Читать книгу The World and London According to Nick Ferrari - Nick Ferrari - Страница 4

Remember the days when air travel was the preserve of the glamorous, the jet set and the elite? Well, if you do, you just won’t believe what it’s like now. In the course of being a reporter for a series of national newspapers and shuttling across the Atlantic fairly regularly when I was working for Fox TV in the United States as part of Rupert Murdoch’s organisation, I was exposed to just about every variety of air travel you can imagine.

One image will never leave me. To explain it fully, I need to put it in context. Whenever I crossed the Atlantic I always chose, whenever possible, Virgin Atlantic. Sir Richard Branson’s airline is nothing short of genius. They consistently have the best facilities, the smartest crew and the most enjoyable flights (there – that should secure the next upgrade or three…). Because of the number of air miles I chalked up with Virgin Atlantic, I found myself upgraded to a gold-card holder and therefore able to enjoy lounge access at all airports. I was flying from Gatwick to Newark and, as I was a member of the Executive Club, I was able to wait until almost the last minute to board the aircraft – not only was a special announcement made in the first-class lounge, but a stunningly stylish young woman, complete with the Virgin Atlantic uniform hugging her in all the right places, arrived to escort me to the departure gate. We walked through and I was in the blissful mental state of being a mix between being James Bond and a leading captain of industry. Then, as I neared the boarding gates, I looked to my right and saw the last few members of economy class being boarded for the flight.

And there it was: Atlantic traveller, British style.

Dad had the body mass of a Sumo wrestler but the height of a National Hunt jockey. He was red-faced, sweating and wearing a T-shirt that strained at every seam. At first glance it appeared to have the Ford logo on the front of it; closer inspection revealed that it was not Ford that was spelled out on his ample chest but FCUK! Why would a grown man want to walk around with a slogan like that on his bosom?

Behind was his wife wearing a hideous white shell suit that immediately made you give thanks that smoking on all aircraft has now been banned – if anyone had dropped a match or anything slightly combustible near her, she would have gone up in flames in a second thanks to all the chemicals involved in the production of her hideous outfit. But the crowning lump of pooh in the overflow pipe was the teenage daughter dragging herself along sulkily some five yards behind her parents. This was a girl who had her hair pulled so tightly behind her face she was almost striking an oriental grimace; she had rings in both her ears, her nose and on most of her fingers, and one through her naval – I was only grateful that she was wearing faded tracksuit trousers on her bottom half to show that there wasn’t one anywhere else. But the item that set off this ensemble to the best was her T-shirt. It was green with the following slogan in vivid letters: LAST NIGHT I F***ED THE DRUMMER! It made me wonder if there was anything people would not wear as a slogan on a T-shirt. What about a picture of a pile of steaming horse crap, or the slogan I’M A MORON, or a picture of two rats fighting over the remnants of a dead fox that’s been mangled by the side of a motorway. Trouble is, I’ve probably given a few fashion designers some ideas there!

It just made me long for the glamorous days of air travel. It used to have an air of refinement and style – we’re talking Sean Connery as James Bond touching down in Jamaica in Dr No, not 20,000 people stuck at Gatwick airport on a sweltering bank holiday waiting to get their flights to Spain or Greece but who have been stuck because of the latest dispute with French air traffic control. If you were to fetch back some of the frequent flyers from the fifties and walk them through today’s departure lounges in Stansted, Birmingham and Gatwick, they would freeze with horror. They would see people feeding themselves with their hands, guzzling fizzy drinks, screaming at loutish children and then queuing – sometimes for hours – to be boarded on to planes and be seated in conditions similar to those that a sardine experiences in a tin. It is surely close to immoral the way some airlines treat their economy class passengers.

I am more than happy to pass on to you some of the pointers I have learned from the amount of air travel I enjoyed years ago. The first one echoes the words of Shakespeare: what’s in a name? As you sit there, you need to hear a captain with the correct name introduce himself to your flight. You hear the bing bing of the in-flight announcement system and then, ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking. My name is Captain Charles Smyth and welcome aboard this non-stop flight from London Heathrow to New York Kennedy Airport. We will be taxiing out to runway two in about ten minutes, once our luggage doors are fully fastened. Please sit back in your seats and enjoy our excellent onboard service.’

Compare that with the possibility of the following: ‘Wotcher! My name’s Wayne, and Big Dave’s beside me here in the cockpit. We’re gonna get out of here just as soon as we can, but we had a hell of a skinful last night and my head’s not really clear until I take a couple more Nurofen. Those of you sitting in business class, why not check out Tracy – I’ve had her at least half a dozen times and she bangs like an outside toilet door in a gale.’

Or: ‘My name is Abdul, I’m not prepared to tell you anything else – I just wish death and destruction on the hideous jackal sons of the infidel and the capitalist oppressive west.’

Once you’re past the in-flight announcement from the pilot, the next thing to listen out for is the names of the air hostesses. Those of you reading this or who are just about to or have just had daughters, if in any way you think they might one day be involved in air travel, here’s a hint: the names they get will mark them for life. Certain girls’ names are meant for first class, others for business – and many others, I am afraid, are decidedly for the back of the bus. For example, in first class you have the Stephanies, Sofias, Jessicas, Philippas, Hannahs and Rebeccas; Sarah, Becky and Jenny will get you into business class; and at the back of the bus, I am afraid to say, there will always be the Sharons, the Tracys and the Alices.