Idlebones

Basic Flight etiquette

A few weeks ago, I was on one of my many flights to the UK on business, when i had the lucky break to sit beside the Nintendo man tosser. I had had a fairly hectic week, and was feeling, shall we say, a little down on myself, simply through fatigue. Work had dragged on routinely, but the hours i had put in had made me feel a little jaded, and made worse by the fact that I was getting home late on a Friday night, for no other reason then my flight had been booked late. I was grumpy, tired, and wanted nothing more then my couch, an internet connection so I could play some online chess, and a beer. So I am eternally grateful for meeting Nintento man, because he made me feel like a normal, well adjusted person.

I like to book in online with Aer lingus, so I can place myself on a seat in the very back row, at a window. I don’t subscribe to the theory that sittinging in the back of a plane lessens the chance of your survival in a plane crash because, if it’s going to happen, chances are I’m much better off getting it over with rather then burning in a mid aircraft cauldron as the fuselage rips itself apart on the runway. In fact, I want nothing to do with the word “Fuselage” as it seems to be a word that only crops up on grainy sky news pictures after a crash, and I think I’d rather be in the missing tail piece then somewhere in the scorched eye sockets of a burning 737, thanks very much. I have faith in Aer lingus, furthermore, as they seem far too lazy to crash, as apposed to Ryanair, who always seem to me to be in far to much of a hurry to go everywhere, and get there fast. I can see Micheal O’learly popping up on Telly now, after one of his Ryanair jets misses a runway in Norway and plunges nose first into the Baltic, proclaiming that if it had been Aer Lingus, they would have hit the ground much harder, and with much less cost effectiveness.

I took my seat by the window and waited for the rest of the passengers to find there seats, and busied myself with arranging my necessaries around me. I like to have a notebook, for scribbling, a book to read, my ipod for listening and gum to chew all safely ensconced in the pocket before me before we fly. I take my shoes off too, something I’ve learned helps me relax. I don’t suffer from pungent feet, so I hope it dosen’t upset other passengers. I just like the freedom of it. Eventually, a guy around my own age takes  the innermost seat in my row, and pushes his knees up against the seat in front. He turns to me and smirks, a round, unhansome face with those square black rimmed glases that only look good on German dentsists, as if he’s sure I’m part of the conspirancy that seems to exist in his own head. He whips out a gleaming blackberry and proceeds to tap out one of those very important emails that everyone seems to only ever remember to send while sitting on a plane, dispite the fact that I have yet to get on a flight that hasn’t made me sit for at least a half an hour overtime in the departure lounge. Do Blackberries not work in departure lounges, possibly? I must look that up.

Eventually, our Captain comes on, and in central Irish tones informs us that we are about to push back from the terminal gate, and that our late departure is, regrettably, due to a pile up on the M4 out of London. I much prefer this tack on the part of the pilots to the previous weeks explaination where they cheerfully announced that we were a little behind time because Dublin’s Radar wasn’t working. As if somehow, a working radar at the airport of my destination was about as important as the availability of a nice cup of tea. I’m quite sure these guys can fly and land this thing with their eyes closed, but frankly, I’d prefer they had as much caffine as possible and kept their eyes, all bloody four of them, wide open, thank you very much. Chuck an air hostess in the cabin for an extra pair of eyes if you like, I’ll manage without the duty free trolley, honestly.

As we push back, the ubiquitous young air hostess passes along the cabin, and reminds spec saver man to put his Blackberry away, for fear of turning us all into black lumps of ashen wrecks, and he nods acceptance. As soon as she has continued on, however, he is back on his device. Not surreptitiously, but holding it up in front of him so that all other passengers in his vicinity can see. I suddenly remember where I’ve seen him before. He’s that litte git at the back of every school bus I’ve ever been on whose just got the latest, most expensive toy for christmas, and is determined that everyone must see him with his new found staus symbol. Not that cool guy whose dad is respected for being the Doctor Doctor of all Doctoring things worth Doctoring, but that little shit whose Dad is the most irritating loudmouth your own dad can’t stand meeting in the pub because he can only take so much of listening to how bloody wonderful he is, and that if he ran the country there’d be no ‘bloody foreigners’ and no tax on anything he’s got his filthy paws in. That Arsehole who didn’t earn his money by studying hard or working hard, but just stepped on everyone else dad to get to the front the BMW waiting list, and has instilled the same pungent aroma of self importance onto his son. Yeah, him. That’s the git that’s sitting beside me. I almost like him because he’s now taken my attention away from the fact that were about to be shot into the uncertain skies on a bloody rocket.

So we taxi to the runway. The plane trundles along the apron and turns right up Heathrows taxi lane to the runway, taking it’s place behind several other jets of varying shapes and sizes, on board which, passengers have now switched off there phones, PDA’s and other electronic devices, because that is what your asked to do. The question of whether or not this is necessary or not, never enters my mind. I am advised to do it by a young girl, who is trying to do her job. She is tired, and longing to be home, and she is performing here duties as she is paid to do. So when she asks me to switch off my device, for the tiny period of 45 minutes, I don’t even question it. Why should I? What is so important that I must keep my phone on for? If I had a wife, and she was baring child right now, what the hell could I do about it? If my team is 3-0 down with 45 minutes to go, surely the result will be unaffected by the status of my phone? The most important phone call i could possibly receive in the next 45 minutes is surely not worth the risk of two planes collidiing over London. Oh, but that’s just nonsense, there’s no proof that mobile phones interfere with systems in a plane, I hear you say. Yeah, your probably right. In fact, I’m quite sure your right. But I don’t switch my phone off because I’m afraid of a possible sizzling, burning descent into the freezing Irish sea, but because an air hostess, who has probably as bad a day as me, has asked me too, because that is her instruction. Who am I to make her job more stressful because I want to text “I’m on the plane” to my mate, who couldn’t possibly give a toss whether I’m airborne or not?

Well, apparently, this guy thought differently. I soon understood the conspiratorial look as he sat down. Apparently a 19 year old air hostess was such a threat to his manhood, that he had to make a stand. Just as the plane turned to take it’s position at the foot of the runway, he decided that the wasn’t making a big enough impression on his fan base. He whips out his Nintendo DS and began playing it with one hand whilst admiring his Blackberry held in the other. Seriously, he did. Soon, the game sounds of his console were pervading the cabin and I began to hear the nervous chatter of people in seat in front telling each other in worried tones that someone had a phone on. This is where he really began to piss me off. For his childish fun, he had began to unsettle and worry at least 30 people, who ranged from ages 16 to 60. People who may have been nervous fliers beforehand, and had relied up our hostesses to keep them safe, and here was this idiot, unknowingly, I know, because people like him just don’t realize, raising their blood pressures, heightening their anxiety’s, just so he could massage his own ego.

At least two heavy set guys turned in his direction, with malice written all over there faces, before I turned round to him and and pointed at his devices.

“Switch those fuckers off. Now.”

He looked at me, the smirk slowly receding from his face. Then he saw the other two guys, glaring at him form the seat opposite, before sheepishly stowing them quickly in the pouch before him.

“Right” Is all he said.

Git.