Shiny Happy People

Usually when I am on a flight, I hear from the captain and the flight crew during the course of the flight. These fine people speak to the passengers in a professional and informative manner and we all understand what they say and are happy, informed and reassured.

Some flight companies adopt a slightly different approach. I recently returned from a holiday in Croatia with one of them (I’m not saying which).

Rather than letting the flight crew speak, we were subjected to messages pre-recorded by what I can only describe as “shiny happy people”.

The messages alternated between a man who seemed high on euphoria and a women totally immersed in rapture. I can kind of sense why these recordings exist and what they are meant to achieve but I get the feeling, looking around at my fellow passengers, that their goals weren’t quite met.

The airline is a budget airline that is striving to get people in the mood for their holiday while at the same time trying to raise their spirits about the two and a half hour flight ahead. It worked better on the journey out but not so well on the journey back.

I heard one guy say “What do they mean welcoming us home as if it is the best thing since sliced bread? I don’t WANT to come home! I was on holiday and I want to STAY THERE!”

It didn’t bother me too much because deep down I prefer happy people to miserable buggers (even though I can be a bit of a miserable bugger myself sometimes).  However, it got me thinking – always a dangerous thing.

What if the plane had a fault and both engines failed? What would happen as the aircraft started to dive towards the sea? Do they have a pre-recorded message for that?

Happy Man:  “Hey holiday makers! We hope you are enjoying our AMAZING flight but we do have a slight problem. Nothing to worry about but the aircraft is now plummeting towards the Atlantic Ocean as a rate of knots.”

Happy Woman: “Yes – the water is REALLY WARM at this time of year and to make sure that you fully enjoy it, please BRACE now! If you don’t know how to BRACE, our WONDERFUL flight crew will help you. IF you hear your fellow passengers SCREAMING, rest assured that they are screams of EXCITEMENT at a plunge into the warm wonderful water!”

Happy Man: “And after impact we will do our very best to get any survivors out of the aircraft as quickly as possible!”

Okay – that’s a bit extreme, I admit, but there are a lot of shiny happy people around, particularly on the radio and our telly boxes.

I no longer listen to the radio, apart from the news channel when I wake up, but in the past I recall overly happy DJs laughing at – well – nothing - in such a forced way that I thought they were all having a seizure.

I know things haven’t changed because this morning I saw an advert for the breakfast show on a local bus with pictures of demented looking DJs guffawing at something that was out of shot with a line that explained that their show was a mixture of music and “banter”. 

I assume that "banter" means lots of in-jokes from the DJ team that result in bouts of hysterical laughter at their own expense that the general public don't really find funny at all, especially while stuck in traffic, driving to a mundane job on a miserable, cold, dark Manchester Monday morning in the middle of January.

Similarly light entertainment programmes on TV are full of presenters who seem to have taken some form of drug to make them laugh hysterically at dull items and equally dull celebrity guests that I have never heard of as they try to plug their latest projects.

I am sure that you are now reading this thinking “You miserable bastard! Why don’t you just lighten up?”

The truth is that I provide my own form of entertainment on a daily basis at work by ranting mercilessly about things like reality TV, music, politics and shiny happy celebrities, causing joyous merriment amongst my co-workers as they realise that I am just a cantankerous old git who doesn’t understand modern culture.

And they are right.

But at least their laughter is genuine.

I’ll leave you with the song that inspired the title of this post.

I’m the grumpy git peddling at the start of the video.

Please don’t laugh.

The Ten Commandments Of Flying

I have flown a lot. I can tolerate short haul flights (up to three hours in duration) but I genuinely hate flying long haul. Even the excitement of reaching an exotic and interesting location cannot haul me out of the depths of despair at the prospect of spending twelve hours on a metal tube with wings.

Don’t get me wrong – I am not afraid of flying. I just hate it because it is so dull and uncomfortable.

However, the tedium of flying can be improved by following one of the ten commandments that I have just created.

If you are ever unlucky enough to find yourself on an aircraft sitting next to a grumpy blonde baboon with a hybrid Mancunian/Black Country accent then our mutual of enjoyment of the flight will be guaranteed if you follow the following guidelines.

1. Thou shalt not talk to me during the flight unless it is an emergency. 

Don’t get me wrong – I am a nice guy and willing to talk to most people. And I will allow a few words to be exchanged at the start or the end of the flight. However, if you are a talkative person and want to spend the next twelve hours engaging me in conversation about your life and experiences –JUST DON’T.

I speak from bitter experience.

One guy on a flight back from Europe told me that the book I was reading was rubbish and then proceeded to tell me the ending even when he saw that I was halfway through the thing.

“Ditch it!” he said. “Read something else.”

“I only have this book,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You’ll thank me,” said the prick.

“Okay!", I said. "Thanks for ruining the book and my flight!”

2. Thou shalt not grab my hand during turbulence or tell me that you are scared of flying all the way through the flight.

Related to the above, I was on a four hour domestic flight next to a guy about my age. As the plane took off, he turned to me and said. “I’m terrified of flying.”

I told him that flying was a doddle and he should relax. And for a while he did – until we hit turbulence about an hour into the flight. He grabbed my hand and said “That’s not normal!”

I tried to reassure him that it was but he wouldn’t have it. The remaining three hours were interrupted with shakes and bumps and he spent all of that time telling me in a variety of ways just how terrified he was. I could do nothing other than spend that time as a simian counsellor.

He thanked me at the end for being “a rock” but the truth is I almost asked to be moved. And my poor hand hurt. And the other passengers probably thought we were a couple.

3. Thou shalt not attempt to climb over me while I am asleep on a long haul flight.

I would rather you wake me up rather than wake up to find you straddled across me on your way out.

On a long haul flight, any moment you can sleep is a gift from God.

However, I am a light sleeper and any movement from the seat next to me wakes me up. So imagine my surprise when on a ten hour flight to South Africa, I awoke to find the lovely young lady next to me, straddled across me as she tried to get across without waking me. She was embarrassed, I was embarrassed and the rest of the flight was totally awkward.

Worse, the same thing happened with a rather large gentleman who actually fell on me when the plane hit turbulence. I’m glad the other passengers found that amusing.

I didn't!

4. Thou shalt not invade my personal space with any part of your body – particularly with your elbows during eating.

There is nothing worse than having your food knocked off your fork when a space invader knocks your elbow at the most inopportune moment.

5. Thou shalt not fall asleep on my shoulder and drool all over me.

I’d also like to add “or snore in my face with your bad breath” to this.

6. Thou shalt not be rude to the stewardesses.

I am genuinely in awe of stewards and stewardesses and the job they do and I try to accommodate them and be nice during the flight. However, if you are rude because they haven’t got the “right wine” or if you try to ask the stewardess on a date upon landing because she has been “especially nice” to you (and therefore simply MUST fancy you) then you are a prick.

7. Thou shalt not push your fat belly in my face whilst trying to get your bag from the overhead locker.

This is worse than having you personal space invaded by an elbow. Once a man reached up and as he did so, his T shirt rose revealing a bloated, hairy fat gut that he then proceeded to ram into my face. I almost used the sick bag. He didn’t even apologise, the prick.

8. Thou shalt not throw a book at my face.

Actually, I did this to a fellow passenger. I was boarding the flight and he was in the aisle seat. “I’m there,” I said pointing to the window seat next to him. I then threw my book to my seat but my aim was terrible. I hit him full in the face, corner first, and he yelled in pain. Worse, the book drew blood on his forehead.

I was mortified and so apologetic that I was willing to prostrate in front of him and be his slave for the rest of the short flight. He was absolutely fine and after a quick visit to the toilet to stem the flow of blood he simply said “Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”

He was pissed off with me by the end of the flight though because I broke commandment number one and apologised to him continuously through the flight.

What a prick I was.

9. Thou shalt not complain that the seat is too small and that the seat belt does not fit.

I don’t mind fat people. I don’t mind sitting next to fat people on a flight. What I do mind is sitting next to belligerent fat people who complain that “the seat is too small” and that “real people don’t fit in seats”. I am a real person and the seat fits fine.

10. Thou shalt make every effort to sit at the other end of the aircraft if you have a baby.

I pity people with babies who have to fly. But I have suffered with them. I once found myself sitting next to a couple with a baby on a long haul flight and the small beautiful bundle of cuteness suddenly lost all of its adorability when the aircraft took off.

For the next eight hours, it mutated into a screaming explosion of noise accompanied by vomit and shit exploding from its orifices. I didn’t get a wink of sleep and I felt sick. I wanted to be away from them but I couldn’t because the plane was rammed to overflowing. Now I know where babies are usually located, I always try to select a seat as far away from them as possible. It doesn’t always work.

And finally ...

Of course if you know me – and I like you – then you are exempt from most of the above rules. However, if you are Mrs PM or a male friend and suddenly present me with a baby during the flight I can guarantee that I will probably freak out in a highly disturbing but amusing way.

Hell in a Metal Sausage (Part Two)

In the past 6 weeks I have spent a week in Bologna, Italy, a week in Prague and a week in Beijing.

I am totally sick of airports.

Last week I was in China on a work trip that combined two of my major fears; Chinese toilets and public speaking (I was running a training course). 

My trip also involved a major hatred of mine; long haul flying.

I was pleasantly surprised that my fears did not manifest themselves. Beijing is a forward looking city and the toilets I encountered were all decent and western style (as opposed to the disgusting squatters that are still commonplace). My training course went without a single hitch and my fear of standing in front of (at most) ten people and waffling on for four days never actually manifested into anything more than a dry throat.

My Chinese colleagues were excellent hosts; the hotel was perfect and the food was some of the best I have tasted (though I did avoid pig brain as a delicacy).

However, the flights were a bloody nightmare.

It all started off well enough. I caught a domestic flight from Manchester to London Heathrow and arrived in plenty of time for my connecting flight. I even managed to acquire my Chinese currency without a hitch. Moreover, the flight to Beijing boarded on time and at the correct time, I was sitting in my seat, next to an elderly Chinese gentleman, waiting for the plane to push back.

That’s when everything turned to rat shit.

First of all, the captain spoke, saying something like, “We have a minor technical hitch that will delay us for about ten minutes. We’ll hopefully be on our way in due course.”

The temperature in the aircraft began to climb.

Ten minutes later, the captain came on again.

“We’re still waiting to resolve this technical issue. We’ll let you know more in fifteen minutes.”

The temperature in the aircraft continued to rise.

This process was repeated several times until two hours after our allotted take off time. By this time, it was like an oven in the aircraft. The stewardesses had offered us water and apologised about the temperature but “there’s nothing we can do.”

Finally, the inevitable happened. “We’re sorry – we can’t fix the fault and there isn’t another aircraft. The flight is therefore cancelled.”

What followed was a series of barked instructions about how to leave the airport, get hotel vouchers etc. The majority of the passengers were Chinese and, although they were all informed about the problem in Mandarin, every last one of them that I saw looked worried and confused.  I was lucky in a sense because I could leave the airport and get a head start as I am a UK citizen. I managed to get off the plane, through immigration and collect my baggage while the poor Chinese people were queuing and trying to explain why they were coming back into the UK.

However, it took ages for me to get to my hotel. Getting the hotel voucher and meal tokens wasn’t too bad. It was the shuttle bus service that was terrible. We had vouchers for this but I discovered that they cost £5 a pop for a one way trip normally. In a lot of other cities I've been to, hotels offer a free shuttle to the airport - not in London where they take every opportunity to releive you of your cash.

The service is infrequent and, once you have found out which one to catch, it takes bloody ages to get to your hotel via numerous others. 

What a bloody rip off.

When I finally got to the hotel a couple of hours later, I had to queue to check in with others from the flight. 

And I was drenched in sweat. I was paranoid that everybody around me were about to pass out, overwhelmed by foul body odour - although in truth I reckon everybody else was suffering from the same bout of paranoia.

Checking in took ages too. I finally got to my room and I was ravenous and desperate for a cold beer to cool me down. Sadly, the “dinner” I was offered was just a weird buffet and beer was not an option.

I ate it (I would have eaten pig brain at this point) and then found the hotel bar to satisfy my thirst for a cold pint of San Miguel.

As I sat watching the dying seconds of the Champions League final, I saw lots of unfortunate Chinese people from my flight just arriving, having suffered my trauma to get the hotel but far, far later than I did.

I retired to my room and informed my manager and my Chinese colleague, who was supposed to be meeting me, that I wouldn’t be arriving until a day later.

The next morning I had a semi decent breakfast and asked reception about the bus service. I had to get to the terminal again by ten o’clock. At eight o'clock I checked the queue for the shuttle bus and found it was enormous. I ran back to my room, threw all my stuff in the suitcase and checked out of the hotel to join the queue. I was prepared to grab a cab but there were none to be found. The first bus arrived and within minutes it was full. I had to wait for another hour before I managed to get on a bus.

There seemed to be no scope for ordering emergency buses to accommodate the vast number of passengers wanting to get to the airport.

I ended up standing up for half an hour hanging on for dear life as the bus swung around corners. If I didn't have a voucher this journey would have cost me five bloody pounds.

I arrived at ten o’clock and marched up to check in again only to find that the check-in desk wasn’t quite open. One very eloquent Chinese person came to ask me in broken English about checking in and I told her the situation. Other Chinese people saw this and then came and started asking me as well. 

Before I knew it I was attracting confused Chinese passengers like a magnet attracts iron filings.

Being a nice guy and desperately wanting to help, I tried my best to inform them in simple English but as I did so, I noticed that some of the airport staff’s techniques were to simply raise their voices – as if speaking louder made their English clearer. 

You would have thought that they would have made a staff member available who spoke Mandarin just to assist on a rescheduled flight to Beijing.

Well, needless to say I finally made it on the plane and arrived in Beijing a day late, meaning that I had to rush through my five day course in four days.

The return journey was not a problem, thankfully - that is until I reached London Heathrow again. My flight back to Manchester took off an hour and a half after its scheduled time. I arrived home last night, totally exhausted and crawled into bed, in a state of total bleariness having had no sleep for almost 23 hours.

Regular readers will know that I love travelling but hate long haul flights.

And do you know what? This is the second time I’ve been delayed for 24 hours – the last time was flying back from Thailand. On that occasion I almost had a fight with a man who accused me of pushing his wife. 

After that event, I decided this time to approach the situation with a calm demeanour and, although I was fuming, I had a smile on my face – well in public anyway. Inside, I amazed and shocked myself about how many expletives were racing around my brain trying to find their way to my mouth.

To conclude this post, I just want to reassure that I think travel is wonderful – it’s getting to your destination that is the hard part.

I'll tell you about the other trips in the next week or so but until then I only have one thing to say:

I bloody hate airports.

Flying In A Blue Nightmare

I’m so tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for … EVERYTHING TO DO WITH FLYING!

Mrs PM and I have just returned from a New Year trip to Tenerife and as I was standing, hanging around yet again, I started to think about how much time I waste waiting for things that I really shouldn’t have to wait for, increasing my frustration exponentially.

If only I could get to foreign soil without having to fly there!

Let’s take a return flight from Manchester to Tenerife as an example of why flying is an exasperating experience for me. For the outbound flight, our tickets told us that we needed to arrive at the airport a full three hours before our flight.

THREE BLOODY HOURS!

At this time of year, apparently, there are a lot of travellers so the strain on airport security is immense. Or so we are told. Nobody seemed to tell the staff at Manchester Airport.

Manchester Airport security is currently under scrutiny because of a major security flaw. I am not making this up.

In July, a young child of 11 managed to sneak aboard a flight to Rome and was only noticed once the aircraft was in the air. He managed to sneak through the airport security without a boarding pass and actually get on board the aircraft itself.

Read about it here.

Consequently, staff at Manchester Airport have been severely reprimanded and have had to become extra vigilante. The result; yet MORE ways to infuriate me.

We had already checked in online for our flight but that didn’t help us one bit. The bag drop queue was immense and as I stood like an idiot, desperately frustrated and frantically trying not to rant, I began to wonder about why checking in online makes things quicker. I don't believe it does.

It took an age to meander through to the departure area, having to remove anything metallic, including my belt, watch, cash, keys, phone etc. What usually happens is I forget something and end up setting off the alarm and have to endure being patted down by a burly security guard who enjoys the experience as much as I do, i.e. not at all.

The exception to this is China, where I have been groped and prodded by a very angry and serious looking female security guard who was about half my height. She treated me as if I had set the scanner off on purpose.

Back in Manchester, the staff didn’t appear to have noticed that this was a particularly busy time to travel. Not all of the security desks were manned and, pretty soon, I was joined by hundreds of kindred spirits, each one grumbling openly about the lack of progress and the possibility of missing their flights.

Having made my way through the security, I then had to get dressed again (belt, watch etc.) before entering the departure lounge in search of food, while pondering why I had to get up at 4am to catch an 8:30 flight when I live approximately 20 minutes away from the airport.

Guess what? Yes – that’s right. I had to queue to get breakfast, and wait for the gate to be published.  Yet more bloody waiting and hanging around. The staff in the airside shops must be equally frustrated because by the time passengers make it through security, they only have five minutes before they have to board their flights.

And when you arrive at your destination, depending on where you land, the waiting just continues. The first problem is usually the immigration queue. Why are there only ever two immigration officers there when five packed flights have just arrived?

In Europe this isn’t so bad because as a European I can wave my passport at the guy and away I go. In places like America, the inquisition takes so long that I have to bite my lip to stop myself from saying:

“I’m in the United States of America to complain about the length of time it takes for any foreign national to get INTO your bloody country. Oh – and by the way! HAVE A NICE BLOODY DAY!!!”

I fear I would be marched off to jail fairly quickly if I did. Knowing my luck I would be deported and have to queue for hours to leave again.

After the humiliation of immigration, comes the free-for-all known as collecting your baggage. Usually, the queues from immigration are so slow that one of two things happen.

Either …

You have spent so long trying to convince the immigration official that you are here on holiday and not to spy in his country, that by the time you get through, your carousel is full of bags from the next flight and your luggage has been confiscated because you didn’t get through in time to collect it.

Or …

You actually get through quickly and then wait for an hour for the baggage handlers to unload the aircraft and dump your bags on the carousel.

When we returned to Manchester on Saturday, we had to wait for an hour for our bags and I was ready to commit grievous bodily harm.

On other occasions, I have had my luggage shifted into a holding room because immigration took so long. In South Africa, I arrived along with six other long haul flights, to find that only three immigration desks were open. I almost completely soured UK South African relations.

Of course, there is a third possibility. Your bag may not arrive, particularly if you have had to transfer. This is the most frustrating of all because you end up standing there like a lemon as all of the other passengers collect their bags and bugger off with a relieved smile on their faces, while you break down and start sobbing because you are in a foreign place and all of your clothes for a three week business trip are on a flight to the other side of the world, and you realise that you have no spare underwear in your hand luggage.

I love travelling but the frustration of waiting and waiting around at airports threatens to turn me into a primeval, subhuman Neanderthal.

Can I please ask all of you science boffins out there to do me a favour?

Please, please, PLEASE hurry up and invent the Transporter they use on Star Trek.

I am sick and tired of waiting for you guys to pull your fingers out.

The Plastic Businessman

Technically speaking, I am a businessman, using the definition of the word in its loosest possible way.

The definition of a businessman is:

A person, esp a man, engaged in commercial or industrial business, esp as an owner or executive.

Let’s look at that a little more closely.

A person – yes, I think I qualify as a person.

Esp a man – especially a man. I thought that you had to be a man to be a businessman and a woman to be businesswoman. Businesswoman has its own definition in the dictionary as does businessperson. So am I a businessman or a businessperson? Or both? I know one thing for certain – I am definitely NOT a businesswoman.

Engaged in commercial or industrial business – I’m not going let slip exactly what I do – apart from spending my entire day swearing at computers and the people who buy and use them. I guess that counts as industrial business.

Esp as an owner or executive – sadly no! I do not own my business nor am I an executive.

Nevertheless, I guess I do count as a businessman – albeit a plastic businessman.

My job involves travel, and when I am fortunate enough to get a trip abroad, I look forward to the prospect of visiting different countries. I don’t look forward to the work when I get there and spend the journey planning ways to escape the business prison and explore strange and exciting lands.

Anybody who has travelled will see businessmen at the airport as they check in, wait for their flight, fly, land, arrive, pick up their bags and depart to set the business world alight with their business stuff.

For fun, I would like to compare myself and my own travel experiences, the Plastic Businessman, with the stereotypical businessman, the Proper Businessman.

Checking In

The Proper Businessman will arrive at the airport in a taxi and march with determination towards the check in desk. He will be wearing a suit, even if he is travelling to the other side of the world, and he will be carrying another in one of those plastic suit carrier things. He will have a top of the range suitcase and a business case, complete with laptop, iPad and Blackberry. He will have checked in online, because his time is so precious that he simply cannot afford to waste his valuable time standing in line with the economy class scutters. He will arrive at the Business Class check in desk, hand over his suitcase and march away triumphantly with his Business Class boarding card.

The Plastic Businessman will arrive at the airport in a taxi – and that is where the similarity ends. He will be wearing a pair of jeans and a T shirt with a scruffy coat and hauling a suitcase full of work documents he doesn’t need but has been asked to take just in case. He will have had the foresight to check in online but will have to drop his bag off at the economy class check in desk with the rest of the scutters because his company will not pay for Business Class. He will ask for an upgrade and be laughed at by the check in assistant – and then he will be laughed at by the rest of the scutters. In his scruffy rucksack he will have a laptop, an iPod and a book. He will have a cheap Nokia mobile phone that belongs in a Science Museum but, being a geek, he will have an Android Smartphone too. When he has finally checked in, he will shuffle away feeling pissed off about being humiliated when asking for an upgrade.

Departure Lounge

The Proper Businessman will aim to do as much work as humanly possible while waiting for his flight. He will be constantly talking into his Blackberry or listening to it pinging as important emails fly into his inbox. The laptop will be out and he will be analysing spreadsheets, studyinging documents so important that they must be reviewed before he flies, or he will be sending emails barking orders to is underlings because he is so high-flying, so important that he doesn’t think they can function without him. If is in the Business lounge he will sip a glass of red wine as he chats, covering his mouth occasionally in case somebody may be lip-reading and keen to steal his entrepreneurial ideas or his company’s secrets.

The Plastic Businessman will make straight for the bar, or if he managed to fluke entry into the Business Lounge, will try to cram as much free beer, wine and food down his neck as he can. He will talk on his personal smartphone to tell his beloved that he is about to fly and that he will miss her. Then he will get his laptop out and, after struggling for a while to get an internet connection, will check his blog, his personal emails and then poke around web sites such as BBC Sport or Amazon. Then he may start to write a blog post. Or just play a game. And he will laugh at the Proper Businessman, knowing that he is a workaholic who isn’t actually that important but cannot actually leave his work alone for five minutes.

Boarding

The Proper Businessman will walk straight onto the aircraft barking orders at his subordinates in his Blackberry – except he can’t carry it – so he has his earpiece in, looking, in his eyes, even cooler.

The Plastic Businessman will queue with the other scutters, listening to rock music on his iPod and embarrassing himself slightly when he inadvertently blurts out profane lyrics to one of his rock songs, like “I’m so HUNGRY for YOUR SEX!!”. The other scutters will laugh.

On Board

The Proper Businessman will open up his laptop as soon as the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign has gone off. His aim will be to work for the entire duration of the trip. After all, that important document won’t write itself and since he is the only man who can possibly produce such a document, it is absolutely imperative that he gets at least the first draft of the document done. One of the most frustrating things about flying is that there are no power points so that he can recharge is laptop when it inevitably runs out of power. Still, never mind; he has an iPad and he can do at least a little constructive work on that. If all else fails, he has a stash of paper documents in his business case – and a BIG RED PEN.

The Plastic Businessman is so tightly crammed into his economy seat that there is no room for him to get his laptop out. Even if he did, all he would do is play silly games on it (although he would never admit to that knowing that it is company policy not to allow any leisure software on a company laptop). Instead he will watch a film that has been sliced to ribbons so that it fits on the tiny screen and has had all of the sex and violence removed in case young eyes in a nearby seat can see it. Instead he reads a book – not a Business Book like “The Audacity of Hope” or “How to Acquire Excellence in an Economy Seat on a Cramped Aircraft Even When Sitting Next to the Fattest Man on Planet Earth”. No – instead he chooses a crappy science fiction novel called “Invasion of the Vampire Fembots From Tharg”. And when he’s fed up of that, he will once again dissolve into his iPod and inadvertently blurt out another embarrassing lyric from a rock song like “Pull my trigger; I’ll get bigger – then I’m lots of fun – I’m YOUR GUN GUN GUN!” The other scutters will laugh again.

Arriving

The Proper Businessman arrives refreshed after a nice sleep because he has been in Business Class and has been able to convert his already comfortable seat into a bed and been tucked in by a beautiful stewardess. He has in his business case, lots of smelly cologne and a razor to make himself look perfect as he steps off the aircraft before all the scutters and picks up his bag immediately because it has been given a priority tag. He has a limousine waiting for him to whisk him off to a hotel to catch up on the remainder of his sleep because he is a Proper Businessman who deserves his rest after an eight hour flight.

The Plastic Businessman leaves the aircraft an hour after the doors opened because he ended up at the back and had to wait for the other scutters to struggle off first. When he gets into the terminal building he looks like a dishevelled version of the scruffy old git that checked in so long ago. Why? Because he has had absolutely no sleep. Faced with the choice of cuddling up to the fat bloke next to him or leaning out into the aisle where he would have been constantly hit by people going to the toilet or trollies full of food, he opted to sleep in the normal sitting position and ended up with a cricked neck. And then he realises with horror that his toothpaste and deodorant were confiscated because both were over 100ml and he forgot to put it in his suitcase. He realises with horror, as he waits for his bag that he has to meet the customer immediately to say hello – and he looks and smells like something that crawled out of a primeval swamp.

Conclusion

I am a Plastic Businessman.

I am not bitter.

Honestly.

Introducing Captain Chaos

I have three nemeses (four if you count my hair).

I’ve introduced the first, a certain Captain Paranoia who has been with me all through my life convincing me how useless I am, how nobody likes me and how I will inevitably end up alone in a pit of misery and despair. I tend to ignore him these days.

Today I will introduce mysecond nemesis; Captain Chaos.

His aim, as his name suggests, is to make my life as chaotic and unpredictable as possible, a kind of walking version of Murphy’s Law.

Often, he is accompanied by my third nemesis, called Tonto (I will explain in a future post) and together they wreak utter havoc. And when Captain Paranoia joins in, you can imagine what happens. Apparently all three of them are planning a big get together on December 21^st of this year to bring about the end of the world.

But let’s not worry about that just yet.

I’ve just been on holiday to Spain and on the morning of our departure, Captain Chaos chose to spend the day with us.

It all started at 4:45 am.

Being a careful man, I set the alarm for this time so that we could leave the house in plenty of time to get to the airport for our flight to Spain. I’m usually fine when it comes to getting up, but on that day the influence of Captain Chaos began from the very second I awoke.

My usual sense of timing somehow failed me, and I took my time, having a leisurely shower. Mrs PM, a woman who is generally always late – unless I step in and hurry her along – waltzed around the house without a care in the world, slowly making coffee and packing last minute things. I had things to pack too and after my shower, I got dressed and I too drifted around the house like a happy little hamster.

And then I looked at the clock.

We needed to be in a cab by 5:45 am. It was 5:40.

“SHIT!” I said, as Captain Chaos watched with a grin.

“What are you doing?” I shouted to Mrs PM.

“Feeding the cats.”

“Have you called a cab?” I asked.

She didn’t respond but a voice told me she had heard me. That was the voice of Captain Chaos.

I finished packing and checked my list. I hauled our suitcases downstairs to find Mrs PM cleaning out the litter trays and leaving a note for our cat-sitter.

“Where’s your passport?” I asked.

“In my in-tray on the desk,” she replied.

I looked. It wasn’t there. I had my passport safely stashed in my rucksack.

“It’s not there,” I said. “WHERE IS IT?” I was getting a little frustrated.

“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly panicking.

“YOU DON’T KNOW??” I yelled. “WHY DIDN’T YOU LOOK FOR IT LAST NIGHT? WE’RE GONNA BE LATE!!”

We both frantically started turning the place upside down looking for her passport. Captain Chaos watched and laughed. After about ten minutes of searching, she eventually found it in one of the first places she had looked.

Captain Chaos had taken it – I’m sure of that.

“Right,” I said. “Where’s this bloody cab?”

“When did he say he would be here?” said Mrs PM.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “You rang for one.”

“I thought YOU were going to call for one,” she said.

AAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!

A frantic phone call and a despairing ten minute wait later, we were finally on our way to the airport, a full twenty minutes behind schedule.  But Captain Chaos wasn’t finished yet; he had prepared the groundwork for his next surprise.

We arrived at the airport and found our way to the check-in desk, only to find an absolutely enormous queue.

AAARRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

We had tried to check-in online (as we usually do) but the website had crashed just as we were reserving our seats. We thought we weren’t checked in, so we joined the queue.

I must have checked my watch about 300,000 times in that queue and eventually we arrived at the desk.

“Have you got your boarding cards?” asked the check-in lady.

Captain Chaos smirked.

“We couldn’t check in,” said Mrs PM. “The website crashed.”

“I need to call the supervisor,” said the woman. “There’s a problem.”

Captain Chaos laughed.

After ten more minutes (during which I felt an explosion building up inside), she returned and said “Right, it’s sorted out. I’ll just check for seats.”

“Check for seats?” I asked myself, relieved but still wary.

“There aren’t any free seats,” she said wrinkling her brow.  Captain Chaos was now on the floor rolling about laughing.

“NO SEATS???” I shouted.

“Hang on,” she said – and disappeared again.

I spent the next five minutes trying to control the raging inferno that was building within.

And then Captain Paranoia turned up, giving a high five to Captain Chaos before whispering “You’re not going ANYWHERE mate!”

The lady returned and said “I’ve freed a couple of seats.”

I was delighted and stuck two fingers up at the two Captains.

“Look at the time,” whispered Captain Paranoia. “You’ll never get through security in time.”

When we finally got our boarding passes and waved goodbye to our suitcases, we had to rush through security, where there was an inevitable queue.

AAARRRGGGHHHH!!!

We were looking forward to a leisurely breakfast airside but that went out of the window, when Mrs PM was “randomly” selected for the body scan.

We finally made it airside and I had barely five minutes to make a quick visit to the toilet.

“I’ll see you at gate,” I yelled as I rushed off.

Such was the nature of my call to Mother Nature that I had to find a cubicle. And the only one left was the one whose previous occupant had exploded.

The toilet bowl was home to the most disgusting mess I had ever seen – and it wouldn’t flush away. 

WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS?????

I had no choice. I had to use it. I was desperate.

Thankfully, I managed to flush some of it away when I had finished but as I left the cubicle I found a queue of men waiting to use it.

I just ran – I ran as quickly as I could (although I was tempted to shout “IT WASN’T ME – IT WAS THE BRUTE WHO USED IT BEFORE ME”), with the echo of a guffawing Captain Chaos ringing in my ears, accompanied by the echo of the words of the man who had entered the cubicle after me.

“MY GOD!!!!!! WHAT KIND OF MONSTER ARE YOU?” was all I heard – and I hope he didn’t think that I had done it but I am absolutely certain he is convinced that I was a disgusting feral human being with a MASSIVE bowel problem and absolutely NO IDEA about toilet etiquette. I just hope I don’t bump into him again. The sight in that cubicle is something that will stay etched on his mind forever – I know I can still see it in my nightmares.

I lost sight of Captain Chaos after that and we managed to get away with no problems apart from having to pay an exorbitant amount for a revolting cardboard breakfast and a cup of coffee that looked like it had been brewed in a cesspit.

Sadly, Captain Chaos accompanied us on our holiday; I saw Captain Paranoia waving goodbye to him as the plane took off.

He met Tonto there. I will tell you about that some other time.

I have many examples of how Captain Chaos has caused me huge problems in my life.

Have you met him too?

Hell in a Metal Sausage

I hate flying but not because I am scared of it. I loathe being imprisoned in a metal sausage that is hurtling through the air at 35,000 feet.

I travel a lot, mainly through work but occasionally for pleasure and regrettably the mode of transport is usually an aircraft. I wouldn’t mind if it were a pleasant experience.

It is not.

A manager at work once said this to me when I complained about flying. I swear I am not making this up:

“What are you moaning about? A long haul flight is like being in a hotel; you get good food, you get a few films and you get the chance to sleep.”


I was so stunned by what he had said that I almost risked my career with the ensuing outburst.

Let’s analyse, for a second, what he said.

“You get good food.”

The food on a long haul flight can only be described as plastic food. It is not real and it is barely edible. Imagine, if you can, that you have been abducted by an alien space craft and are hurtling towards an alien planet at an impossible speed. The alien monstrosity that has imprisoned you sees that you require sustenance for the long journey so he analyses your dietary requirements using advanced science and concocts a dish of slimy crap that will provide the nourishment your body requires but looks and tastes like something the cat left in the garden. That’s exactly what airplane food tastes like.

“You get a few films.”

This is true; you do get a few movies. However, you have to watch them on a screen that is tiny with headphones that would make a nuclear explosion sound like a squeak. Add to that the screaming baby that is inevitably within earshot and the background droning roar of the engines, with the occasional ping when passengers require the stewardesses, you barely hear anything. And of course your movie gets interrupted when the captain speaks. And, if you time it badly, you end up missing the last hour of the movie because you either fall asleep or the captain decides to switch off the entertainment system a full thirty minutes before the aircraft lands.

“You get a chance to sleep.”

This is the biggest lie of all.

Sleep?

On a long haul flight?

Utter bollocks.

My company, as most companies these days, has adopted a policy of flying everywhere in economy class. The name for economy class varies from airline to airline and is usually given a name that implies importance, luxury or both. We are presented with names like:

World Explorer Class

Voyager Class

Ritz Class

Comfort Class

The names are horseshit and do not even remotely indicate the torture you are going to have to endure for twelve hours. More accurate names would be:

Pig Swill Class

Medieval Torture Class

Punishment Class

Torment Class

Hell Class

Although the name implies luxury, in reality you end up in the most uncomfortable place in the world. It is physically impossible to sleep in economy class unless you are so tired that you could sleep standing up, or the stewardesses puts you to sleep with a baseball bat.

How on earth can anybody sleep in such conditions? Let's have a look at the options:

If you end up next to the window you can possibly lean against the window. The problem is that there is no room for your legs because the seat in front is so far back that your knees are next to your ears for the entire flight. You can’t curl up into a foetal ball because your back grates against the armrest and the person next to you invariably doesn’t want to lift it up. You could sit up straight but your head ends up lolling forward, waking you up every ten seconds as you involuntarily do a poor impression of a nodding dog.

In the middle seats it is possibly worse because the people either side of you, in a futile attempt to get comfortable end up kicking you, elbowing you in the face or kidneys and possibly end up snoring directly into your face having just consumed enough wine to make them pass out.

The aisle seat may appear to be the most appealing but if you do manage to fall asleep you will be woken up constantly as people walk past and kick you, tread on you or drop things on you.

You cannot sleep in economy class on an aircraft unless the plane is empty, you are a child, you are a dwarf or you are so drunk that you cannot function.

Believe me, I have been drunk on a long haul flight and it is possibly my worst ever decision. On a business trip to Hong Kong, I decided to try to blag my way into business class for the trip home using all of my guile and charm. The problem is that I have no charm and I am about as cunning as a dead fox.

I failed to convince the woman at the check in desk that I needed an upgrade but she did offer me a carrot. I’m not suggesting that she thought I looked like the back end of a donkey (though she probably did). What she said was “There’s a possibility of an upgrade but you need to ask at the gate. I hope you are persuasive.”

I am not persuasive at all so I decided that I needed some Dutch courage. I sat in the bar on my own and drank more beer than I should have. I arrived at the gate and marched up to the gate staff with all of the arrogance of a drunk businessman but none of the charisma. I failed spectacularly to acquire an upgrade and, being drunk, my emotions were more dramatic; I slumped in a chair and, with tears of disappointment in my eyes, I started to moan and grumble to myself.

On the aircraft, I ended up in a window seat and that’s when the alcohol began to take its toll. I dozed off in the most uncomfortable position imaginable with my head jammed in the window indent, my mouth wide open, a snore rumbling from that massive open maw (the poor woman next to me later informed me of this) and my tongue lolling out accompanied by a torrent of dribble.

I missed my food, water and a film that I actually wanted to watch.

I awoke about three hours into the twelve hour flight. The aircraft was in total darkness and my cheek was stuck to the plastic window by a thin layer of my own saliva. For a second I had no clue who I was or where I was. And then, when the headache announced its presence, I remembered.

I was crammed into a seat that was meant for toddlers.

I had a banging headache.

My back was in agony because it had repeatedly scrapped and bashed the armrest.

My knees felt as if somebody had repeatedly hit them with a mallet.

I felt slightly nauseas from one too many beers and lack of food.

My bladder was quite literally about to explode.

I didn’t want to go to the toilet at all; I just wanted my own bed. Alas, I had no choice and had to negotiate my way past two strangers.

Next to me was a woman in her forties who was not too tall and could just about stretch out and sleep. She was snoring lightly.

Next to her, on the aisle seat was a big fat oaf of a man whose gut was so enormous that it scraped the seat in front. He required a seat belt extension to circumvent his monstrous belly. And he was fast asleep and snoring like a lion with a very bad cold.

I wondered how the woman next to me could cope with the noise of this Michelin man and then it was clear to me – she was wearing earplugs.

My humiliation was complete. I had to wake up this poor sleeping woman and the sack of blubber next to her in order to get past them both. Needless to say they were both angry; the woman because I had woken her up from a deep sleep and blubberman because he had to crowbar his huge mass out of the seat so that I could get past.

After the trip to the toilet I returned to my seat and remained awake for the rest of the flight with a headache, an aching body and a battered ego.

I will never board a plane again with too much beer in my system.

I wish I could say that I would never again fly long haul in economy class. Alas I will, in the next month or two on a business trip to China. I am looking forward to going back to China but the journey there and back will be Hell on Earth – or should I say Hell in a Metal Sausage.

I’m sure that the manager I mentioned at the beginning of the post, who incidentally is a very nice bloke, will compare my journey to a night in the Hilton.

He is right, of course, but only if he is comparing it to trying to sleep in a tiny shower stall, while trying to eat the shower curtain, in a room full to the brim of noisy fat people and snoring lions.

Travel Trauma - Flying (Part Two)

My last post on the subject was about the trauma of checking in at an airport. Some people may think that I am being over dramatic when I say that the supposedly simple act of checking in is disturbing, but I would disagree. I am unlucky in this area – very unlucky. If something can go wrong, it will go wrong. If there is a delay of any kind you can guarantee that the delay will affect me.

So after the suffering involved in checking in, things start to get worse because the next stage in the tortuous process of getting from A to B in an aeroplane is of course, the dreaded security check.

Passing security for me has always been difficult. I’m not a naturally paranoid person but when confronted with an overbearing security person at an airport, that part of my mind that says “Relax. Take it easy. No problems here.” simply ceases to function. I am filled with paranoia. I know that I have done nothing wrong. I know that there are no firearms or explosive devices in my hand luggage. I know that the electronic devices I do possess are benign and that the majority of passengers will also be carrying similar items through to the departure lounge. So why do I feel so threatened?

Now the situation is worse. Security has been heightened in recent years because of the threat of terrorism and made the process even more harrowing for me. Now you cannot even take more than a millilitre of liquid through security.

Of course, with the increased security, every single passenger has to be checked more thoroughly than before, slowing down the process even more, leading to another pet hate of mine; queuing.

A typical security scenario is as follows:

Armed with my passport and boarding card, I walk up to the sign that says “Flight Departures” and see that there is no queue at the entrance. However, when I pass the entrance, I see the first two officials staring at me.

“Boarding card” says the first one with a scowl, looking at me as if I am a dung beetle that has just marched through a particularly nasty looking cow pat. I dutifully hand over my card, trying to appear relaxed. He scans it with his barcode reader and hands it back. My worst fears are realised as I stare past the man into the security room. There is a huge queue for the X-ray machines.

As I stand in the queue, I scan the room observing the passengers and security staff. Most of the passengers look worried. Most of the security staff look angry and belligerent. The queue spirals round to a single point at the end where a mean looking security person points to the next free X-ray machines.

Another security person asks each person in the queue if they have any liquids. Signs appear everywhere stating what each passenger should do before he reaches the end of the queue.

As I shuffle along, I notice that other passengers, some of whom are terrified of flying and extremely jittery as a result, are asking what they need to take off. “Should we take off our shoes?” asks one. “What about my belt?” asks another. The truth is we don’t actually know until it’s too late.

Finally, after what seems like hours, I reach the first security official who’s job it is to direct me to the X-ray machine. He stares at me as if I am a rotting piece of meat and points to the next available machine.

Waiting for me is another security guard armed with several plastic trays. “Take your coat off”, he orders. I obey and hand it to him. “Is there a laptop in that bag?” he asks. “Yes,” I reply taking it out. “What have you got in your pockets?” “Have you got a mobile phone?”

By this time I’m slightly flustered. I have nothing to worry about at all but I am sure that there is something that is going to get me into trouble. He puts my coat, laptop and bag onto the conveyor belt through the machine and waves me through the metal detector.

I stand there waiting to be ushered through and I immediately worry. Will it go off?

And the answer is: of course it will go off. Waiting for me on the other side is a huge unpleasant looking man with his arms folded. He looks like a night club bouncer and stands with his arms folded clutching a manual metal detector. Next to him is a fierce woman with the same stance.

When I walk through the metal detector I close my eyes and duck slightly. I don’t know why. It is an involuntary reaction from a part of my brain that I have no control over. Why do I do it? Do I think that something is going to shoot out of the metal doorway and impale me to the floor with a message “HE’S GOT SOMETHING METAL ON HIM. TAKE HIM AWAY FOR TORTURE!” It’s crazy and I have no idea why. It is a primeval instinct that I can’t fathom. And invariably it gets me into trouble whether or not I set off the alarm. The night club bouncer sees my reaction and probably thinks I have something to hide. So I always end up being searched.

Now these guys can be rough. “Empty your pockets” snarls the bouncer as he frisks me. “What’s this?” he yells pointing at my credit card case. I honestly have to resist the urge to say “It’s a letter bomb that’s about to go off.”

There have been occasions when the female bouncer has been quite attractive. I would love to have the courage to say “Excuse me. Can the lady search me instead?” Thankfully I haven’t because I know that these guys have no sense of humour.

Having been searched, it is now time to pick up my coat, laptop and bag. I usually carry two mobile phones, an mp3 player, a camera and a PSP as well as cables, batteries etc. especially if I am on a business trip. This means that my hand baggage is tightly packed. What usually happens is that the person checking the X-ray machine is pointing at the image on their monitor, an image of my bag to be precise.

When the conveyor belt resumes, my bag comes out and is immediately grabbed by another burly bouncer who growls “Who’s bag is this?”

“Mine,” I squeak.

“Over here,” he snarls.

I have spent hours methodically packing my bag and now this brute is going to empty it, giving me the third degree in the process. He empties the contents of my bag in front of other relieved and amused passengers, asking me what each device is even though it is perfectly obvious. When he holds up what is clearly a digital camera and asks me what it is I have to resist the suicidal urge to say “It’s a lost Picasso masterpiece”.

He asks what every single item is and then dumps them all unceremoniously into a plastic tray and feeds them back through the X-ray machine. Call me paranoid if you like but this happens to me all the time.

On one or two occasions, mainly because of my failing memory, I have forgotten that I have a large canister of deodorant in my hand luggage. The last time this happened was actually two days ago in Johannesburg. I had been working all day and was about to catch the night flight. Naturally after a hard day in a hot office I wanted to freshen up but completely forgot that deodorant was now outlawed. The X-ray man saw this and when my bag emerged, he grabbed it and pointed to the bouncer gesticulating at my bag as if there was a bomb about to go off. I have no clue what he had said but when the bouncer took the bag, he yelled “Who’s bag is this?” in an extremely belligerent tone. Part of me wanted to just leave it. I had no clue why it had been singled out, having forgotten about the deodorant, and my paranoid mind began to work overtime. Had somebody planted something in my bag? Was I innocently carrying something highly illegal or dangerous? I somehow found my courage and meekly squeaked “It’s mine”

The South African bouncer was just like every other one I had encountered and dumped everything out of my bag. He then picked up the can of deodorant and shouted at me as if I were a very naughty child. “YOU CANNOT TAKE THIS.” He bawled, speaking very slowly and very deliberatley, holding the offending item up for everyone to see. I expected more but mercifully he left me to humbly repack my bag.

It is always a blessed relief to finally arrive in the departure lounge. I don’t know why but, like many people, I feel guilty when confronted by officialdom, even if there is nothing to feel guilty about. The sternness of the security people is purposely intimidating and I always feel that they are trying to provoke a sarcastic response out of me just to add some excitement to their day.

Not all security people are the same though. I have encountered some with a little bit of a sense of humour. At Liverpool airport, I walked through the metal detector and set it off. The security man stopped me, made me empty my pockets, frisked me and scanned me with his portable detector. When he had finished, he said “Let me look at the sole of you left foot.” I was still worried so I obliged. “Now the right one” he said. I lifted up my right foot and showed him the bottom. “Now both together” he said. My mind wasn’t working straight so I lifted up my left foot again before realising what he’d said. “Only kidding mate,” he said with a huge grin and patted me on the shoulder.

That was a nice gesture and made me and my mates laugh. I know it’s a serious job but sometimes a little humour breaks the tension somehow. It certainly would for me. I just wish more security people followed that example.

Travel Trauma - Flying (Part One)

I love travelling.

Actually that’s not quite true. I love arriving in a different country, ready to sample the cultural delights and immerse myself in the richness and diversity of the place. The problem is that I detest the journey.

I have been very fortunate in my life to visit many and varied countries through work and on holiday. Imagine my excitement when my company asked me to travel to South Africa for just under two weeks. I have never set foot on the African continent and only once ventured past the equator to visit Australia. I was delighted and slightly nervous but overall looking forward to the trip; until I remembered that I had a ten and a half hour long haul flight following a short hop from Manchester to Heathrow.

Airports frustrate any enthusiasm out of me and this trip was no different. When I woke up on the morning of my trip last week, I was dreading it.

Let’s forget the initial anxiety about turning up in Johannesburg with no luggage; that’s a risk I’m used to. I always take steps to combat that particular threat by carrying extra clothing in the hand luggage, particularly in the underwear department. Of course it does mean that your hand luggage is heavier, which in turn means that you end up arriving at your destination smelling like a sumo wrestler’s jockstrap but that’s acceptable. The chance of you ever again having to meet the poor bugger who has to endure your slowly festering travel attire is pretty slim.

Checking in can be traumatic. These days, what choice do you have? You can either stand in a massive queue of other equally stressed travellers or you can use the instant check-in machines. What a choice. If you choose the queue, the chances are that you will end up shuffling along for an hour, constantly looking at your watch, terrified that you are going to spend so much time there that you may miss your flight. The closer you get to the end of the queue the slower it seems to move. In front of you there is invariably a family of first time travellers who don’t know what to do, or the world’s most anxious or idiotic traveller who is so ill prepared that they can’t find their ticket or passport when their turn arrives. And as you crawl towards the front of the queue, numerous fellow passengers find the automated check-in machines working in fine form. If you choose that option, you end up getting the one machine that refuses to acknowledge that you exist. The exchange between man and machine goes something like this:

Machine: “Please scan your passport or show me a credit card so that I know who you are”

Me: Puts credit card in slot

Machine: “Can’t read that card, mate. Got another one?”

Me: Digs around looking for another card. Puts new card in slot.

Machine: “Can’t read that card, mate. Got another one?”

Me: Rifles through all remaining cards trying them one at a time.

Machine: (In response to each) “Can’t read that card, mate. Got another one?”

Me: Presses screen at point where it says “Try passport”.

Machine: Sits there waiting. Does not respond.

Me: Pokes screen repeatedly fifty times, increasing the pressure and becoming angrier with each prod.

Machine: “Please scan passport”

Me: Puts passport in slot

Machine: “Where’s the passport”?

Me: Spends twenty minutes trying to position passport in right place

Machine: “Hello Mr Plastic Mancunian. Scanning for flight.”

Me: Waits another ten minutes.

Machine: Sorry Mr Plastic Mancunian. I can’t find you. Goodbye”

Me: “AAARRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”””

Helpful Airline Employee: “Sir, let me try”

Me: Hands over passport trying to hold back tears.

Helpful Airline Employee: Presses “Passport” and puts passport in slot. Works first time.

Machine: “Hello Mr Plastic Mancunian. Scanning for flight.” Ten seconds pass. “Flight found”

Me: “AAAARRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! That didn’t work for me.”
Helpful Airline Employee: “You should be fine now”. Leaves

Machine: Waits for helpful employee to leave vicinity. “There are no more seats available on this flight. Terminating”

Me: “AAAAAARRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!”. Looks at queue for check-in which now has nearly three hundred people in it.
“AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH”

And the worst thing is that this is just the first part of the trauma of flying.