Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Thursday, 9 June 2016
The other side of that tree, with a few kittens. Hostess said it was a type of Magnolia - whatever, it is a great place for cats to live. Crappy photo because it was twilight and a crappy phone camera.
I quite like flying in planes - well, the most dangerous bits anyway - and still find the acceleration of take-off exhilarating after all these years, but Christ, aren't airports horrible? Waiting, waiting, waiting, then take your trousers off as you go through security, followed by more waiting. I blame Osama bin Laden.
Bristol Airport used to be a charming little aerodrome, with an Art Deco frontage and a handful of people being served tea in china cups by a coupe of old dears. You could casually wander up a staircase and while away the wait by watching planes take off and land, but now it is getting like every other airport in the world. They are currently extending the building, so pretty soon it is going to be like Schipol.
Once you go through security and try to find your gate, you are forced to take the wIbbly-wobbly road of life through duty-free, past perfumes and watches you do not want. Malaga is even worse than Bristol in this respect.
H.I. forgot to take the transparent pouch containing liquids out of the back at security, and it went through unexamined. We really could have brought a hydrogen peroxide bomb on board without anyone noticing.
She did, however, throw away the bottle of mineral water before the x-ray, and on the other side was forced to buy a little bottle of water - for about £3. You want water? You need water? We've got it. You pay for it.
It must be a form of Stockholm Syndrome. Every time I am on board any aircraft for any period of time, I find myself fantasising about the female cabin crew, comparing them one to another before deciding which one I prefer - no matter how plain or drab they are. Every time. There is usually a disproportionately high ratio of gay, male cabin crew working for airlines too, so everyone is catered for.
They ask - demand - your attention as they perform the strange dance of emergency exit positions, but I am lost in a dream as I watch, not listening to the drone of the woman rattling it off in a West Country accent from a script as the plane is pushed backwards by a little tug.
I also love the sign language they have invented to signal to one another when someone at the back orders a drink or sandwich from the cabinets at the front. I suppose they are not allowed to shout at each other down the aisle.
One of the pilots came out of the cockpit to use the toilets at the rear, and the bearded male air steward stood guard by the cockpit door. A female steward went in to take his place and chat to the other pilot - now I am guessing that this is now standard procedure, ever since that suicidal pilot refused to let his mate back in and flew the plane straight into a mountain.
I don't think I would last long as an airline pilot. I would not be able to resist either pretending to hammer on the door shouting, "LET ME IN YOU MANIAC!", or - from the inside - saying something like, "The weather in Malaga is a pleasant 27 degrees celsius. What a shame you will not be experiencing it.... I hate my mother.... heh heh heh..."