On the lighter side here are a few facts/urban legends about some of our favourite suppliers which I have picked up over the years. Some are quite old but worth another airing. I cannot vouch that any of them are actually true……but!
RYANAIR are continuing their approach that “all publicity” is good. Residents of Barcelona were promised “free tickets” if they turned up with placards praising the carrier or disparaging Iberia, the national carrier. The 500 vouchers disappeared in 20 minutes and a riot ensued with staff taken to a local police station for protection.
AMSTERDAM recently hosted the Paralympics World Championships. Unfortunately the former 100 metres record holder in the ladies event was unable to take part …………….. British Airways lost her artificial leg at Heathrow.
KOREAN AIR hails itself as one of the most popular airlines in the Far East. Service was not mentioned but their lightweight pure wool overnight blankets, supplied on all long haul flights, were. It seems passengers regard them as being part of the ticket price and remove them at will. In the last 12 month period they have lost over 300,000.
IRISH FERRIES apologies to passengers who “took the hump” following a 45 hour delay to one of its Holyhead to Dublin services. The Captain somehow failed to negotiate the only whale in the Irish Sea, which caused extensive damage to the bow of the ship
VIRGIN has come under criticism following the behaviour of one of its flight attendants on a recent Gatwick to Las Vegas service. During severe turbulence one of the flight crew is reported to have “thrown”, hopefully unused, sick bags to the passengers and then started screaming “We are crashing”. Wholesale panic ensued before the Captain restored order. An investigation is under way but those of a nervous disposition should consider their options.
ALASKA AIRLINES already facing a half million dollar fine for not having emergency lighting in their cabin for a two month period, faced more media criticism when a passenger, travelling with her dog, witnessed the poor creature, in a crate, being thrown head height and headlong into the cargo hold. The airline said they were preparing the dog for turbulence.
RYANAIR have a clause in their terms and conditions that say they reserve the right to charge you for two seats if they consider you overweight. However, they cannot guarantee they will be next to each other.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Peril on Planes 1
What does the name CASA 212 mean? To those that know their aircraft it is a small twin propeller plane but to me personally it is a terrible reminder of a flight from hell.
The designers must have had bad day as it looks like something between a pram and a small boat. The latter description got me to wondering if even those that created it had much faith in its ability to stay out of the water. Then, to cap it all, they described it as an ‘Aviocar’ which led me to thinking that we could always taxi to our destination if necessary.
It was a long time ago but my journey is still etched in my mind. I had recently arrived in Puerto Rico and was due to connect onto a local island hopping flight to Anguilla, My incoming BA flight was on time, my suitcase was waiting for me at the carousel and off I went to the domestic check –in area without a care in the world. How deluded I was.
My first inkling of impending doom was finding myself in a noisy overcrowded non air conditioned shed behind a queue of about 40 people all expecting to get on my flight that had less than 30 seats. They seemed to have all their worldly possessions with them including large musical instruments and a fridge.
A solitary bored gum chewing female agent was languidly checking people in at a rate of one per five minutes which gave me a desk eta of two hours (one hour after scheduled departure) when help arrived in the form of her male supervisor who squeezed her butt, picked out her gum and plugged his face into hers. After giving the appreciative girl what looked like a full tonsillectomy he climbed on top of the desk and shouted “I got 20 bucks for any of yous who ain't getting on this plane”. If I had known I would have taken him up on the offer but other more knowledgeable travellers pounced on the idea of making money and self preservation.
Having completed their overbooking ‘cull’ they herded us, like lambs to the abattoir onto the tarmac to find our plane which they seemed to have misplaced. The way our check-in Lolita said goodbye seemed terribly final, almost as though she knew something we didn’t. The rain was sheeting down as we tramped across the tarmac like a bunch of refugees past lines of new shiny jets searching for our ‘aircraft’.
Then there it was! Our plane/car/boat, sat slightly apart from the others like a forlorn ugly duckling. It was old, oil streaked and there was a very worried looking man standing under one of its wings with a torch pointed at an engine shaking his head. “You gotta be kidding” I distinctly heard him say as he peered through the soggy gloom. At the back end of the plane they were trying to load the fridge and the rest of the bags using the wedge and push method. Some bags aren’t going to make it I thought.
We boarded. It was like trying to get in a coffin with a bunch of outsize people with no manners and two left feet. Sitting down was rather like that ‘Twister’ game where you squash together and put your hands and feet on different coloured circles but finally we all seemed to get there. I had what looked like a 7 foot basketball player with a ghetto blaster sat next to me. I reckoned I could have changed the tracks with my nose if it was switched on. In front of us we could see the open cockpit and the two pilots were having a heated exchange. “Well were going anyway” the captain said to the sodden co-pilot who I last saw under the wing. I saw him pale visibly.
And then we were off! After three tries the port engine started in gouts of flames which were told through a crackling loudspeaker was “quite normal”. By this time I was scrabbling for the safety card in the hopes of improving my survival chances. I gazed at it over the volume switch of the ghetto blaster which was now poking into my cheek. It said there were no life vests and that we were to use our seat cushions instead. I groped downwards and found they were the thickness of a slice of bread and probably just as porous.
I then browsed over the instructions for the brace position but discarded it as I did not think I could get into a foetal position around my neighbours ‘mega bass’. I also remember someone who should know telling me that the sole purpose for the brace position was to protect your teeth so they could identify you after the event, Nasty!
We lurched forwards and started to crab our way towards the end of the runway. Our co-pilot was sulking and had his arms folded while our gallant captain struggled with the controls. Then the engines roared, the rivets rattled, interior fitments fell off, a lady screamed and we were off.
The Casa rumbled down the runway. And rumbled, and rumbled and rumbled showing no sign of getting airborne. In the length it takes for a jumbo to fly our Casa still stuck to the ground like a limpet. The lady’s scream went up a decibel and the end of the runway came into view and at the last second we took off. Well actually not so much took of as lifted our undercarriage and lurched forward like an aged woodpecker. Another second later we had waves under our wingtips and the captain was hauling on the misnamed ‘joy stick’ as though his life depended on it. It probably did.
We never seemed to get as high as the clouds and all their content of rain and occasional lightening crashed down on us. We started being thrown around like peas in a drum and it was then that the hymn singing started up from the passengers in front who had a better view than me. We all joined in like demented gospel singers convinced that we were singing at our own funeral. We were half way through a particularly depressing number made famous by Paul Robeson when Anguilla came into view.
We did not so much land as fly into the runway. We barely had to dip our nose and there we were. The engines stopped and there was total silence. We sat there in the dark with the rain drumming on the aircraft roof and puddles forming on the carpet. Finally from row 3 there came a voice saying “thank you sweet Jesus” and we all stampeded for the exit.
So that was it! We survived! Hallelujah! But there was a sting in the tail. The guitar arrived safely and so miraculously did the fridge but my brand new Samsonite did not
I initially had to stifle an amused chuckle as I saw the contents of someone’s case come out on the belt until I recognised one of my T-shirts. My case had opened like an eggshell disgorging its contents everywhere. I still have two odd socks from that terrible night and often wonder where all my underpants went. I expect there must have been a shortage of them on the island at the time.
The designers must have had bad day as it looks like something between a pram and a small boat. The latter description got me to wondering if even those that created it had much faith in its ability to stay out of the water. Then, to cap it all, they described it as an ‘Aviocar’ which led me to thinking that we could always taxi to our destination if necessary.
It was a long time ago but my journey is still etched in my mind. I had recently arrived in Puerto Rico and was due to connect onto a local island hopping flight to Anguilla, My incoming BA flight was on time, my suitcase was waiting for me at the carousel and off I went to the domestic check –in area without a care in the world. How deluded I was.
My first inkling of impending doom was finding myself in a noisy overcrowded non air conditioned shed behind a queue of about 40 people all expecting to get on my flight that had less than 30 seats. They seemed to have all their worldly possessions with them including large musical instruments and a fridge.
A solitary bored gum chewing female agent was languidly checking people in at a rate of one per five minutes which gave me a desk eta of two hours (one hour after scheduled departure) when help arrived in the form of her male supervisor who squeezed her butt, picked out her gum and plugged his face into hers. After giving the appreciative girl what looked like a full tonsillectomy he climbed on top of the desk and shouted “I got 20 bucks for any of yous who ain't getting on this plane”. If I had known I would have taken him up on the offer but other more knowledgeable travellers pounced on the idea of making money and self preservation.
Having completed their overbooking ‘cull’ they herded us, like lambs to the abattoir onto the tarmac to find our plane which they seemed to have misplaced. The way our check-in Lolita said goodbye seemed terribly final, almost as though she knew something we didn’t. The rain was sheeting down as we tramped across the tarmac like a bunch of refugees past lines of new shiny jets searching for our ‘aircraft’.
Then there it was! Our plane/car/boat, sat slightly apart from the others like a forlorn ugly duckling. It was old, oil streaked and there was a very worried looking man standing under one of its wings with a torch pointed at an engine shaking his head. “You gotta be kidding” I distinctly heard him say as he peered through the soggy gloom. At the back end of the plane they were trying to load the fridge and the rest of the bags using the wedge and push method. Some bags aren’t going to make it I thought.
We boarded. It was like trying to get in a coffin with a bunch of outsize people with no manners and two left feet. Sitting down was rather like that ‘Twister’ game where you squash together and put your hands and feet on different coloured circles but finally we all seemed to get there. I had what looked like a 7 foot basketball player with a ghetto blaster sat next to me. I reckoned I could have changed the tracks with my nose if it was switched on. In front of us we could see the open cockpit and the two pilots were having a heated exchange. “Well were going anyway” the captain said to the sodden co-pilot who I last saw under the wing. I saw him pale visibly.
And then we were off! After three tries the port engine started in gouts of flames which were told through a crackling loudspeaker was “quite normal”. By this time I was scrabbling for the safety card in the hopes of improving my survival chances. I gazed at it over the volume switch of the ghetto blaster which was now poking into my cheek. It said there were no life vests and that we were to use our seat cushions instead. I groped downwards and found they were the thickness of a slice of bread and probably just as porous.
I then browsed over the instructions for the brace position but discarded it as I did not think I could get into a foetal position around my neighbours ‘mega bass’. I also remember someone who should know telling me that the sole purpose for the brace position was to protect your teeth so they could identify you after the event, Nasty!
We lurched forwards and started to crab our way towards the end of the runway. Our co-pilot was sulking and had his arms folded while our gallant captain struggled with the controls. Then the engines roared, the rivets rattled, interior fitments fell off, a lady screamed and we were off.
The Casa rumbled down the runway. And rumbled, and rumbled and rumbled showing no sign of getting airborne. In the length it takes for a jumbo to fly our Casa still stuck to the ground like a limpet. The lady’s scream went up a decibel and the end of the runway came into view and at the last second we took off. Well actually not so much took of as lifted our undercarriage and lurched forward like an aged woodpecker. Another second later we had waves under our wingtips and the captain was hauling on the misnamed ‘joy stick’ as though his life depended on it. It probably did.
We never seemed to get as high as the clouds and all their content of rain and occasional lightening crashed down on us. We started being thrown around like peas in a drum and it was then that the hymn singing started up from the passengers in front who had a better view than me. We all joined in like demented gospel singers convinced that we were singing at our own funeral. We were half way through a particularly depressing number made famous by Paul Robeson when Anguilla came into view.
We did not so much land as fly into the runway. We barely had to dip our nose and there we were. The engines stopped and there was total silence. We sat there in the dark with the rain drumming on the aircraft roof and puddles forming on the carpet. Finally from row 3 there came a voice saying “thank you sweet Jesus” and we all stampeded for the exit.
So that was it! We survived! Hallelujah! But there was a sting in the tail. The guitar arrived safely and so miraculously did the fridge but my brand new Samsonite did not
I initially had to stifle an amused chuckle as I saw the contents of someone’s case come out on the belt until I recognised one of my T-shirts. My case had opened like an eggshell disgorging its contents everywhere. I still have two odd socks from that terrible night and often wonder where all my underpants went. I expect there must have been a shortage of them on the island at the time.
The Sleeping Salesman
Becoming a sales rep for an airline was not in my immediate plans. I had a much better idea that involved sex and travel. It was my dad who steered me away from my depraved plans by using his influence to get me into sales and I have never been sure whether I should have thanked him or not. Let me explain.
There were four of us. All good mates, working in the reservations office of British Airways and all with a keen interest in football, pubs, late night curries and the female of the species. The only small things we lacked were money, finesse and charm so one night we sat around a grubby pub table in Hampton and decided something had to be done.
I think it was Roger that had the idea. Why not become cabin crew? Most of the stewards we knew were wealthy and most importantly both gay and surrounded by pretty women in exotic locations. What if we with our heterosexual testosterone fuelled bodies joined up? It would be like a pack of horny foxes let loose in a hen house. Well that’s what we thought.
For some reason my mum and dad was appalled at the idea. They expected their son to become a captain of industry not a global gigolo and they immediately hatched a plan to divert me. Unknown to me they spoke to a godfather I never knew I had who was a big noise in Varig Brazilian Airlines who in turn told his poor UK GM to offer me a job in his sales department. So that is the route I took while my mates had a whale of a time until it became too much for them!
So here I was. It was my first week in Varig and I had been given the area of London SW1 to cover. I was keen as mustard to go out there and tell interested companies and agencies about the sheer joy of flying Varig to Brazil. I think my colleagues were less impressed as everyone bar me seemed to know how I got the job. Anyway, off I went with my squeaky new cheap suit and a shiny black suitcase my mum bought me with the same pride as my first school satchel. Shame it only contained a Sun newspaper and a tube of Toffee sweets.
Each rep had at lest one really big and all important office to visit and mine was a company called Wakefield Fortune (later to become HRG) in Milbank by the Thames. I did not know much about it apart from its importance and that I was to be ‘very careful’ by a helpful and possibly malicious colleague. So off I went with my eyes bright and my wits unprepared into one of the hottest days of the year. Life could not get better than this I thought as I strode through St James Park in the sunshine on the way to what became a very steep learning curve.
The entrance to the office was daunting. It was one of those very old and grand buildings and I marched through it with flagging confidence. The temperature changed immediately from hot to cool and there, ready to meet me was the manager called Peter. He greeted me warmly but in a similar way to that of Count Dracula welcoming Jonathon Harker into his castle.
He was very interested in me. He particularly wanted to know how experienced I was and promised, with a glint in his eye, to ‘show me the ropes’. He explained that it was pointless me walking around the office to speak to all his staff and it would be best if he sent them to see me in groups. He explained he did not have a convenient place to do this so he harmlessly suggested I based myself in the pub across the road and they would come over in shifts. How very kind, I all too innocently thought. It became a late morning, lunch and afternoon I would never forget. Actually that is not quite true because I don’t remember much, but what I do remember I will not forget….if that makes sense?
The first group arrived with Peter as a willing escort. Break the ice he said, buy them all a drink. I started trying to take their orders and Peter said not to worry as Reg behind the bar would be willing to do that and keep a tab for me. Oh what a fool I was. It turned out there were at least fifty staff and they all liked spirits and they were all thirsty. I tried to talk about Brazil but they were all far more interested in football, drinking and the opposite sex which was an amazing coincidence as they are my favourite subjects too.
Suddenly it was three in the afternoon and they had gone. I was sat there in the middle of a load of empty glasses and spilt peanuts with a queasy feeling in my stomach. The beginning of the mother of all headaches was growing behind my eyes and Reg was standing in front of me with a bill bigger than an entire month’s expenses. You bloody mug he muttered under his breath as I gave him all my money and tottered out of the door into bright sunlight. I even forgot the cardinal rule of all reps which is always get a receipt.
My head was spinning and the sun was burning. I started walking back through St James Park trying to rehearse what the hell I was going to say to my new boss. I had enough sense not to return to the office drunk so I thought I would just lie down on the grass for a few minutes until I felt more sober. Sitting on the ground I thought I can’t lie on my shirt because I would get grass stains on the it so I took it off and settled down.
I woke with a jump. Most people had left while I was asleep and there I was, two hours later, feeling like the living dead and probably looking like a corpse too. I then realised I was feeling something on me and, as I lay, there I pushed my chin down so I could see what was lying on my chest. The first thing I observed was that I was badly burnt. Then to my growing horror I realised that what was on my chest was my boss’s business card. The man had clearly walked past and seen me. He had not woken me, but simply left his calling card as a menacing invitation to visit him in his office on my return.
The horror of it. My first week in a semi resentful office and I had spent all my company money, got drunk and passed out in the local park. You prat I thought!
I gingerly got up and put my crumpled shirt back on to cover the worst of my burns. It was then that I noticed that he must have spotted me quite early because my skin under the card was as white as a sheet. In fact for the whole of that summer I went around with a lighter business card shape in the centre of my chest. It took a lot of explaining I can tell you.
Amazingly I survived my experience. Wakefield Fortune and Peter in particular were notorious and my humiliation was seen more as a baptism of fire than a disciplinary offence. Later in my career I worked alongside Peter and gained my revenge many times over!
There were four of us. All good mates, working in the reservations office of British Airways and all with a keen interest in football, pubs, late night curries and the female of the species. The only small things we lacked were money, finesse and charm so one night we sat around a grubby pub table in Hampton and decided something had to be done.
I think it was Roger that had the idea. Why not become cabin crew? Most of the stewards we knew were wealthy and most importantly both gay and surrounded by pretty women in exotic locations. What if we with our heterosexual testosterone fuelled bodies joined up? It would be like a pack of horny foxes let loose in a hen house. Well that’s what we thought.
For some reason my mum and dad was appalled at the idea. They expected their son to become a captain of industry not a global gigolo and they immediately hatched a plan to divert me. Unknown to me they spoke to a godfather I never knew I had who was a big noise in Varig Brazilian Airlines who in turn told his poor UK GM to offer me a job in his sales department. So that is the route I took while my mates had a whale of a time until it became too much for them!
So here I was. It was my first week in Varig and I had been given the area of London SW1 to cover. I was keen as mustard to go out there and tell interested companies and agencies about the sheer joy of flying Varig to Brazil. I think my colleagues were less impressed as everyone bar me seemed to know how I got the job. Anyway, off I went with my squeaky new cheap suit and a shiny black suitcase my mum bought me with the same pride as my first school satchel. Shame it only contained a Sun newspaper and a tube of Toffee sweets.
Each rep had at lest one really big and all important office to visit and mine was a company called Wakefield Fortune (later to become HRG) in Milbank by the Thames. I did not know much about it apart from its importance and that I was to be ‘very careful’ by a helpful and possibly malicious colleague. So off I went with my eyes bright and my wits unprepared into one of the hottest days of the year. Life could not get better than this I thought as I strode through St James Park in the sunshine on the way to what became a very steep learning curve.
The entrance to the office was daunting. It was one of those very old and grand buildings and I marched through it with flagging confidence. The temperature changed immediately from hot to cool and there, ready to meet me was the manager called Peter. He greeted me warmly but in a similar way to that of Count Dracula welcoming Jonathon Harker into his castle.
He was very interested in me. He particularly wanted to know how experienced I was and promised, with a glint in his eye, to ‘show me the ropes’. He explained that it was pointless me walking around the office to speak to all his staff and it would be best if he sent them to see me in groups. He explained he did not have a convenient place to do this so he harmlessly suggested I based myself in the pub across the road and they would come over in shifts. How very kind, I all too innocently thought. It became a late morning, lunch and afternoon I would never forget. Actually that is not quite true because I don’t remember much, but what I do remember I will not forget….if that makes sense?
The first group arrived with Peter as a willing escort. Break the ice he said, buy them all a drink. I started trying to take their orders and Peter said not to worry as Reg behind the bar would be willing to do that and keep a tab for me. Oh what a fool I was. It turned out there were at least fifty staff and they all liked spirits and they were all thirsty. I tried to talk about Brazil but they were all far more interested in football, drinking and the opposite sex which was an amazing coincidence as they are my favourite subjects too.
Suddenly it was three in the afternoon and they had gone. I was sat there in the middle of a load of empty glasses and spilt peanuts with a queasy feeling in my stomach. The beginning of the mother of all headaches was growing behind my eyes and Reg was standing in front of me with a bill bigger than an entire month’s expenses. You bloody mug he muttered under his breath as I gave him all my money and tottered out of the door into bright sunlight. I even forgot the cardinal rule of all reps which is always get a receipt.
My head was spinning and the sun was burning. I started walking back through St James Park trying to rehearse what the hell I was going to say to my new boss. I had enough sense not to return to the office drunk so I thought I would just lie down on the grass for a few minutes until I felt more sober. Sitting on the ground I thought I can’t lie on my shirt because I would get grass stains on the it so I took it off and settled down.
I woke with a jump. Most people had left while I was asleep and there I was, two hours later, feeling like the living dead and probably looking like a corpse too. I then realised I was feeling something on me and, as I lay, there I pushed my chin down so I could see what was lying on my chest. The first thing I observed was that I was badly burnt. Then to my growing horror I realised that what was on my chest was my boss’s business card. The man had clearly walked past and seen me. He had not woken me, but simply left his calling card as a menacing invitation to visit him in his office on my return.
The horror of it. My first week in a semi resentful office and I had spent all my company money, got drunk and passed out in the local park. You prat I thought!
I gingerly got up and put my crumpled shirt back on to cover the worst of my burns. It was then that I noticed that he must have spotted me quite early because my skin under the card was as white as a sheet. In fact for the whole of that summer I went around with a lighter business card shape in the centre of my chest. It took a lot of explaining I can tell you.
Amazingly I survived my experience. Wakefield Fortune and Peter in particular were notorious and my humiliation was seen more as a baptism of fire than a disciplinary offence. Later in my career I worked alongside Peter and gained my revenge many times over!
Pets on Planes. Part 3
Noah’s Ark
I think most people would be shocked if they only knew what animals were flying with them or occupied their space last. They might even be more shocked if they knew what they had left behind.
One of the biggest problems caused by animals on planes is corrosion. For example I remember British Caledonian used to very often fly planes with passengers in one direction and then use the same plane to ferry race horses and even elephants the other way. In itself, not a problem as long as the interior was put right before and after but there became one issue that never seemed to disappear completely, and that was poo and primarily pee.
Sometimes these animals used to pee so much that when the aircraft tilted upwards a veritable tidal wave of faeces ridden pee rushed to the rear of the aircraft engulfing the ankles of any unwary staff that had their seats there. I know as I have a ruined pair of trainers to prove it! It used to then get crazier if the passengers were elephants as they, like us, get bored, but when they do their heads sway from side to side. You get more than one doing this in sequence and it causes chaos with the autopilot.
Anyway, back to the pee. This pee has to go somewhere and, unless the cabin is sealed like a Tupperware box that somewhere ends up being under the floor and amongst the aircraft structure itself. This stuff is full of ammonia and, when sloshing around on sheets of alloy, nuts, bolts and wires nature starts to follow its course resulting in various levels of corrosive threat to the aircraft infrastructure. These problems were always found during the major maintenance ‘D’ check which such planes went through but who would have thought that a Jumbo could have done so much damage to….well a Jumbo!
I think most people would be shocked if they only knew what animals were flying with them or occupied their space last. They might even be more shocked if they knew what they had left behind.
One of the biggest problems caused by animals on planes is corrosion. For example I remember British Caledonian used to very often fly planes with passengers in one direction and then use the same plane to ferry race horses and even elephants the other way. In itself, not a problem as long as the interior was put right before and after but there became one issue that never seemed to disappear completely, and that was poo and primarily pee.
Sometimes these animals used to pee so much that when the aircraft tilted upwards a veritable tidal wave of faeces ridden pee rushed to the rear of the aircraft engulfing the ankles of any unwary staff that had their seats there. I know as I have a ruined pair of trainers to prove it! It used to then get crazier if the passengers were elephants as they, like us, get bored, but when they do their heads sway from side to side. You get more than one doing this in sequence and it causes chaos with the autopilot.
Anyway, back to the pee. This pee has to go somewhere and, unless the cabin is sealed like a Tupperware box that somewhere ends up being under the floor and amongst the aircraft structure itself. This stuff is full of ammonia and, when sloshing around on sheets of alloy, nuts, bolts and wires nature starts to follow its course resulting in various levels of corrosive threat to the aircraft infrastructure. These problems were always found during the major maintenance ‘D’ check which such planes went through but who would have thought that a Jumbo could have done so much damage to….well a Jumbo!
Welcome to Lagos
I noticed that there is a TV programme with the above title and that reminded me of a fine welcome I got in the murky past
Someone up there definitely did not like me. He probably sat in the heavens and decided “let us smote him around a bit and bring him down a peg or two”. After all he had been pretty good to me until that moment what with sending me around the world with a bevy of beauties and an expense account without the slightest payback of gratitude. “I know” he said, “why not give him a taste of life in Nigeria”
The first I knew about my impending comeuppance was when I was called into my then leader’s office and smugly informed that I was being transferred to the West Africa Routes office and my new job would involve lots of visits to Nigeria. To start with I would be escorting a group of UK dignitaries on an inaugural flight to it’s southern capital Lagos. My blood froze. Everyone I knew working in that area had either gone weird or eccentric or, in extreme cases, both. For example one chap started keeping chickens in the company house and insisted he was a reincarnation of Tolstoy.
I had passed through Nigeria on a number of occasions in the past and witnessed mundane day to day activities such as robbery, death, squalor and loss of essential services like water, sanitation and all types of power The thought of taking a bunch of top corporate executives on a luxurious fact finding visit to such a place was truly chilling. I think my worst fears were justified.
The first task was to select and invite guests and it was my job to organise liaison and correspondence as well as to finalise their itinerary with our office in Lagos. I was helped in this task by a young lady called Sandra, a beautiful girl that the male population of the office unanimously agreed was ‘sex on legs’ and very reminiscent of Loraine Chase in those old Campari TV advertisements. Unfortunately what she had in beauty was not matched by any ability to converse with industry leaders which is illustrated by when she told a company chairman that “Nah” I could not come to the phone as I had gone to the toilet. She did reassure him that I would not be long as I had not taken my newspaper with me “as per usual”.
Eventually it was all arranged. We had a seriously high profile guest list, most of whom seemed to appreciate talking to Sandra more than me. She even got past their protective P.As which I rarely managed One very well known chap even started sending her bouquets and propositions in the post. In the hearing of one of my colleagues she ultimately told this Chief Executive to “push off” or she would set her boyfriend on him. The big day came and off we went on a brand new DC10 aircraft heading south towards our destiny. The plane was so new that it was still being flown by the McDonnell Douglas delivery pilot who wandered out to see the guests, chewing gum and wearing a cowboy outfit including a Stetson which went down a bomb with our group of traditional British gentlemen.
We arrive and were engulfed by everything that Lagos Murtalla Mohammed had to offer. It was hot. It was humid. The air conditioning was not working and the express customs clearance that we had painstakingly bribed officials for never materialised. It took over 90 minutes to get our soggy guests out of that hell hole however, finally we decanted them all into a surprisingly ancient coach which "belonged to a brother" of our airport manager who was charging a fortune for it. In that part of the world the airport manager is the most powerful company man in the country as he controlled everything from upgrades to off-loading.
Our guests usually get whisked through VIP arrival centres and into limousines so they found the whole experience quite educational. At lest it stopped all the talking about profit margins and PE ratios and moved them on to wagering if the coach would hold out and what the ‘strange noise’ was coming from the back axle. I was more concerned about the recent hold ups on this road as there had been a spate of them recently where large planks full of nailed spikes were thrown in front of vehicles. Thankfully the Badagri Expressway allowed us to pass unhindered and the coach groaned into the EKO Hotel front entrance. It remained there for three days as it never started again.
Check-in was fine. We had been given rooms on the 17th floor which was their most recently decorated floor and all was well until we got to the lifts. They did not seem to be working and nobody knew when they would be fixed. I gestured to my motley sweaty group of dignitaries and we started the slow plod up the stairs. I felt like Hannibal leading his elephants across the Alps. On and on we staggered with people falling by the wayside as they stopped for breaks and I ended up like a shepherd dog with sheep coaxing and bullying them forward.
It took nearly half an hour to reach the 17th floor. It was an interesting human drama and a demonstrated of team spirit as they all joined together to help the stragglers make it at the same time. I felt quite proud and told them so however I was interrupted by the ‘ding’ of the lift bell as a porter emerged out of it with the last of our suitcases. I subsequently found out that it was the porters who had diverted the lifts so that they could transfer the bags up from the basement. It was not something I shared with my wheezing guests.
I barely closed my door before the phone started ringing. Apparently nobody had any running water. I started muttering to myself, a malaise that started then and continues to this day. A feeling of pure helplessness flooded over me and I rang the hotel General Manager for some word of explanation. "Welcome to Lagos" came the helpful reply. Welcome to a bunch of smelly, angry and very important customers I sneered back which at least resulted in a crate of Evian water being deposited outside each of our rooms.
The water debacle continued until early evening when miraculously it started running fitfully and brackish through our taps. I could hear the ironic cheers echoing down the 17th corridor as I settled myself down into the tepid brown puddle in my bath. No sooner had my bottom touched plastic when the phone rang. It was a call from the secretary of one of my group calling from London to advise me that Mr B could not turn his tap off. He had apparently rung her who rang me. I rang the hotel GM who rang maintenance who rang him back. He then rang me and I rang the secretary who rang Mr B to tell him that the taps operate in a different way to England. He was then able to stop the water so he rang her who rang me. I rang the hotel GM who rang maintenance to say the drama was over. I discovered later that Mr B had the room next to mine. Oh the joys of modern cutting-edge communication…and plumbing.
Somehow we all made it through the next three days. Fortunately most of the guests were blessed with a fine sense of humour and also spent most of their days visiting local offices thus passing responsibility onto their own folk. The end of the tour had come and all that remained was to run the gauntlet of the Badagri Expressway and head for dear old Blighty. I have to say I was already relaxing as what more could possibly go wrong once we reached the airport Such folly.
To be fair to the Nigerians they had a conscience about the way we were treated when we arrived so they decided to give us a special send off and boy did they achieve that. It turned out there was a special VIP lounge for royalty and heads of state and they invited us to use it while we waited to board. I wandered off to say thanks to our even richer airport manager and left them all with their glasses of champagne. On my return I was startled to see them all tucking in to some local nibbles and snacks provided by our hosts including some very dodgy looking prawns with a curry coating. One thing I have learned is never eat anything so risky and strange smelling before boarding a busy overnight flight.
It started about 3 a.m. London time somewhere over the Sahara when I was awoken by heated and desperate voices. I observed two of my charges having a pushing match alongside a toilet door and it was turning ugly. Then I saw other shapes in the gloom rising all round me and heading for the lavatories. Out of our dozen or so guests at least nine were suffering from acute food poisoning resulting in terrible stomach gripes and the need to go to the toilet instantly if not sooner. Nine people and two toilets? You can do the maths. It was mayhem. These were people in the public eye, household names and there they were literally fighting each other for the next free cubicle. Not nice and I decided to sink deeper in my seat and let them get on with it.
We arrived back at Gatwick in the early hours looking like a group of third world displaced refugees. Never again I thought. And then I remembered that this was the first of four such trips!
Someone up there definitely did not like me. He probably sat in the heavens and decided “let us smote him around a bit and bring him down a peg or two”. After all he had been pretty good to me until that moment what with sending me around the world with a bevy of beauties and an expense account without the slightest payback of gratitude. “I know” he said, “why not give him a taste of life in Nigeria”
The first I knew about my impending comeuppance was when I was called into my then leader’s office and smugly informed that I was being transferred to the West Africa Routes office and my new job would involve lots of visits to Nigeria. To start with I would be escorting a group of UK dignitaries on an inaugural flight to it’s southern capital Lagos. My blood froze. Everyone I knew working in that area had either gone weird or eccentric or, in extreme cases, both. For example one chap started keeping chickens in the company house and insisted he was a reincarnation of Tolstoy.
I had passed through Nigeria on a number of occasions in the past and witnessed mundane day to day activities such as robbery, death, squalor and loss of essential services like water, sanitation and all types of power The thought of taking a bunch of top corporate executives on a luxurious fact finding visit to such a place was truly chilling. I think my worst fears were justified.
The first task was to select and invite guests and it was my job to organise liaison and correspondence as well as to finalise their itinerary with our office in Lagos. I was helped in this task by a young lady called Sandra, a beautiful girl that the male population of the office unanimously agreed was ‘sex on legs’ and very reminiscent of Loraine Chase in those old Campari TV advertisements. Unfortunately what she had in beauty was not matched by any ability to converse with industry leaders which is illustrated by when she told a company chairman that “Nah” I could not come to the phone as I had gone to the toilet. She did reassure him that I would not be long as I had not taken my newspaper with me “as per usual”.
Eventually it was all arranged. We had a seriously high profile guest list, most of whom seemed to appreciate talking to Sandra more than me. She even got past their protective P.As which I rarely managed One very well known chap even started sending her bouquets and propositions in the post. In the hearing of one of my colleagues she ultimately told this Chief Executive to “push off” or she would set her boyfriend on him. The big day came and off we went on a brand new DC10 aircraft heading south towards our destiny. The plane was so new that it was still being flown by the McDonnell Douglas delivery pilot who wandered out to see the guests, chewing gum and wearing a cowboy outfit including a Stetson which went down a bomb with our group of traditional British gentlemen.
We arrive and were engulfed by everything that Lagos Murtalla Mohammed had to offer. It was hot. It was humid. The air conditioning was not working and the express customs clearance that we had painstakingly bribed officials for never materialised. It took over 90 minutes to get our soggy guests out of that hell hole however, finally we decanted them all into a surprisingly ancient coach which "belonged to a brother" of our airport manager who was charging a fortune for it. In that part of the world the airport manager is the most powerful company man in the country as he controlled everything from upgrades to off-loading.
Our guests usually get whisked through VIP arrival centres and into limousines so they found the whole experience quite educational. At lest it stopped all the talking about profit margins and PE ratios and moved them on to wagering if the coach would hold out and what the ‘strange noise’ was coming from the back axle. I was more concerned about the recent hold ups on this road as there had been a spate of them recently where large planks full of nailed spikes were thrown in front of vehicles. Thankfully the Badagri Expressway allowed us to pass unhindered and the coach groaned into the EKO Hotel front entrance. It remained there for three days as it never started again.
Check-in was fine. We had been given rooms on the 17th floor which was their most recently decorated floor and all was well until we got to the lifts. They did not seem to be working and nobody knew when they would be fixed. I gestured to my motley sweaty group of dignitaries and we started the slow plod up the stairs. I felt like Hannibal leading his elephants across the Alps. On and on we staggered with people falling by the wayside as they stopped for breaks and I ended up like a shepherd dog with sheep coaxing and bullying them forward.
It took nearly half an hour to reach the 17th floor. It was an interesting human drama and a demonstrated of team spirit as they all joined together to help the stragglers make it at the same time. I felt quite proud and told them so however I was interrupted by the ‘ding’ of the lift bell as a porter emerged out of it with the last of our suitcases. I subsequently found out that it was the porters who had diverted the lifts so that they could transfer the bags up from the basement. It was not something I shared with my wheezing guests.
I barely closed my door before the phone started ringing. Apparently nobody had any running water. I started muttering to myself, a malaise that started then and continues to this day. A feeling of pure helplessness flooded over me and I rang the hotel General Manager for some word of explanation. "Welcome to Lagos" came the helpful reply. Welcome to a bunch of smelly, angry and very important customers I sneered back which at least resulted in a crate of Evian water being deposited outside each of our rooms.
The water debacle continued until early evening when miraculously it started running fitfully and brackish through our taps. I could hear the ironic cheers echoing down the 17th corridor as I settled myself down into the tepid brown puddle in my bath. No sooner had my bottom touched plastic when the phone rang. It was a call from the secretary of one of my group calling from London to advise me that Mr B could not turn his tap off. He had apparently rung her who rang me. I rang the hotel GM who rang maintenance who rang him back. He then rang me and I rang the secretary who rang Mr B to tell him that the taps operate in a different way to England. He was then able to stop the water so he rang her who rang me. I rang the hotel GM who rang maintenance to say the drama was over. I discovered later that Mr B had the room next to mine. Oh the joys of modern cutting-edge communication…and plumbing.
Somehow we all made it through the next three days. Fortunately most of the guests were blessed with a fine sense of humour and also spent most of their days visiting local offices thus passing responsibility onto their own folk. The end of the tour had come and all that remained was to run the gauntlet of the Badagri Expressway and head for dear old Blighty. I have to say I was already relaxing as what more could possibly go wrong once we reached the airport Such folly.
To be fair to the Nigerians they had a conscience about the way we were treated when we arrived so they decided to give us a special send off and boy did they achieve that. It turned out there was a special VIP lounge for royalty and heads of state and they invited us to use it while we waited to board. I wandered off to say thanks to our even richer airport manager and left them all with their glasses of champagne. On my return I was startled to see them all tucking in to some local nibbles and snacks provided by our hosts including some very dodgy looking prawns with a curry coating. One thing I have learned is never eat anything so risky and strange smelling before boarding a busy overnight flight.
It started about 3 a.m. London time somewhere over the Sahara when I was awoken by heated and desperate voices. I observed two of my charges having a pushing match alongside a toilet door and it was turning ugly. Then I saw other shapes in the gloom rising all round me and heading for the lavatories. Out of our dozen or so guests at least nine were suffering from acute food poisoning resulting in terrible stomach gripes and the need to go to the toilet instantly if not sooner. Nine people and two toilets? You can do the maths. It was mayhem. These were people in the public eye, household names and there they were literally fighting each other for the next free cubicle. Not nice and I decided to sink deeper in my seat and let them get on with it.
We arrived back at Gatwick in the early hours looking like a group of third world displaced refugees. Never again I thought. And then I remembered that this was the first of four such trips!
Pets on planes. Part 2
Supermouse
Some people just cannot or will not leave their pets at home and often it causes chaos. I still remember one time when standing close to a baggage x ray machine I heard a tremendous commotion. I turned to see this very lithe, beautiful albeit over-made up young woman screaming at an official to “leave im alone” and “don’t frighten im”
The “im” in question was a five foot long python that she had packed in her cabin bag along with a Hello magazine and a pair of hair straighteners. “He is an integral part of my act” she bleated “and part of the family”. It was fun watching the security folk trying to lever this large snake back into a small bag using nothing but hand-held metal detectors whilst having to restrain a now frantic ‘exotic’ dancer. She was also found to have two dead mice in a little cool box for the journey in case he got ‘peckish’
The ‘Supermouse’ referred to in my title was neither of the two snake snacks mentioned above. This supermouse was very much alive and caused mayhem lasting three days on a long drawn out flight to Australia. This mouse belonged to a little girl who could not bear being separated from her ‘Mickey’ so she successfully managed to stow it away somewhere on her person.
Off the plane went and after about 3 hours we could see something was clearly wrong. There was this frantic child on her hands and knees followed by even more frantic parents poking their heads under people’s seats. They refused to tell even the crew what they were doing but it became clear when a scream came from the rear of the cabin galley area. “I tell you it was a bloody mouse” came an indignant voice. “The bloody thing was washing its feet as bold as you like in that corner”
Creatures like mice are big deals in the airline world. Mice have been known to not only chew cables but also spread diseases around the world. Our plane immediately was awarded the status of a flying global outcast along with everyone in it. Mickey had to be caught and all the passengers and spare crew set to it whilst the pilot tried to get someone somewhere to allow us to land with a rodent on the run.
Finally the mouse hunt ended fruitlessly and our captain had managed to persuade the Lebanon to allow us to land. We all shuffled off into 40 degrees of Beirut sunshine, only allowed to take the clothes on our back and the plane was impounded until Mickey was taken ‘Dead or Alive’.
It took a nightmare three days in blinding heat with no change of clothes living in a war zone before the news came through than Mickey was no more. The manual searches had failed so they decided to gas the aircraft and kill it that way. Unfortunately having gassed the plane and located our demised Mickey the humidity would not allow the gas to leave again. This meant that the plane had to go up and down a spare runway with its doors open before we were allowed to get on it.
Just before we boarded a little chap came along with a jam jar. Inside the jar was a dead mouse which he proudly displayed to the passengers and crew. “We have him,we have him” he exulted. I glanced over to the young girl to see how she was coping looking at the corpse. She quickly turned to her dad and said “it is not hi……” before he snatched her away and headed for the aircraft steps.
Some people just cannot or will not leave their pets at home and often it causes chaos. I still remember one time when standing close to a baggage x ray machine I heard a tremendous commotion. I turned to see this very lithe, beautiful albeit over-made up young woman screaming at an official to “leave im alone” and “don’t frighten im”
The “im” in question was a five foot long python that she had packed in her cabin bag along with a Hello magazine and a pair of hair straighteners. “He is an integral part of my act” she bleated “and part of the family”. It was fun watching the security folk trying to lever this large snake back into a small bag using nothing but hand-held metal detectors whilst having to restrain a now frantic ‘exotic’ dancer. She was also found to have two dead mice in a little cool box for the journey in case he got ‘peckish’
The ‘Supermouse’ referred to in my title was neither of the two snake snacks mentioned above. This supermouse was very much alive and caused mayhem lasting three days on a long drawn out flight to Australia. This mouse belonged to a little girl who could not bear being separated from her ‘Mickey’ so she successfully managed to stow it away somewhere on her person.
Off the plane went and after about 3 hours we could see something was clearly wrong. There was this frantic child on her hands and knees followed by even more frantic parents poking their heads under people’s seats. They refused to tell even the crew what they were doing but it became clear when a scream came from the rear of the cabin galley area. “I tell you it was a bloody mouse” came an indignant voice. “The bloody thing was washing its feet as bold as you like in that corner”
Creatures like mice are big deals in the airline world. Mice have been known to not only chew cables but also spread diseases around the world. Our plane immediately was awarded the status of a flying global outcast along with everyone in it. Mickey had to be caught and all the passengers and spare crew set to it whilst the pilot tried to get someone somewhere to allow us to land with a rodent on the run.
Finally the mouse hunt ended fruitlessly and our captain had managed to persuade the Lebanon to allow us to land. We all shuffled off into 40 degrees of Beirut sunshine, only allowed to take the clothes on our back and the plane was impounded until Mickey was taken ‘Dead or Alive’.
It took a nightmare three days in blinding heat with no change of clothes living in a war zone before the news came through than Mickey was no more. The manual searches had failed so they decided to gas the aircraft and kill it that way. Unfortunately having gassed the plane and located our demised Mickey the humidity would not allow the gas to leave again. This meant that the plane had to go up and down a spare runway with its doors open before we were allowed to get on it.
Just before we boarded a little chap came along with a jam jar. Inside the jar was a dead mouse which he proudly displayed to the passengers and crew. “We have him,we have him” he exulted. I glanced over to the young girl to see how she was coping looking at the corpse. She quickly turned to her dad and said “it is not hi……” before he snatched her away and headed for the aircraft steps.
Pets on Planes. Part 1.
Colin and Edith
Pets and planes don’t mix really, unless the animals are safely and securely stored away preferably in a pressurised and heated hold where nobody can hear their howls, meows, tweets etc. Even then it is apparently unwise to put a dog in the same hold as human remains as they can sense and respond to it even when sealed in a lead casket (the body that is).
My first doggy experience was on an Air Afrique Boeing flight between the Ivory Coast and Paris. The French you see cannot bear to be parted from their ‘Fifi’ or ‘Pierre’ and, in those days there was nothing against them taking their hound in the cabin with them, if they bought an extra seat.
So there I was. Me in seat 26D, a lady that looked like a bloated Edith Piaf in 26F and between us in 26E a Daschund who, for the sake of this story I shall call Colin.
Colin was built like one of those balloon dogs made by child entertainers and I soon found out he contained the same level of wind. We made an incongruous trio. I was trying to read a paper and pretend I was not sat next to a dog, an old lady who I discovered could snore and dribble at the same time and Colin who spent most of the voyage licking his scrotum or getting into contortions and generally scratching things in my direction. Colin was clearly not into personal hygiene and neither was his owner. Things did not bode well.
I decided I had to move. Up and down the cabin I walked but there was not a spare seat anywhere. I got evicted from a stewardess seat in the galley and asked to vacate a toilet after I holed out there for 20 minutes. Anything was better than being left to the tender mercies of Colin, especially as the meal was about to be served. When I left the toilet I was confronted by Edith and Colin who were queuing to ‘use’ it. Even today I cannot fully imagine how that particular exercise was completed in an area too small to swing a cat let alone a Daschund.
I struggled back to my seat just as the meal trays arrived. My companions arrived shortly after and one climbed over my knees as the other waddled under them. Edith and Colin had the fish whilst I ordered the meatballs. Clearly Colin had flown Air Afrique before and there was no way he was going to risk the meatballs. Sadly I had no advance warning and they were truly vile. So bad in fact that I tried to slip one to Colin and he regurgitated it over the in-flight entertainment consol. Which probably never worked again.
By this time it was very late and the cabin lights dimmed. Good night Colin I muttered. He fixed me with a cold stare and once more decided to excavate his crotch. I woke about two hours later and something was wrong. I could feel it, no I could smell it. Yes, it was Colin. At some time than night Colin had decided to double up with me. He was flat on his back, paws in the air and nose one centimetre from my left eyeball. Gravity had forced back his cheeks over his canine teeth making him look like something out of the film An American Werewolf in London. I can still see it now.
Thankfully the plane arrived in Paris. Colin and I had survived each other without too much incidence, apart from the meatball, and there was every chance we would never ever see each other again. He stood on his seat, wagged his tail. Then at the last minute…..oh no! He cocked his leg.
Pets and planes don’t mix really, unless the animals are safely and securely stored away preferably in a pressurised and heated hold where nobody can hear their howls, meows, tweets etc. Even then it is apparently unwise to put a dog in the same hold as human remains as they can sense and respond to it even when sealed in a lead casket (the body that is).
My first doggy experience was on an Air Afrique Boeing flight between the Ivory Coast and Paris. The French you see cannot bear to be parted from their ‘Fifi’ or ‘Pierre’ and, in those days there was nothing against them taking their hound in the cabin with them, if they bought an extra seat.
So there I was. Me in seat 26D, a lady that looked like a bloated Edith Piaf in 26F and between us in 26E a Daschund who, for the sake of this story I shall call Colin.
Colin was built like one of those balloon dogs made by child entertainers and I soon found out he contained the same level of wind. We made an incongruous trio. I was trying to read a paper and pretend I was not sat next to a dog, an old lady who I discovered could snore and dribble at the same time and Colin who spent most of the voyage licking his scrotum or getting into contortions and generally scratching things in my direction. Colin was clearly not into personal hygiene and neither was his owner. Things did not bode well.
I decided I had to move. Up and down the cabin I walked but there was not a spare seat anywhere. I got evicted from a stewardess seat in the galley and asked to vacate a toilet after I holed out there for 20 minutes. Anything was better than being left to the tender mercies of Colin, especially as the meal was about to be served. When I left the toilet I was confronted by Edith and Colin who were queuing to ‘use’ it. Even today I cannot fully imagine how that particular exercise was completed in an area too small to swing a cat let alone a Daschund.
I struggled back to my seat just as the meal trays arrived. My companions arrived shortly after and one climbed over my knees as the other waddled under them. Edith and Colin had the fish whilst I ordered the meatballs. Clearly Colin had flown Air Afrique before and there was no way he was going to risk the meatballs. Sadly I had no advance warning and they were truly vile. So bad in fact that I tried to slip one to Colin and he regurgitated it over the in-flight entertainment consol. Which probably never worked again.
By this time it was very late and the cabin lights dimmed. Good night Colin I muttered. He fixed me with a cold stare and once more decided to excavate his crotch. I woke about two hours later and something was wrong. I could feel it, no I could smell it. Yes, it was Colin. At some time than night Colin had decided to double up with me. He was flat on his back, paws in the air and nose one centimetre from my left eyeball. Gravity had forced back his cheeks over his canine teeth making him look like something out of the film An American Werewolf in London. I can still see it now.
Thankfully the plane arrived in Paris. Colin and I had survived each other without too much incidence, apart from the meatball, and there was every chance we would never ever see each other again. He stood on his seat, wagged his tail. Then at the last minute…..oh no! He cocked his leg.
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