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.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
A truly sickening idea
Heard the true story about the low cost carrier that decided to sell advertising on their sick bags?
They did a deal with a photographic company who converted the bags to make them sealable and marketed on the side that all you had to do was fill in a section and, place your film inside and post it off.
The promotion did not last long as the photographic company was inundated with packages filled with......err what the bag was originally placed in the seat back for!
They did a deal with a photographic company who converted the bags to make them sealable and marketed on the side that all you had to do was fill in a section and, place your film inside and post it off.
The promotion did not last long as the photographic company was inundated with packages filled with......err what the bag was originally placed in the seat back for!
Ladies of the Night
All five of us were exhausted. We had trudged the streets of Brussels for two weeks calling on businesses and agencies promoting the launch of our new airline service.
The concept was good in that we were to visit every travel prospect company in Brussels, gather contact information, asses their potential for using our new service and establish an initial awareness ready for the local sales team who would replace us. The reward these companies got for seeing us were a range of give-away goodies from tartan scarves, to cuff links, beach balls (very useful in Belgium) and desktop plastic tailfins displaying our company logo. The latter was to cause me enormous grief as I will explain
The welcome we received was mixed. It was mainly ‘who are these weird Anglais materialising out of the grey drizzle brandishing model airplanes and beach balls? Why did they not speak French? Why did they not make an appointment like normal people and why did they keep asking map directions?’ All very odd, and as welcome as a tepid Stella Artois. I got physically ejected twice and my two female colleagues got propositions that ranged from dinner to a quickie in the manager’s office. Oh the joy and sophistication of international sales.
Finally it was over so we sat in my hotel room and worked our way through the entire mini-bar from Armangac to Pernod. Then someone remembered we had one more dilemma. We hade two cases of give-away tail fin desk pennants and nobody was prepared to haul them back to base. The need for creative thinking was clear and, through a drunken haze the answer hit like a thunderbolt. They belonged across the road.
You see we were staying at the Metropole Hotel and on the other side of the street was the Brussels red light district, I set off with a large trolley bag full of mini tail fins, topically displaying a lion rampant on each side and disappeared into the red and welcoming glow of Brussels most diverse tourist attraction.
I tapped on the first window I came to and there sitting inside was a lady I can only describe as having the face of Margaret Thatcher, the body of Jordan and the clothes of Elton John. She looked keen so I spoke quickly of my mission
I told Nicole (her name) that there was a big convention in Brussels starting the next day and jaded businessmen from around the world would be arriving in their hundreds and looking for a good time. I explained that the convention logo was a golden lion and pulled a pennant out of my trolley bag. To benefit from this work opportunity I suggested she placed the pennant in her window to show she had been approved by the convention organisers and she willingly agreed to do so. She even offered to demonstrate what the lucky delegates would receive but I naturally made my excuses and left. I managed to offload the rest of the pennants in a similar way before tottering off to bed.
It had all gone terribly well until the following evening when our senior executives and their wives arrived for the inaugural celebration dinner. As the last guest left one of the wives said she was not sleepy and up for ‘a stroll. Swiftly they all agreed and one suggested it would add some spice if they took in the red light district across the road. I froze.
It took them no time at all to come to the first window. There was Nicole/Maggie/Jordan/Elton sitting on her chair, legs akimbo and a neckline below her navel. Next to her was her proudly displayed lion rampant pennant. There was an eerie pause and then my boss started pointing at it and spluttering. Immediately Nicole assumed he was an interested punter and went to great pains to explain she had been personally approved by me and that she would give him a staff discount.
All hell was unleashed. They walked from window to window seeing their precious logo on display It all became rather frantic as they stormed the windows, grabbed their pennants, made their excuses and left. Retribution was swift but fortunately for me, they ultimately saw the funny side of it and, after the roasting of the century I survived to sell another day!
The concept was good in that we were to visit every travel prospect company in Brussels, gather contact information, asses their potential for using our new service and establish an initial awareness ready for the local sales team who would replace us. The reward these companies got for seeing us were a range of give-away goodies from tartan scarves, to cuff links, beach balls (very useful in Belgium) and desktop plastic tailfins displaying our company logo. The latter was to cause me enormous grief as I will explain
The welcome we received was mixed. It was mainly ‘who are these weird Anglais materialising out of the grey drizzle brandishing model airplanes and beach balls? Why did they not speak French? Why did they not make an appointment like normal people and why did they keep asking map directions?’ All very odd, and as welcome as a tepid Stella Artois. I got physically ejected twice and my two female colleagues got propositions that ranged from dinner to a quickie in the manager’s office. Oh the joy and sophistication of international sales.
Finally it was over so we sat in my hotel room and worked our way through the entire mini-bar from Armangac to Pernod. Then someone remembered we had one more dilemma. We hade two cases of give-away tail fin desk pennants and nobody was prepared to haul them back to base. The need for creative thinking was clear and, through a drunken haze the answer hit like a thunderbolt. They belonged across the road.
You see we were staying at the Metropole Hotel and on the other side of the street was the Brussels red light district, I set off with a large trolley bag full of mini tail fins, topically displaying a lion rampant on each side and disappeared into the red and welcoming glow of Brussels most diverse tourist attraction.
I tapped on the first window I came to and there sitting inside was a lady I can only describe as having the face of Margaret Thatcher, the body of Jordan and the clothes of Elton John. She looked keen so I spoke quickly of my mission
I told Nicole (her name) that there was a big convention in Brussels starting the next day and jaded businessmen from around the world would be arriving in their hundreds and looking for a good time. I explained that the convention logo was a golden lion and pulled a pennant out of my trolley bag. To benefit from this work opportunity I suggested she placed the pennant in her window to show she had been approved by the convention organisers and she willingly agreed to do so. She even offered to demonstrate what the lucky delegates would receive but I naturally made my excuses and left. I managed to offload the rest of the pennants in a similar way before tottering off to bed.
It had all gone terribly well until the following evening when our senior executives and their wives arrived for the inaugural celebration dinner. As the last guest left one of the wives said she was not sleepy and up for ‘a stroll. Swiftly they all agreed and one suggested it would add some spice if they took in the red light district across the road. I froze.
It took them no time at all to come to the first window. There was Nicole/Maggie/Jordan/Elton sitting on her chair, legs akimbo and a neckline below her navel. Next to her was her proudly displayed lion rampant pennant. There was an eerie pause and then my boss started pointing at it and spluttering. Immediately Nicole assumed he was an interested punter and went to great pains to explain she had been personally approved by me and that she would give him a staff discount.
All hell was unleashed. They walked from window to window seeing their precious logo on display It all became rather frantic as they stormed the windows, grabbed their pennants, made their excuses and left. Retribution was swift but fortunately for me, they ultimately saw the funny side of it and, after the roasting of the century I survived to sell another day!
A Distressed Salesman in Paris
A DISTRESSED SALESMAN IN PARIS
We all know what it is like. That dreadful feeling when you just know you have to go. You feel strange movements and aches in your gut and you try to position yourself in the car seat in a way that you can best cope. Cold sweat starts to form on your brow as you realise that your race against time is nearly lost and there is no salvation is in sight. The mind wonders what you are going to do when it literally’ happens’.
It all seemed so harmless the previous night. A few Kronenbourgs, a celebratory glass of champagne, some suspect cork flavoured wine and oysters for the first time in that quaint riverside Parisian bistro. What the hell are you supposed to do with oysters I thought, my mind wandering back to various novels I had read. I tried swallowing, and chewing, a bit of Tabasco, au naturelle but frankly it tasted like raw sea slug whichever way it went down. My table host was ‘eating’ moules marinier at the same time so I borrowed a few to see if the combined taste improved matters. It definitely did not. Back to the hotel afterwards and after a couple of Armagnac and a jar of assorted peanuts from the mini bar I fell into an uneasy sleep.
Out of bed early in the morning, shovelling down a breakfast ‘Anglais’ with a swill of tart orange juice and black coffee and off in my hire car, a replete road warrior The kilometres ran past and my stomach tightened until I found myself in contortions, talking to myself, and sweat poring down my face. The sheer horror of being in a foreign land on a busy perimeter road and not the first idea how to explain my predicament to a local began to play on my tortured senses.
Just as my stomach was seriously contemplating giving way to gravity I saw it. There it was, a roadside toilet. The relief was palpable. Providence was on my side and there was a large parking space, right in front of it! Oh what joy I felt as I crabbed across the pavement in a Quasimodo like gait. Relief was imminently at hand, I thought.
The anticipation was as good as it gets, until I got inside. My eyes focussed simultaniously on two unwelcome sights. First was an enormous old lady sitting behind a plain wooden table by the urinal and the second a sign next to the only cubicle saying ‘ferme (closed). Any blood remaining in my face drained at these two terrible visions.
The woman was obviously both, cleaner and custodian and her eyes transfixed me with a baleful stare as I stood there hunched over with my knees clamped together. I made my move first, lurching towards the cubicle door, hands like claws reaching for the handle. She moved fast considering her bulk and age but I got there seconds before her and slammed the door in her face. Eureka I thought as I settled on the grubby seat. It was then I realised that the reason the cubicle was ‘ferme’ was because the lock on the door was broken and hanging off its screws. By this time nothing was going to stop me so I stretched one leg as far as I could and jammed it against the door.
It was like the 1812, Ride of the Valkerye and the Hallelujah chorus all thrown into one defining moment of relief. I could swear the earth moved and with a whimpering sigh of joy I let it all go. My pleasure lasted as long as it took for the cubicle door to crash open throwing me backwards and leaving my leg a painful limp and inanimate object. There standing in all her massive glory was Madame the cleaner, cigarette in mouth and brandishing a mop and bucket. I was transfixed to the spot with my hands trying to shield my nether regions and blubbering ‘excuse moi’! She took no notice and started mopping the floor around me as I sat like a petrified gnome. Finally she started prodding my feet with her mop head until I understood she wanted me to raise them so she could do the bits closer around the bowl. The shame of it.
Having cleaned everything bar where I was actually sitting she stood back and stared at me. Very slowly she shrugged her mighty shoulders, shook her head and muttered something like ‘Pah’ and lumbered off to her table with a glimmer of a smile hovering on her lips. She had taught Johnny foreigner a lesson he would not forget in a hurry. ‘Merde’ she felt good.
I made it back to my car with both sets of cheeks burning and drove off. I was embarrassed but the feeling of sheer physical relief far outweighed the humiliation. But I should have known better. Like an earthquake food poisoning does not result in only one big bang. The further I drove away from that hell hole the greater discomfort I felt. What happened next?
Groundhog Day.
We all know what it is like. That dreadful feeling when you just know you have to go. You feel strange movements and aches in your gut and you try to position yourself in the car seat in a way that you can best cope. Cold sweat starts to form on your brow as you realise that your race against time is nearly lost and there is no salvation is in sight. The mind wonders what you are going to do when it literally’ happens’.
It all seemed so harmless the previous night. A few Kronenbourgs, a celebratory glass of champagne, some suspect cork flavoured wine and oysters for the first time in that quaint riverside Parisian bistro. What the hell are you supposed to do with oysters I thought, my mind wandering back to various novels I had read. I tried swallowing, and chewing, a bit of Tabasco, au naturelle but frankly it tasted like raw sea slug whichever way it went down. My table host was ‘eating’ moules marinier at the same time so I borrowed a few to see if the combined taste improved matters. It definitely did not. Back to the hotel afterwards and after a couple of Armagnac and a jar of assorted peanuts from the mini bar I fell into an uneasy sleep.
Out of bed early in the morning, shovelling down a breakfast ‘Anglais’ with a swill of tart orange juice and black coffee and off in my hire car, a replete road warrior The kilometres ran past and my stomach tightened until I found myself in contortions, talking to myself, and sweat poring down my face. The sheer horror of being in a foreign land on a busy perimeter road and not the first idea how to explain my predicament to a local began to play on my tortured senses.
Just as my stomach was seriously contemplating giving way to gravity I saw it. There it was, a roadside toilet. The relief was palpable. Providence was on my side and there was a large parking space, right in front of it! Oh what joy I felt as I crabbed across the pavement in a Quasimodo like gait. Relief was imminently at hand, I thought.
The anticipation was as good as it gets, until I got inside. My eyes focussed simultaniously on two unwelcome sights. First was an enormous old lady sitting behind a plain wooden table by the urinal and the second a sign next to the only cubicle saying ‘ferme (closed). Any blood remaining in my face drained at these two terrible visions.
The woman was obviously both, cleaner and custodian and her eyes transfixed me with a baleful stare as I stood there hunched over with my knees clamped together. I made my move first, lurching towards the cubicle door, hands like claws reaching for the handle. She moved fast considering her bulk and age but I got there seconds before her and slammed the door in her face. Eureka I thought as I settled on the grubby seat. It was then I realised that the reason the cubicle was ‘ferme’ was because the lock on the door was broken and hanging off its screws. By this time nothing was going to stop me so I stretched one leg as far as I could and jammed it against the door.
It was like the 1812, Ride of the Valkerye and the Hallelujah chorus all thrown into one defining moment of relief. I could swear the earth moved and with a whimpering sigh of joy I let it all go. My pleasure lasted as long as it took for the cubicle door to crash open throwing me backwards and leaving my leg a painful limp and inanimate object. There standing in all her massive glory was Madame the cleaner, cigarette in mouth and brandishing a mop and bucket. I was transfixed to the spot with my hands trying to shield my nether regions and blubbering ‘excuse moi’! She took no notice and started mopping the floor around me as I sat like a petrified gnome. Finally she started prodding my feet with her mop head until I understood she wanted me to raise them so she could do the bits closer around the bowl. The shame of it.
Having cleaned everything bar where I was actually sitting she stood back and stared at me. Very slowly she shrugged her mighty shoulders, shook her head and muttered something like ‘Pah’ and lumbered off to her table with a glimmer of a smile hovering on her lips. She had taught Johnny foreigner a lesson he would not forget in a hurry. ‘Merde’ she felt good.
I made it back to my car with both sets of cheeks burning and drove off. I was embarrassed but the feeling of sheer physical relief far outweighed the humiliation. But I should have known better. Like an earthquake food poisoning does not result in only one big bang. The further I drove away from that hell hole the greater discomfort I felt. What happened next?
Groundhog Day.
Getting an Upgrade. A matter of Life and Death?
People go to extreme lengths in order to get themselves sitting as near as the pointy bit of a plane as possible, especially on long flights. During the process every emotion is used from grovelling to indignation, lies and sheer cunning. Sexual promise has also been tried but frankly it got me nowhere.
I have seen them all in my times both as an airline worker and, in person as a traveller and I would recommend that the most likely way to succeed is to die. A bit extreme I know but it does work most of the time although you could possibly end up propped in a toilet instead. Let me explain.
Think about it for a moment. People more often than you might expect get ill and die on planes so what do they do with the corpse? There are very few places it can be put without it getting in the way or causing hysteria amongst other passengers. One of the favourite positions is in seat 1A or 1F in First Class. Reason being that nobody apart from the flight crew is likely to walk past and it is much more preferable than leaning it in its seat against a loved one or stranger in seat 32D. After all dead folk tend to attract the wrong kind of attention from all but the most hardened fellow travellers.
I have travelled with two corpses that I have known of and they seemed very comfortable (they didn’t complain) except for one who rather terrified an air hostess by moving under his blanket. I wondered for a moment if he was going to ask for champagne but it turned out to be rigormortis as we tried to tell the shaking hostess. “He’s alive” she wailed.
A certain African airline I know created an ingenious new service which included upgrade followed by death. It was many years ago when air hijacks were in their infancy. This particular aircraft was somewhere over the Gobi desert and someone at the back pulled out a gun and tried to take over. Mayhem ensued and the perpetrator was grabbed by an air marshal employed by the airline who had a zero tolerance policy to acts of terror.
Folklore backed up by much anecdotal evidence has it that a very polite steward ushered all the first class passengers back into the economy section and then escorted the hijacker up to and into seat 1A. Absorbent towels were placed on his chest and then…..they cut his throat so “he would cause no further trouble”. He was then vacated from 1A and into a forward toilet for the remainder of the journey. The passengers were led back to their seats (including 1A) and lunch was served.
Toilets are the obvious and most popular place to put bodies followed by seat 1A and then, as a last resort, the crew sleeping area if there is one on board. The crew are most unhappy with the latter option as sometimes not all of them are aware of the arrangements. On one occasion a tired and irritable air hostess was seen to be poking and verbally abusing a corpse thinking it was an idle colleague. This experience must have been awful but I think it was topped when the captain decided to store one body inside the food delivery lift that is a feature of some Boeing 747s where meals are cooked below the main seating floor. Unfortunately various crew forgot (or were not told) that it had been commandeered only to find out the hard way when the demised suddenly appeared through the loading hatch every time the lift button was pressed.
Anyway, back to upgrades. Approaches tend to fall under two categories which can best be described as aggressive and subtle. Both have merits in differing circumstances but, choose the wrong one with the wrong airline staff member and life can become extremely messy.
The check-in counter is usually the front line for upgrade efforts and, having worked there, I have heard them all. The aggressive ones were my favourite in a sadistic way particularly if I had suffered a boring or tiring day. I would end up with a florid faced passenger asking me whether I realised exactly who I was talking to, who he knew and what he had been promised. If barely veiled threats of future retribution failed additional reasons would emerge like needing space to work, sleep etc. In my case their fate rested on how rude they ended up being but seldom resulted in an upgrade. Instead I used to refer to a list of previously checked in fat, noisy, odd people or screaming kids. I would sit my upgrade petitioner right next to them.
Beware as check in staff do this regularly.
In general aggression does not work terribly well unless you succeed in convincing the person being negative that you have as much influence as you say you have and there will be implications including inconvenience, report writing and possible disciplinary proceedings. Otherwise all you are doing is ensuring you do not get a coincidental upgrade prior to boarding. What is a coincidental upgrade? Nearly all airlines overbook individual cabins as long as the whole aircraft has space. Being the biggest and most popular economy class is overbooked most especially on leisure destinations so. As a result flight administrators search at the last moment for people to upgrade. This is the place upgrade hopefuls should aim for by very politely asking if they could be considered for upgrade if required. This does work.
So my advice for upgrades is as follows:
Be polite and create empathy. You are after all asking another human being who, like you, react well to nice people. Focus on people who have the power to recommend your upgrade. The customer facing people you meet at airports have very little decision making say but speak to others who do like flight dispatchers, gate staff etc. If you have a good reason to need an upgrade then give it, followed by a gentle reminder and follow up as it gets nearer to flight departure. Get an airline card as sometimes the computer chooses who moves forward and a card number on the booking increases your priority. Finally have one last go when the flight is boarding by explaining that somebody was trying to help you and asking if this person has succeeded or if they themselves can help.
Getting upgraded on board is becoming rarer these days but I have seen people doing it particularly if there is something clearly wrong with where they are sitting and the cabin is full. I have heard of some people trying to damage their seat or in-flight entertainment but I would not recommend it. A more successful reason is unpleasant neighbours so maybe that guy who I tried to teach a lesson got his way in the end!
Finally, feeling unwell, claustrophobic or any other symptoms that might upset people around you sometimes work. A lady feeling faint and unwell was upgraded to First Class just across the aisle from me. Initially I felt very sorry for her but within 30 minutes she was reclining eating her meal while sipping champagne and watching her video screen. A miraculous recovery and better than taking the ‘death’ option I mentioned earlier!
I have seen them all in my times both as an airline worker and, in person as a traveller and I would recommend that the most likely way to succeed is to die. A bit extreme I know but it does work most of the time although you could possibly end up propped in a toilet instead. Let me explain.
Think about it for a moment. People more often than you might expect get ill and die on planes so what do they do with the corpse? There are very few places it can be put without it getting in the way or causing hysteria amongst other passengers. One of the favourite positions is in seat 1A or 1F in First Class. Reason being that nobody apart from the flight crew is likely to walk past and it is much more preferable than leaning it in its seat against a loved one or stranger in seat 32D. After all dead folk tend to attract the wrong kind of attention from all but the most hardened fellow travellers.
I have travelled with two corpses that I have known of and they seemed very comfortable (they didn’t complain) except for one who rather terrified an air hostess by moving under his blanket. I wondered for a moment if he was going to ask for champagne but it turned out to be rigormortis as we tried to tell the shaking hostess. “He’s alive” she wailed.
A certain African airline I know created an ingenious new service which included upgrade followed by death. It was many years ago when air hijacks were in their infancy. This particular aircraft was somewhere over the Gobi desert and someone at the back pulled out a gun and tried to take over. Mayhem ensued and the perpetrator was grabbed by an air marshal employed by the airline who had a zero tolerance policy to acts of terror.
Folklore backed up by much anecdotal evidence has it that a very polite steward ushered all the first class passengers back into the economy section and then escorted the hijacker up to and into seat 1A. Absorbent towels were placed on his chest and then…..they cut his throat so “he would cause no further trouble”. He was then vacated from 1A and into a forward toilet for the remainder of the journey. The passengers were led back to their seats (including 1A) and lunch was served.
Toilets are the obvious and most popular place to put bodies followed by seat 1A and then, as a last resort, the crew sleeping area if there is one on board. The crew are most unhappy with the latter option as sometimes not all of them are aware of the arrangements. On one occasion a tired and irritable air hostess was seen to be poking and verbally abusing a corpse thinking it was an idle colleague. This experience must have been awful but I think it was topped when the captain decided to store one body inside the food delivery lift that is a feature of some Boeing 747s where meals are cooked below the main seating floor. Unfortunately various crew forgot (or were not told) that it had been commandeered only to find out the hard way when the demised suddenly appeared through the loading hatch every time the lift button was pressed.
Anyway, back to upgrades. Approaches tend to fall under two categories which can best be described as aggressive and subtle. Both have merits in differing circumstances but, choose the wrong one with the wrong airline staff member and life can become extremely messy.
The check-in counter is usually the front line for upgrade efforts and, having worked there, I have heard them all. The aggressive ones were my favourite in a sadistic way particularly if I had suffered a boring or tiring day. I would end up with a florid faced passenger asking me whether I realised exactly who I was talking to, who he knew and what he had been promised. If barely veiled threats of future retribution failed additional reasons would emerge like needing space to work, sleep etc. In my case their fate rested on how rude they ended up being but seldom resulted in an upgrade. Instead I used to refer to a list of previously checked in fat, noisy, odd people or screaming kids. I would sit my upgrade petitioner right next to them.
Beware as check in staff do this regularly.
In general aggression does not work terribly well unless you succeed in convincing the person being negative that you have as much influence as you say you have and there will be implications including inconvenience, report writing and possible disciplinary proceedings. Otherwise all you are doing is ensuring you do not get a coincidental upgrade prior to boarding. What is a coincidental upgrade? Nearly all airlines overbook individual cabins as long as the whole aircraft has space. Being the biggest and most popular economy class is overbooked most especially on leisure destinations so. As a result flight administrators search at the last moment for people to upgrade. This is the place upgrade hopefuls should aim for by very politely asking if they could be considered for upgrade if required. This does work.
So my advice for upgrades is as follows:
Be polite and create empathy. You are after all asking another human being who, like you, react well to nice people. Focus on people who have the power to recommend your upgrade. The customer facing people you meet at airports have very little decision making say but speak to others who do like flight dispatchers, gate staff etc. If you have a good reason to need an upgrade then give it, followed by a gentle reminder and follow up as it gets nearer to flight departure. Get an airline card as sometimes the computer chooses who moves forward and a card number on the booking increases your priority. Finally have one last go when the flight is boarding by explaining that somebody was trying to help you and asking if this person has succeeded or if they themselves can help.
Getting upgraded on board is becoming rarer these days but I have seen people doing it particularly if there is something clearly wrong with where they are sitting and the cabin is full. I have heard of some people trying to damage their seat or in-flight entertainment but I would not recommend it. A more successful reason is unpleasant neighbours so maybe that guy who I tried to teach a lesson got his way in the end!
Finally, feeling unwell, claustrophobic or any other symptoms that might upset people around you sometimes work. A lady feeling faint and unwell was upgraded to First Class just across the aisle from me. Initially I felt very sorry for her but within 30 minutes she was reclining eating her meal while sipping champagne and watching her video screen. A miraculous recovery and better than taking the ‘death’ option I mentioned earlier!
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