two footed flying kick that smashes into Villages mid-riff sending him through the air to crash down onto the baggage carousel.
Due to the fact that Village is hammered and that the belt is moving a furious rate of knots he cannot seem to get off of it.
His legs are hanging over the side and the people gathered around the carousel waiting in vain for their suitcases all have to take evasive action to avoid getting booted.
‘Sluts!’ Village yells as he passes the other passengers by. ‘Help me you sluts!’ He is really struggling to get off but the belt sends him round the hall and through the plastic covering out to the loading room at the back.
As Village appears sitting on the belt, one of the baggage handlers exclaims ‘What the fuck are you doing out here mate? This is a restricted area. You can’t be out here. I’m calling security.’
Village does not hear a word of it but unbelievably spots his bag on the trolley that the guys are just starting to unload.
‘I say old bean,’ the Village Idiot utters in a plummy English accent, ‘would one of you kind fellows mind passing me that grey sports bag over there? It’s the one with the words VILLAGE IS A CUNT written on it in black marker pen.’
The handler man is so shocked that he hands Village his bag as he trundles past on the belt. As he reap
pears through the plastic sheeting into the reclaim hall he lifts his bag skywards like he is holding up the World Cup or something and shouts ‘The self-service baggage collection carousel is now open!!’
He travels around on the belt proudly showing the crowd the cuss word written on his bag to where we are standing and we help him off almost uncontrollable with laughter.
Only Village could pull a stunt like that without getting a punch and/or getting arrested. He opens up his bag, pulls out a huge bottle of vodka which he unscrews and swigs down his gullet. ‘Come on lads, let’s get loudy!’ he screams as we all pass his booze around necking it furiously.
All our bags eventually turn up so we head through to customs. It is then that I realise that I still have two poly bags full of cannabis in my pocket. I meant to smoke it all before we got on the plane but in the mad rush to the airport and all that Chariots buffoonery I completely forgot about them. It is too late to bin them now I’ll have to keep my fingers crossed I don’t get caught.
As we walk towards the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel I totally start to brick myself. Even though I only have an eighth of gear or less on me, I imagine getting caught and banged up in some shit-hole prison like in Midnight Express. All I would have in my future would be a life sentence of arse rape, chivvings with sharpened up tooth brushes and a shower room far worse than the one at school or in the kebab house of Amsterdam.
Let’s face it though with this quantity in my pocket I am hardly some international drugs baron like top man Howard Marks!
I break into a sweat. My under arms gush like Niagara Falls as my face goes all shiny and moon like. Quite simply I look as guilty as a motherfucker. I pray that there are no customs officers on duty but some hope, as we turn the corner there are tons of the uniformed bastards waiting there but luckily no sniffer dogs.