Air Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  Orgies and homosexual encounters notwithstanding, most of the time the captain and first officer are as bored as Richard and Ashley are now, and the only thing to inspire them is how much money they are earning. Cathay Pacific is supposedly the highest-paying airline, shelling out some £168K for a captain. We, on the other hand, pay our pilots £90K and our first officers £58K, but they make it up with flight pay which is another £10 an hour for every hour you are away from home. BA long haul are much better than that: on one trip to Cape Town you can add another £1.5K to your monthly salary. So you can begin to understand the appeal of long trips and time spent away from home.

  But it’s not all flatulence and quick fumbles with hosties. Pilots have to spend at least two days in a simulator every six months where every emergency under the sun is thrown at them, to help weed out those no longer capable of flying. They are also drug- and urine-tested as part of a six-monthly medical if they are over forty, and once a year if they’re under. And they can be breathalysed on the flight deck, although plenty of pilots do fly with alcohol in their system, especially after a stopover where they have been drinking till five a.m. and have to fly at seven. A first officer mate of mine says that about 75 per cent of pilots fly with hangovers. But perhaps the most tricky thing of all for a pilot who sits on his arse, eats and talks all day is not putting on too much weight, because they also have to stay trim enough to make it through the small window in the cockpit. It has an escape rope curled above it that has to be scaled in emergencies. So there is such a thing as being too fat to fly. And judging by the gut that hangs over Richard’s trousers as he tucks into his sandwich, he is heading that way.

  ‘The stars are good tonight,’ he says, his mouth full as he stares out of the window. ‘There’s no pollution up here. Apart from us, obviously.’

  It’s true. The stars through the heated windscreen do look amazing, as if someone has sprayed a can of white paint across the sky.

  ‘It’s just a shame I know fuck all about them,’ he adds, taking another bite.

  ‘I had a St Elmo’s Fire the other day,’ says Ashley.

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Is that when the windscreen changes colour?’

  ‘That’s right. The whole thing is lit up by static electricity. It went red, white and purple. Amazing.’

  ‘I remember once we had a red football of electricity come through the windscreen and bounce around the cabin,’ declares Richard. ‘That was stunning.’

  ‘That must be amazing,’ I say, getting carried away. ‘Have you ever seen a UFO?’

  Richard looks at me like I’m a total moron. ‘Fuck off,’ he says, before taking another bite of his sandwich.

  The intercom goes. ‘We’re thinking of having a party. Shall I get you some pickled herring?’

  Ashley gets out of his seat to open the door.

  ‘I’m bored of pickled herring,’ says Richard. ‘We’ve got to think of a better password.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ashley agrees. ‘And anyway, you’ve still got to say “Get your kit off” on the intercom before the end of the flight.’

  ‘I know,’ nods Richard. ‘I’m working on that.’

  Loraine walks into the cabin, carrying another tray. ‘I’ve brought you some mineral water,’ she says. ‘Keep you nice and hydrated.’

  ‘How many more times?’ He sighs, leaning back into his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. ‘We are not to have that stuff on flights any more. There are so many minerals in the water and when you’re dehydrated like we are all the time it gives you kidney stones. American Airlines are supposed to be suing the company.’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Loraine, suitably chastened by Richard’s tirade.

  ‘Call yourself a flight attendant?’ he says.

  ‘What would you like, Captain?’ she asks.

  ‘Anything other than that shit.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Everything else all right back there?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘The boy band?’

  ‘Nothing we can’t handle.’

  ‘I’ll put the heating up in a minute. That’ll send everyone off.’

  ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I’m going for another drink, so I’ll see you later?’

  ‘Absolutely, mate,’ sniffs Richard. ‘The crew room in Dubai, it’s a date.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Oh, one thing,’ he says as I stand up to leave. ‘Not a word about the lost wheel.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘I’ll call Gareth in for a NITS briefing later on. No need to worry anyone for the moment.’

  A NITS briefing usually follows six chimes, and it means there is an emergency. The number one gets called to the intercom and the captain discusses the Nature of the emergency, Intentions, Timings and Special instructions. The number one then has to repeat it all back to the captain just in case he or she is hysterical. If after the six bells and the NITS briefing all avenues have been covered and all else fails, the plane will issue a mayday call, which comes from the French m’aidez (help me). Although, this really is a last resort. Let’s hope our missing wheel doesn’t lead to that, I think, as I walk past the buzzing boy band on my way back to club.

  11 PM–12 AM

  BACK IN CLUB, the lights are low and the atmosphere is relatively quiet – all except the front row that is. Andy has moved into my seat and is drinking shots of vodka with Sue and Rachel. He turns around as I come through the curtain. His face is beginning to look slightly red and shiny beneath his orange tan.

  ‘There you are!’ he declares, as if I have been away for hours. ‘Tell me,’ he says, crossing one leg over the other, ‘how are Fun Five?’ He is slurring his words a little and his movements have become exaggerated. That old adage of one in the air equalling three on the ground is clearly taking its toll.

  ‘Um,’ I say, debating whether to tell him about their flying drug-assisted, ‘they seem to be a little quiet.’ The last thing Belinda needs is a drunk and flirtatious Andy trying to work it in first. She doesn’t need the competition.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, sounding a bit disappointed. ‘I knew they were lightweights.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, sitting down in his seat. ‘Did you get me a drink?’

  ‘Here.’ He shifts slightly in his seat to reveal a collection of some ten miniatures and a pack of small tonic tins. ‘All sorted.’ He grins. ‘The only thing I don’t have is ice.’

  ‘Impressive,’ I observe.

  ‘We were just discussing the time when you scored Rachel on the staff bus,’ he announces.

  ‘Oh good,’ I say, emptying the warm vodka miniature into my glass.

  ‘Yeah,’ continues Andy, oblivious to my growing discomfort, ‘and Rachel was just telling us that you kissed like a lizard.’ Rachel and Andy burst out laughing, Sue looks at the table in front of her, and I drain my drink in one. ‘Apparently you are one of those sticking-it-in-and-out type of kissers.’ He sticks his own tongue out and narrows it into a stiff probe, just to make his point.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I say, looking down, picking fluff off my trousers.

  I can feel my ears growing red, and the embarrassment in Sue’s eyes. This is not quite how I’d hoped the evening might pan out. I was supposed to be witty, charming and amusing, the sort of bloke a glamorous flight attendant might look twice at. But the idea that Sue feels anything for me other than pity is clearly careering out of the window.

  ‘People change,’ she says suddenly.

  ‘What?’ asks Andy, cracking open a tonic.

  ‘People change,’ Sue repeats, rather bravely. I look up and catch her eye. ‘I used to be a terrible kisser. I once put my tongue up someone’s nose.’

  ‘But you were probably twelve,’ declares Andy, ‘not nearly forty.’

  ‘It wasn’t that long ago,’ she mutters, taking a sip of champagne. We all know she is lying.

  We sit in silence for a second. Andy pours himself another drink and opens a bag of pretzels, shoving a
small fistful into his mouth. He turns towards me and, with a rather puzzled expression on his face, sniffs.

  ‘Can you smell something?’ he asks.

  I nod. I didn’t want to say anything before just in case it was him, but there really is quite a stench back here and it appears to be getting worse.

  ‘I think it’s coming from over there,’ he continues, pointing at the fat bloke to my right.

  ‘I agree,’ I say. ‘It smells like the toilets, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. It smells like shit.’

  ‘It’s not Tom’s laxative man, is it?’ asks Sue from the other side. ‘Sometimes the smell of the toilets can come up this way.’

  ‘No.’ Andy shakes his head. ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Do you think it will pass?’ I ask, leaning back. The smell is beginning to get slightly overpowering.

  ‘Not in my experience,’ says Andy. ‘Smells like this only tend to get worse.’

  ‘I think we’d better do something about it before it takes over the whole cabin,’ I say, getting out of my seat and walking towards the galley.

  The place is empty. They must all be in economy. I turn and walk past the sleeping fat bloke and the turd smell is now very strong. My eyes water slightly and it’s all I can do to stop myself retching. I walk towards the back of the plane and poke my head into the galley. There are about six flight attendants sitting in there. Some are squatting on silver food boxes, others are perched on the jumpseats and two are sitting on plastic bags on the floor. They are eating their supper. Some are polishing off what looks like the remains of the lamb curry, others are eating homemade-looking sandwiches and a couple are sharing a bag of crisps.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I say.

  They all turn and look at me. I have clearly interrupted something.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks Tom, who has a drink in one hand and the remains of a sandwich in the other.

  ‘Um,’ I say again, ‘there’s a bit of a stench in club and we think it’s coming from the fat bloke sitting next to Andy at the front.’

  ‘What do you want us to do about it?’ asks a young blonde sitting on the floor. Her mouth hangs open at the end of the sentence, attitude seeping from every pore.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ she replies, her head cocking to one side as she stares at me.

  I recognize her as the girl who had marmalade on her face and who blew a tampon during the earlier safety display at the front of club. I’m not usually one to pull rank, but . . .

  ‘I’m duty airport manager for the airline, so it’s quite a lot to do with me.’

  It’s like someone has kicked one of Richard’s red electric footballs into the area. Everyone suddenly sits up, puts down their drinks and metaphorically stubs out their fags. Sir’s arrived, and he means business.

  ‘Oh, right,’ she says, pulling her skirt down towards her knees. ‘I’m Angela and I’m new.’

  ‘OK, Angela.’ I smile. ‘Has anyone got the PIL so that we can check to see if there is anything we need to know about him?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ says Tom, getting off his silver box and putting down what looks like a vodka-ed orange juice.

  He pulls out the passenger information list from behind a tin container full of foil-covered dishes of half-cooked breakfasts and hands it over to me. Looking down the list I can see who has paid full price for their ticket, who is a gold-card upgrade and who has requested special meals, special assistance or special status for whatever reason. Even groups are marked as together. There seems to be a convention of doctors on board today. I run my finger down the list, looking for the seat next to Andy, 14 E. I find him. His name is Graham Nutall and according to the list he has a kidney problem and a colostomy bag.

  ‘He’s got a colostomy bag,’ I announce to the group.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ declares Tom, helpfully holding his nose to illustrate his distaste. ‘That sounds disgusting.’

  ‘Yes, well, he clearly needs to be woken up and told that it needs emptying.’ I look around the galley foolishly searching for volunteers. Everyone looks at the floor or suddenly becomes interested in their fingernails. ‘Anyone?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ announces Edith, who appears to have been standing behind me throughout.

  ‘Will you?’ I ask, turning round.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, looking so not bothered. Her eyes are half asleep, the expression on her face is mute. ‘I don’t see what the problem is.’

  ‘Well, thank you. It is beginning to be a bit unpleasant up the front.’

  ‘I can’t smell anything,’ she says as she turns to leave. ‘But then I’m not feeling much these days.’

  ‘Is she all right?’ I ask Tom after she has gone.

  ‘It’s the abortion,’ he says in front of the whole crew. No-one bats an eyelid. There are clearly no secrets here. ‘She hasn’t been the same since.’

  ‘I think it’s knocked her sideways,’ agrees Angela from the floor. ‘Not that I knew her before, but it’s what everyone tells me. You know, by all accounts she used to be a right old laugh. Not any more. Mind you, if I was forced to have a termination in Thailand by the company I think I might go a bit crackers. Think how filthy the place must have been.’ She pulls a face. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  There’s a general murmur of agreement from the rest of the crew.

  ‘Gillian went a bit odd after hers,’ declares a brunette I haven’t seen before.

  ‘Did she?’ says someone else.

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Which one’s Gillian?’ asks a blonde.

  ‘You know, small, red hair, worked with us on the last Singapore run.’

  ‘Oh, right, her. Who got her in trouble, so to speak?’

  ‘Who’s in trouble?’ asks Edith as she comes back into the galley.

  ‘No-one,’ say Tom, Angela, the brunette and the blonde all at once. They could not look more guilty.

  Fortunately, Edith is too off the ball to notice, or perhaps care. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Well, Mr Nutall is refusing to change or empty his colostomy bag.’

  ‘What?’ asks Tom.

  ‘Yup. And short of dragging him to the toilet myself and pulling his trousers down, there is very little I can do.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s refusing?’ asks Tom again.

  ‘He said no,’ says Edith.

  ‘Can’t he smell himself?’ asks the brunette.

  ‘Apparently not,’ says Edith.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ says Tom.

  ‘It’s actually against flight regs, isn’t it?’ asks Angela. ‘We stop people from flying if they smell, so . . .’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ says Tom, ‘we’re in the air already.’

  ‘I know that,’ she replies. ‘But you know . . .’

  ‘Are you suggesting that we put down to get the smelly bastard off the plane?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She looks embarrassed.

  ‘Do we have any air fresheners?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing that strong,’ says Tom.

  Everyone in the galley sits and thinks for a second.

  ‘I know,’ says the brunette, ‘what about Poison?’

  ‘What?’ asks Tom. ‘Poison him?’

  ‘No, Poison the perfume,’ she says. ‘Christian Dior. It’s the strongest-smelling stuff I know and we’ve got some on the duty-free trolley.

  ‘Brilliant,’ says Tom. ‘Give it here. I’ll go and spray the whole cabin and see how he likes that.’

  The brunette rattles around in the duty-free tray and pulls out a dark green box. She opens it, hands over the purple bottle of perfume to Tom, and he sets off into club. Just as everyone is about to congratulate themselves on a job well done and a situation sorted, the amber toilet bell starts to turn on and off in an increasingly rhythmical fashion. The whole of the galley grinds to a halt and we all stare at the flashing light.

  ‘Oh God,’ says someone. Angela rolls her
eyes. Edith sighs. ‘Someone’s in the toilets having sex.’

  There isn’t really any aviation policy on what to do when passengers are having sex in the toilet. Most of the time we choose to ignore them. It’s a poky, filthy place, and if someone wants to have sex in such a tiny space they are clearly not going to stick around in there for long. So the flight attendants tend to hold off and hope for a swift one. But sometimes, if a queue’s built up or a couple are being particularly loud, they have to interfere.

  And you’d be amazed how often it happens. Passengers get a bit giddy, drink too much alcohol, think they’re on holiday and then suddenly desire takes hold of them. It does make it slightly more palatable if they are actually a couple, but it’s surprising how many aren’t. My friend Shelly told me once about a whole load of travel agents leaving a conference in Frankfurt. She said there was this very large lady sitting in the second row of business next to her rather smaller husband. She got up and went into one of the toilets, and then Shelly noticed a man in the row in front get up and go into the same toilet. She thought she must have made a mistake, so she went and got a pen, tweaked the lock to one side and peeped through, as attendants do if they think someone might have passed out or just be locked in there, and saw them banging away. The woman was apparently so large, Shelly was astounded they were managing it at all. Anyway, five minutes later the large woman returned to her seat and sat down next to her husband who was still fast asleep, catching flies and obviously none the wiser.

  But it’s not just drunk or randy passengers who shag perfect strangers; off-duty cabin crew do the same. Shelly told me a story about a Qantas flight she was working a few years ago when she was asked to look after a passenger who’d fainted. She had to get his feet into the air to get the blood running back into his head, so she sent a hostie upstairs to the crew rest quarters to get some extra pillows. (On some long-haul flights the crew have bunks where they can rest in a container-size unit that has eight beds. It is usually situated up some stairs at the back of the plane.) The girl returned with only one pillow; she would have got more but for the couple having sex in the bunks. Shelly went upstairs to find a couple really going for it. She recognized the woman as an off-duty attendant from another airline who was travelling on a concession ticket. The man, however, was not the boyfriend she was travelling with but the stranger she was sat next to at the back of the plane. Shelly says that she brought the couple down and put them back in their seats. She says she told the woman, ‘I should report you for this. I should also have your free travel rights revoked. But I think the fact that we are discussing this in front of your boyfriend is enough, don’t you think?’