Thursday 7th February 2019 – notes written on board BA256 from New Delhi to London
I woke around half five this morning and lolled around until it was time to get up. My alarm was due to sound at six o'clock, but I turned it off and then made final preparations for leaving New Delhi. I nipped upstairs to the business centre on the hotel's tenth floor and printed out my boarding pass for the flight and then headed downstairs for the last time. The plan was not to have any breakfast, just check out and get out, but the driver wasn't due until seven thirty and when one of the hotel staff asked me if I'd had breakfast I decided I just about had time for a couple of those small iced doughnuts, some masala porridge and a black tea without milk.
Checking out of the Park Hotel was very simple and soon I was sitting in the back of a cab (it wasn't a cab, it was a white Toyota car and I was one of three people sitting in it). I should have written 'on board' and saved myself a word.
We drove through the streets of the Indian capital and despite the early hour, there was still traffic on the road and an inevitable traffic jam. Once again, the sound of honking car horns, although not so much a honk, more a toot.
At the airport I checked in my bag and went straight to the rest room. The plan was to get 'nature' out of the way before embarking upon the nine-hour flight to London Heathrow's Terminal Five. And this was where disaster struck and, as always, it was all my own fault. I found a cubicle and did the necessary stuff that needed to be done, what myself and the International Man of Mystery call a 'mixed grill'. Everything was fine until I reached the wash basin. I placed my laptop case on a ledge above the sink, soaped my hands and then there was a loud, crashing bang; my case had keeled over and deposited my lap top in the sink, giving it a shower under the running tap. It all happened slowly – or so it seemed – but then it was damage limitation time. One of the attendants helped me dry the lap top while I sorted out the case. Unfortunately for me, I hadn't zipped up the case, so everything inside was falling out and into the sink where it took a soaking under the tap. This very notebook [these notes are being written in a notebook long hand] shows evidence of being exposed to water. It took a while to dab down the lap top and, as always, I was annoyed with myself for not zipping up the case. Still, what will be, will be. I gave my last 20 rupees to the attendant who helped me and then somebody else handed me a Dictaphone, which had also tumbled out of the case and into the sink. What a fucking unnecessary disaster.
Whenever the travelling resumes, the nightmares begin. Next up was queuing at passport control and then going through security. It's at this point that I wished I was home and not separated by nine hours of flying. Eventually I was through and had to run the gauntlet of commercialism that is the duty free shops. I hate them with a vengeance and ever since I gave up drinking nearly 16 months ago, I look at cans and bottles of booze in a different light; I group them in with cigarettes and when I look at them I feel a huge sense of relief that I have stopped and won't be going back. The bottles of whisky look bad for my health and I can't envisage ever buying one again. One way or another, I realise, I have been a fool and for many years, putting myself in harm's way for no reason. I must have been crazy to drink all that beer and wine. Was it ever any fun? The sore heads, the dry mouth, the humiliation the morning after, the upsets? Alcohol has never, ever done me any favours. I won't drink again and I'll never 'need a drink'.
There was a food court at the airport and I took the escalator to see what was on offer: McDonald's, a coffee shop (there's always people queuing at a coffee shop), some Indian operators, but I'd eaten enough over the past few days so I wandered for a while before resigning myself to go to Gate 1 and await boarding.
I am now on board the plane and I think we've been airborne for a good four hours, probably a little longer. I am sitting in seat 26A, an exit row on this Boeing 777, billed as a window seat, except there isn't a window right next to me, it's behind me and this I find annoying because it means that the woman sitting in seat 27A can shut down the blind whenever she wants, because it's her window and I have no say in the matter. Eventually, some time after we have taken off, she exerts her authority and I have no power to say 'leave the blind open'. There is a small window on the exit door in front of me, but I have to leave my seat if I'm to see what's going on outside, but eventually a steward comes along and closes it because the people to my right are both under blankets and asleep. How can people sleep on aeroplanes? I can't. Throughout my entire flying history I could count on one hand the number of times I have nodded off, only to be awoken by turbulence. I am not one of those people who cover themselves in blankets or make themselves at home by taking off their shoes, and you won't find me standing outside the toilet waiting for the occupant to come out. That said, I've just come back from the cramped bathroom. Sometimes I go in there just for a good quacking, other times just to stand up and stretch or undo the top button of my jeans to let things hang out for a while. Sitting down in a cramped seat for hours on end must cause all kinds of problems for one's internal organs, so it's nice to stand up straight for a few minutes. On other occasions, I go in there for no other reason than to pull faces at myself in the mirror or stick my fingers up and make 'tosser' gestures at my fellow passengers without them knowing. I find this particularly satisfying. Some times, I go in there and do everything – I multi-task – starting off with a good old quack, followed by a much-needed pee and, of course, a good old bout of silent obscenities aimed (unfairly and unnecessarily) at the other passengers. I wonder if they do the same? And don't you hate that whole 'mile-high' club thing? Surely, it's nigh on impossible to have sex in there, it's miles too cramped. A quick five-knuckle shuffle, maybe, but who would want to get their old man out on a flight, long haul or short haul – not me! And who would be that desperate? Can't they wait until they get home?
There's nothing better than being alone behind closed doors. I bet you I'm not the only one who, once alone in my hotel room, takes off all their clothes and then hops around the room naked whilst pulling funny faces at themselves when they pass the full-length mirror. I wonder how many other people hop around like a rabbit, naked, or with their pants over their heads, making noises that resemble the foreign language of the country they happen to be visiting, but are little more than unintelligible sounds laced with plain stupidity? Surely I'm not the only one. What about world leaders? Narendra Modi, Donald Trump, the Pope. Who out of that merry bunch would make a Hitler moustache out of shaving foam and goose step around their room or run through a pathetically choreographed dance routine while slapping their cocks and shouting "cashier number one, please!" I wonder how many hotel chains have video evidence, secretly filmed, of such behaviour?
I'm on a day flight (my favourite kind) but it's all pointless because the blinds are down and, as I mentioned earlier, I don't have the authority to open them. Imagine getting violent about it: "Oi! You! Yes, you! Open that fucking blind!" And then rubbing pasta salad in the face of the person occupying seat 27A. The trouble is the crew would probably gaffer tape me to my seat and the police would be waiting at the other end. I'd be an internet sensation for a day or two and then down at the Job Centre looking for a new job.
Perhaps I'll take a walk to the back of the plane, but that can be a pain in the arse too, a lot depends on the friendliness of the cabin crew. When I flew home from Tokyo in October last year, the crew was excellent, handing out chocolates, chatting and having fun. But when the crew lack that approachability, a trip to the back of the plane is mostly a waste of time if the reception is cold and frosty. Still, it's a chance to stretch my legs.
Something else I can't stand about flying is when one of my fellow passengers gets up and starts running through some kind of exercise routine as if they're just about to compete in an Olympic event. "Go back to your chuffing seat!" I feel like shouting, but of course I don't. I simply sneer to myself and check on the time. I reckon there's about two and a half hours left.
A baby is crying. It's the same baby that was crying at take-off. There's nothing worse than crying babies on planes. I guess we all feel like crying, but we can't because we're not babies and we're not insane.
I bought a Tin Tin book at Delhi Airport – or Indira Ghandi International Airport as it is known. Red Rackham's Treasure. It passed some time. When I was a kid I remember watching an animated adventure of the same story. It started with a voice exclaiming "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin", and then the name of the story. The one that has stuck with me for years is "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin: The Crab with the Golden Claws!" I can't remember the last time I read a comic book, although I guess it was a 'graphic novel' as it was over 50 pages in length. I've finished it and I'll take it home and place it on my book shelf.
I've just practiced what I've been preaching. I got up, went to the bathroom, quacked around, answered the call of nature, pulled a stupid face in the mirror and then waved my arms about above my head before opening the door and emerging with a completely straight face. The woman in seat 27A was looking at me suspiciously and I nearly laughed before taking my seat. I think she knows what I was doing in there, probably because she does the very same.
A very large woman dressed in black ('dressed in black, dressed in black, dressed in black, black, black') has just gone into the cramped bathroom. I remember her from the queue at passport control – or was it security? – back in Delhi. She was on her phone constantly. Whenever I saw her she had the phone to her ear. For all I know she's on the phone in the bathroom, but I doubt she'll get a signal. Actually, I'm more concerned about whether or not she'll be able to get her trousers off, there's such limited space. Worse still, what if she gets stuck in there? I reckon they would have to cut open the plane from the outside and winch her out. I pity whoever is sitting next to her. She's been in there a while and she's miles too big to do a dance routine. She might be doing 'tosser' signs at me right now or pulling a funny face in the mirror, who knows (and who wants to find out?). I wonder how much longer should we leave her in there before raising the alarm? Oh, hold on, I just heard the flush.
But hold the bus, I thought she was coming out, but perhaps she's not. Perhaps she needs the right angle of exit. The flush is pulled a second time – damn those floaters. She's a big lady but there's no sign of her. Perhaps she's in there now cursing herself. "You've practiced this many times, girl, now put your training into action, open that door and get the hell out!" But no, nothing. Should I politely tap on the door, inform the cabin crew or what? If in doubt, do nothing.
For a moment I thought I'd worked out the time incorrectly and that there was more time than I originally thought, but after making a few more calculations I realise that I was mistaken. I'd got it wrong. Fortunately, my original calculations were correct and we have under two hours to go. The cabin lights have come on; this is good news because it means that food of some description is going to be served. Judging by the time of day and depending on whether they are working on New Delhi or London time, we're either going to get something loosely based on afternoon tea or even another dinner. Lunch, rather predictably, had been roasted chicken breast. I'm sitting in cattle class, however, and that probably means I'll get a nose bag full of hay and a glass of water, unlike those posh and undeserving bastards in Premium Economy, Club and First Class.
It's hot food! Yippee! Chicken and pesto with pasta, plus a hard bread roll and a slice of cake. Just what the doctor ordered, I thought.
The people sitting next to me are still asleep. Actually, one of them stirred briefly and is now probably awake and just resting with her eyes closed. The man next to me, however, is still out for the count and covered with a blanket. He missed the meal. I considered asking Suki, for that is the name of the lady charged with the task of serving me during the flight, whether I could have his meal. I could do with another chicken with pesto and pasta, but I didn't bother asking. And besides, he'd probably opt for the vegetarian meal.
Slowly the passengers are coming round, there's more noise than previously so we're all gearing up, preparing for the moment when we disembark.
Soon we hear "cabin crew, take your seats for landing" and at this point I look out of the window and note that we're still miles away from the ground. The plane circles a bit and eventually descends. I can see the whole of Croydon at one point as we cross the Thames heading south and then bank west and run along the river, over Richmond and down on to the tarmac of T5. Once the plane comes to a standstill and the doors are opened, it's just a matter of standing there until it's my turn to leave. Soon I'm heading towards passport control, which was straightforward and hassle-free and then it's the baggage reclaim conveyor, number 8. Soon my bag arrives, I waltz through customs – there's never anybody there and I always wish I had a huge consignment of heroin and that somebody's going to pay me big for being the mule – and then I'm through to where taxi drivers hold up cards for weary travellers. I'm back home, but I'm concerned about the fat woman, although I know she did get out of the bathroom because I saw other people going in. Somehow I must have missed the moment. Then, suddenly, there she was, walking along the automated walkway – the typical behaviour of somebody with serious weight issues. Not that she bothered me. I simply headed for the exit and made my way home.
I woke around half five this morning and lolled around until it was time to get up. My alarm was due to sound at six o'clock, but I turned it off and then made final preparations for leaving New Delhi. I nipped upstairs to the business centre on the hotel's tenth floor and printed out my boarding pass for the flight and then headed downstairs for the last time. The plan was not to have any breakfast, just check out and get out, but the driver wasn't due until seven thirty and when one of the hotel staff asked me if I'd had breakfast I decided I just about had time for a couple of those small iced doughnuts, some masala porridge and a black tea without milk.
Checking out of the Park Hotel was very simple and soon I was sitting in the back of a cab (it wasn't a cab, it was a white Toyota car and I was one of three people sitting in it). I should have written 'on board' and saved myself a word.
 |
| Indira Ghandi International Airport, New Delhi, India... |
We drove through the streets of the Indian capital and despite the early hour, there was still traffic on the road and an inevitable traffic jam. Once again, the sound of honking car horns, although not so much a honk, more a toot.
At the airport I checked in my bag and went straight to the rest room. The plan was to get 'nature' out of the way before embarking upon the nine-hour flight to London Heathrow's Terminal Five. And this was where disaster struck and, as always, it was all my own fault. I found a cubicle and did the necessary stuff that needed to be done, what myself and the International Man of Mystery call a 'mixed grill'. Everything was fine until I reached the wash basin. I placed my laptop case on a ledge above the sink, soaped my hands and then there was a loud, crashing bang; my case had keeled over and deposited my lap top in the sink, giving it a shower under the running tap. It all happened slowly – or so it seemed – but then it was damage limitation time. One of the attendants helped me dry the lap top while I sorted out the case. Unfortunately for me, I hadn't zipped up the case, so everything inside was falling out and into the sink where it took a soaking under the tap. This very notebook [these notes are being written in a notebook long hand] shows evidence of being exposed to water. It took a while to dab down the lap top and, as always, I was annoyed with myself for not zipping up the case. Still, what will be, will be. I gave my last 20 rupees to the attendant who helped me and then somebody else handed me a Dictaphone, which had also tumbled out of the case and into the sink. What a fucking unnecessary disaster.
Whenever the travelling resumes, the nightmares begin. Next up was queuing at passport control and then going through security. It's at this point that I wished I was home and not separated by nine hours of flying. Eventually I was through and had to run the gauntlet of commercialism that is the duty free shops. I hate them with a vengeance and ever since I gave up drinking nearly 16 months ago, I look at cans and bottles of booze in a different light; I group them in with cigarettes and when I look at them I feel a huge sense of relief that I have stopped and won't be going back. The bottles of whisky look bad for my health and I can't envisage ever buying one again. One way or another, I realise, I have been a fool and for many years, putting myself in harm's way for no reason. I must have been crazy to drink all that beer and wine. Was it ever any fun? The sore heads, the dry mouth, the humiliation the morning after, the upsets? Alcohol has never, ever done me any favours. I won't drink again and I'll never 'need a drink'.
There was a food court at the airport and I took the escalator to see what was on offer: McDonald's, a coffee shop (there's always people queuing at a coffee shop), some Indian operators, but I'd eaten enough over the past few days so I wandered for a while before resigning myself to go to Gate 1 and await boarding.
I am now on board the plane and I think we've been airborne for a good four hours, probably a little longer. I am sitting in seat 26A, an exit row on this Boeing 777, billed as a window seat, except there isn't a window right next to me, it's behind me and this I find annoying because it means that the woman sitting in seat 27A can shut down the blind whenever she wants, because it's her window and I have no say in the matter. Eventually, some time after we have taken off, she exerts her authority and I have no power to say 'leave the blind open'. There is a small window on the exit door in front of me, but I have to leave my seat if I'm to see what's going on outside, but eventually a steward comes along and closes it because the people to my right are both under blankets and asleep. How can people sleep on aeroplanes? I can't. Throughout my entire flying history I could count on one hand the number of times I have nodded off, only to be awoken by turbulence. I am not one of those people who cover themselves in blankets or make themselves at home by taking off their shoes, and you won't find me standing outside the toilet waiting for the occupant to come out. That said, I've just come back from the cramped bathroom. Sometimes I go in there just for a good quacking, other times just to stand up and stretch or undo the top button of my jeans to let things hang out for a while. Sitting down in a cramped seat for hours on end must cause all kinds of problems for one's internal organs, so it's nice to stand up straight for a few minutes. On other occasions, I go in there for no other reason than to pull faces at myself in the mirror or stick my fingers up and make 'tosser' gestures at my fellow passengers without them knowing. I find this particularly satisfying. Some times, I go in there and do everything – I multi-task – starting off with a good old quack, followed by a much-needed pee and, of course, a good old bout of silent obscenities aimed (unfairly and unnecessarily) at the other passengers. I wonder if they do the same? And don't you hate that whole 'mile-high' club thing? Surely, it's nigh on impossible to have sex in there, it's miles too cramped. A quick five-knuckle shuffle, maybe, but who would want to get their old man out on a flight, long haul or short haul – not me! And who would be that desperate? Can't they wait until they get home?
 |
| On the ground at T5, this is the plane that got me home... |
There's nothing better than being alone behind closed doors. I bet you I'm not the only one who, once alone in my hotel room, takes off all their clothes and then hops around the room naked whilst pulling funny faces at themselves when they pass the full-length mirror. I wonder how many other people hop around like a rabbit, naked, or with their pants over their heads, making noises that resemble the foreign language of the country they happen to be visiting, but are little more than unintelligible sounds laced with plain stupidity? Surely I'm not the only one. What about world leaders? Narendra Modi, Donald Trump, the Pope. Who out of that merry bunch would make a Hitler moustache out of shaving foam and goose step around their room or run through a pathetically choreographed dance routine while slapping their cocks and shouting "cashier number one, please!" I wonder how many hotel chains have video evidence, secretly filmed, of such behaviour?
I'm on a day flight (my favourite kind) but it's all pointless because the blinds are down and, as I mentioned earlier, I don't have the authority to open them. Imagine getting violent about it: "Oi! You! Yes, you! Open that fucking blind!" And then rubbing pasta salad in the face of the person occupying seat 27A. The trouble is the crew would probably gaffer tape me to my seat and the police would be waiting at the other end. I'd be an internet sensation for a day or two and then down at the Job Centre looking for a new job.
Perhaps I'll take a walk to the back of the plane, but that can be a pain in the arse too, a lot depends on the friendliness of the cabin crew. When I flew home from Tokyo in October last year, the crew was excellent, handing out chocolates, chatting and having fun. But when the crew lack that approachability, a trip to the back of the plane is mostly a waste of time if the reception is cold and frosty. Still, it's a chance to stretch my legs.
Something else I can't stand about flying is when one of my fellow passengers gets up and starts running through some kind of exercise routine as if they're just about to compete in an Olympic event. "Go back to your chuffing seat!" I feel like shouting, but of course I don't. I simply sneer to myself and check on the time. I reckon there's about two and a half hours left.
A baby is crying. It's the same baby that was crying at take-off. There's nothing worse than crying babies on planes. I guess we all feel like crying, but we can't because we're not babies and we're not insane.
I bought a Tin Tin book at Delhi Airport – or Indira Ghandi International Airport as it is known. Red Rackham's Treasure. It passed some time. When I was a kid I remember watching an animated adventure of the same story. It started with a voice exclaiming "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin", and then the name of the story. The one that has stuck with me for years is "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin: The Crab with the Golden Claws!" I can't remember the last time I read a comic book, although I guess it was a 'graphic novel' as it was over 50 pages in length. I've finished it and I'll take it home and place it on my book shelf.
I've just practiced what I've been preaching. I got up, went to the bathroom, quacked around, answered the call of nature, pulled a stupid face in the mirror and then waved my arms about above my head before opening the door and emerging with a completely straight face. The woman in seat 27A was looking at me suspiciously and I nearly laughed before taking my seat. I think she knows what I was doing in there, probably because she does the very same.
A very large woman dressed in black ('dressed in black, dressed in black, dressed in black, black, black') has just gone into the cramped bathroom. I remember her from the queue at passport control – or was it security? – back in Delhi. She was on her phone constantly. Whenever I saw her she had the phone to her ear. For all I know she's on the phone in the bathroom, but I doubt she'll get a signal. Actually, I'm more concerned about whether or not she'll be able to get her trousers off, there's such limited space. Worse still, what if she gets stuck in there? I reckon they would have to cut open the plane from the outside and winch her out. I pity whoever is sitting next to her. She's been in there a while and she's miles too big to do a dance routine. She might be doing 'tosser' signs at me right now or pulling a funny face in the mirror, who knows (and who wants to find out?). I wonder how much longer should we leave her in there before raising the alarm? Oh, hold on, I just heard the flush.
But hold the bus, I thought she was coming out, but perhaps she's not. Perhaps she needs the right angle of exit. The flush is pulled a second time – damn those floaters. She's a big lady but there's no sign of her. Perhaps she's in there now cursing herself. "You've practiced this many times, girl, now put your training into action, open that door and get the hell out!" But no, nothing. Should I politely tap on the door, inform the cabin crew or what? If in doubt, do nothing.
For a moment I thought I'd worked out the time incorrectly and that there was more time than I originally thought, but after making a few more calculations I realise that I was mistaken. I'd got it wrong. Fortunately, my original calculations were correct and we have under two hours to go. The cabin lights have come on; this is good news because it means that food of some description is going to be served. Judging by the time of day and depending on whether they are working on New Delhi or London time, we're either going to get something loosely based on afternoon tea or even another dinner. Lunch, rather predictably, had been roasted chicken breast. I'm sitting in cattle class, however, and that probably means I'll get a nose bag full of hay and a glass of water, unlike those posh and undeserving bastards in Premium Economy, Club and First Class.
It's hot food! Yippee! Chicken and pesto with pasta, plus a hard bread roll and a slice of cake. Just what the doctor ordered, I thought.
The people sitting next to me are still asleep. Actually, one of them stirred briefly and is now probably awake and just resting with her eyes closed. The man next to me, however, is still out for the count and covered with a blanket. He missed the meal. I considered asking Suki, for that is the name of the lady charged with the task of serving me during the flight, whether I could have his meal. I could do with another chicken with pesto and pasta, but I didn't bother asking. And besides, he'd probably opt for the vegetarian meal.
Slowly the passengers are coming round, there's more noise than previously so we're all gearing up, preparing for the moment when we disembark.
Soon we hear "cabin crew, take your seats for landing" and at this point I look out of the window and note that we're still miles away from the ground. The plane circles a bit and eventually descends. I can see the whole of Croydon at one point as we cross the Thames heading south and then bank west and run along the river, over Richmond and down on to the tarmac of T5. Once the plane comes to a standstill and the doors are opened, it's just a matter of standing there until it's my turn to leave. Soon I'm heading towards passport control, which was straightforward and hassle-free and then it's the baggage reclaim conveyor, number 8. Soon my bag arrives, I waltz through customs – there's never anybody there and I always wish I had a huge consignment of heroin and that somebody's going to pay me big for being the mule – and then I'm through to where taxi drivers hold up cards for weary travellers. I'm back home, but I'm concerned about the fat woman, although I know she did get out of the bathroom because I saw other people going in. Somehow I must have missed the moment. Then, suddenly, there she was, walking along the automated walkway – the typical behaviour of somebody with serious weight issues. Not that she bothered me. I simply headed for the exit and made my way home.
