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Ruinair. Paul Kilduff
Читать онлайн.Название Ruinair
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007362516
Автор произведения Paul Kilduff
Жанр Хобби, Ремесла
Издательство HarperCollins
3. Old Blokes. They cluster together in teams and are identifiable in sporting matching blazers and grey slacks, possibly either rightly proud veterans or members of a lawn bowling club. Often they break out into Welsh accents and talk about getting up at 4am to catch a mini-bus up the motorway to Stansted.
4. Foursomes. Two pairs of Old Dears and Old Blokes off on holidays. One Old Bloke is hyper-active and so refuses to sit, preferring to go for newspapers for all tastes and to search airport desks for luggage tags. His Old Dear recalls she left a cucumber in the fridge at home so she telephones her daughter to use it. The second Old Bloke is not budging and wonders aloud why anyone needs luggage tags since they advertise to all that your home is empty for two weeks. His Old Dear decides to re-lace her gleaming new sneakers. Eventually she gives up. ‘Good job I don’t work in a shoe shop. I’d be there for hours doing up laces.’
5. Check-in Ladies. These females of a certain age wear blue uniforms which are two sizes too small. The ladies are wide, rather than tall, and teeter about on precarious six-inch heels. They wander amidst the ever-lengthening queues of the Great Unwashed disappearing over the horizon, occasionally looking at impressive clipboards and lists of flight timings, scribbling notes with Bic biros. Their job is to never make eye contact or engage any passengers, and particularly not to intervene when any check-in delays arise. But beware. Cross these ladies once and you will never fly anywhere anytime ever again.
6. Check-in Gents. These thirty-ish males stand in the raised areas overlooking each check-in area. They are only visible from the waist upwards, unfortunately often much like Fiona Bruce on the BBC. They wear excessive assorted BAA security ID dog tags hung around their necks like Vietnam GIs and sport tight officialdom haircuts. The Check-in Gent’s job is to closely examine all the female talent below and to nod approvingly in small groups when a fit Italian brunette or a Nordic blonde with big tits leans over the desk below.
7. Trolley Dollies. Not flight attendants but guys in luminous jackets who gather the baggage trolleys from the concourse. Their job is to steal back the trolleys from sleeping Italian students, make the world’s longest snake of inter-connected trolleys, apply for an entry in the Guinness World Records and drive their trolley snake through the heart of the dormant student population, forcing them to rise from their slumber and scatter like the parting of the Red Sea by Moses. ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t see you down there.’
8. Dixon’s Homing Businessman. Guys in suits with an overnight bag, laptop PC, briefcase and duty free bag. They stand carrying all four items whilst on a mobile telephone, broadcast to the Departures lounge about sales forecasts and cash budgets, refuse to sit and lessen the load, instead irresistibly drawn to the threshold of Dixon’s electrical store, worried that the latest digital nano-gadget might pass them by.
9. The Well-Heeled Couple. He is tall with proud features and silver hair and wears chinos with a crease, open-neck Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and blue blazer with gold buttons. She wears make-up, a tan, jewels, and heels. Both are fifty-something. Their luggage matches, mostly it’s Louis Vuitton, and they lug golf bags or skis over to the oversize baggage. They ask for directions around Stansted since they are only used to the confines of Heathrow Terminal 1 or 5. ‘We usually fly BA Club Europe but this cheap little Irish airline flies to somewhere near our summer holiday home / winter ski chalet / golf course / friend’s yacht.’
10. Lost Elderly Irishman. He is alone and is bewildered by Stansted, having left his Cricklewood or Kilburn digs on a rarely taken journey back to his roots, usually to Knock Ireland West, maybe sadly to a funeral. Or I suspect some well-meaning relative bought him a ticket home for two pence so he feels obliged to use it. I doubt he is sitting at home Googling away all day looking for free seat sales. Personally I blame low fares airlines for upsetting his ordered life. He wears his Sunday best, an old navy suit, perhaps his only suit, and his passport shakes in his rough hands. I always offer him as much assistance as possible.
I am early for check-in. It’s two hours to departure. I sit opposite a screen showing my flight. The desk opens soon after and I amble over. I am overtaken by a woman with a walking stick who runs to the same check-in desk. She is using the established Old Woman with Fake Walking Stick ploy to get ahead in the queue.
In the security area we watch a statuesque six-foot-plus lady passenger. She sets off the X-ray machine so she stops by the BAA staff, holds her arms out and waits to be frisked. It’s a male staff member, about five foot five and his eyes are at the level of her breasts.
He smiles. ‘Darling, I’d love to search you but I’d lose my job.’ A female staff member rescues him.
The Metro Café in Departures is crammed with Ruinair staff; less passenger fare and more works canteen. It’s terrifying to sit near the departure gates at Stansted, with the constant stream of threats they unleash at us poor passengers over the tannoy. ‘Pre-boarding call. Come immediately to Gate 42. Last few remaining passengers. The gate is now closing. Your luggage will be offloaded. You will be denied boarding. Last and final boarding call.’ And there’s the public shaming of passengers by name.
If you wish to break a terrorist suspect, don’t play white noise. Make them spend a day at Stansted.
THE LOO FARES AIRLINE
Picture the scene. The plane lifts off. Then only minutes into the flight the fasten-seat-belts signs throughout the cabin start to flash. You return to your seat, anxiously awaiting turbulence, perhaps worse. The next thing you see is your captain striding purposefully up the aisle to the cupboard-sized water closet. Pinned to your seat in terror, you wonder who is flying the plane in his absence. But a few minutes later the pilot saunters back down the gangway and the emergency lights are extinguished. Only then do you discover that the whole performance was just to ensure the pilot can visit the facilities without having to join a queue. And the airline where this is standard procedure? Well, it’s Ruinair. Mick O’Leery explains: ‘Look, even the captain has to take a leak occasionally. When such times arise, it is normal procedure to switch the seat-belt sign on to ensure all passengers are seated.’ One of our readers, who was interrupted while ensconced in the lavatory, isn’t reassured. ‘It was very alarming,’ says the flyer, who was 20 minutes into a two-hour journey to the south of France when the seatbelt lights lit up and the stewardess announced that the plane was beginning to land. ‘The passengers were confused, we were all looking at our watches. Then the stewardess came on again to say we weren’t landing and that the captain had just needed to relieve himself.’ But O’Leery remains unrepentant. ‘I agree it’s not ideal interrupting customers mid-pee for the captain, but it’s all part of ensuring a fast turnaround at the other end.’
DAILY TELEGRAPH
THE LOW IQ AIRLINE
Three Norwegian tourists who planned a holiday on the Greek island of Rhodes landed in the south-western French town of Rodez after misunderstanding their destination on a Ruinair internet booking, officials said. The three, identified as Bente, Marit and Knut, appear to have been surprised when their Ruinair flight landed in Rodez, which boasts a medieval town centre with a 13th century cathedral but none of the Greek island’s beach resorts. ‘We were told of the mistake when the three tourists arrived at the airport and we tried to make their stay as agreeable as possible before they decided to return to Norway,’ said Florence Taillefer, the head of the Rodez tourism office.
REUTERS
THE LOW FEES AIRLINE
Aware of the need to step up its promotional efforts in an increasingly