Greetings passengers! You're probably wondering why I'm going to blog about sweets. Have you ever wondered why all the airlines sell massive bags of sweets and huge Toblerones? Sure, they're brilliant to flog to the Foxtrot Bravos there, they're just a snack for them and on the Amsterdam flight, the main audience is beaked-up students with the munchies. Big bags of sweets have another use as well though. They act as an icebreaker and also a pulling tool.
The new captain will always try to give the impression he's a caring kind of chap by bringing a big bag of sweeties to his crew on his first day after promotion. BEWARE. This act of kindness has ulterior motives, a bit like when a nonce asks his prey if he/she wants to see some puppies he's just rescued from the canal. Dopey young cabin crew munch happily away at Captain Bullshit's sweets as if they're at a teddy bears picnic, lulling them into a false sense of security. Before they know it, they'll be back at his nouveau riche-ly decorated flat, knickers off and not even breakfast in the morning. For the more mature crew member, it's a way of them playing good cop bad cop- they will offer you some sweets then on your next flight with them, they will be a complete cunt with you and not let you go to the duty free on turnaround.
Big bags of sweets are a great way for single passengers to pull as well. I was travelling on my own once and these two fit businessmen sat next to me, obviously thinking I was ignorant of the whole big bag of sweets trick and offered me a suck on their chocolate salty balls. It's more sophisticated and more social than the usual trick of pretending to spill something on someone or picking an imaginary piece of dust off that bit of skirt you fancy. Plus everyone loves sweets! Try it if you don't believe me!
Saturday 5 October 2013
Friday 13 September 2013
THANK YOU BUDGET AIRLINES!
Hi you bunch of deviant American Airlines geriatric stewardess fanciers! Hope you all had a great summer and managed to avoid package holiday Trunki chav families from hell. Thankfully, we live in a modern society where air travel is cheap and we can fly where we want, when we want. This morning, I was lying on a sunlounger in a non-chav Mediterranean hotel, stuffed to the gills with a sumptuous buffet breakfast and thinking how grateful I am to Stelios and even that twat Paddy O'Leary or whatever his name is. Not only have they enabled cheap air travel, they have also let us have more frequent holidays, even the chavs can afford them now, meaning holidays aren't a treat anymore but something that we do about 3 or 4 times a year. Do you know what the two main benefits of this are? Not having to send postcards and not having to buy SHITE like the picture below for ungrateful little brats back home.
Postcards used to be a nuisance. To be honest, I used to love getting them, the lewder the better but writing them was a frigging chore. It was like a more expensive version of Christmas and a bigger case of one-upmanship. How could a card from Skegness possibly compare to one from Egypt? Then there was the chore of having to write the same thing to about 10 disinterested people. Having a lovely time, wish you were here, the weather is hot, food is great and went on a trip to a cathedral/ market/ chicken plucking production line. The secret was to either write big or big yourself up. If you were stuck in some boring hellhole like Britain or on a yawnsome sounding driving holiday of the Benelux, the only way out of the boring postcard trap was to send a filthy one. British tack shops are excellent at producing filth, whereas our European counterparts usually sell rubbish cards like two flea ridden donkeys at it or a Greek god airbrushed to make it look like a Bel Ami cast member. I had a hissy fit in Dubai when I found that there were no obscene cards whatsoever. No innuendo relating to humping a camel. What a disgrace. I remember half a day's holiday was wasted looking for cards, composing a nice long story, looking for a post office, arguing about the price of stamps then going to your hotel reception where they would give you a cheaper price of stamps only to bin your cards.
Souvenir shopping was like Christmas shopping- fun at first then only to become such a chore. Thank God for tight-arse luggage allowances and bans on liquid. Remember when you had to buy everyone some shite Greek firewater that they obviously didn't like and it would reappear at Xmas? Remember when you had to buy the brats in your family massive lollipops in the hope they would choke or some local toy covered in lead paint? It was like turkey on Boxing Day, nobody wants it but if you didn't get it, you'd moan. Holiday presents were exactly the same. It was worse than Secret Fucking Santa as you knew who'd get what. The family show off would always buy some knock off designer goods to prove they'd been to Turkey when it was still exotic (now they just bring back an STD and a toyboy's debt). The boring gits who holidayed in the UK would buy bog-standard chocolate from Tesco's plus a keyring with Cleethorpes written on. The chavs who'd never been abroad before would usually spend the most and get a Spanish doll/ Sombrero and accidentally on purpose leave the receipt in foreign in the bag to prove 'YES THEY HAVE ALLOWED ME TO GET A PASSPORT!' The poor kids would always be disappointed. What is a 5 year old going to do with a bottle opener with Costa Del Sol written on? How can a toddler play with an ornamental woman in Flamenco gear and a 'Channel Number 4' T-shirt from a lucky lucky man? Why on earth did people waste their cash and a day of a holiday on searching for rubbish gifts that went straight in the charity shop? And don't get me started on the booze- nets of liqueurs in colourful bottles, brandy in a bottle shaped as a guitar, that bottle of tequila with the plastic hat as a lid. Oh and there were the Canaries Cunts too- those people who upgraded from Benidorm to Puerto del Carmen and let on they were going on an African voyage only to admit it was the Canaries, then spend all their money in the tax free shops buying electrical goods and discontinued perfumes they didn't need or even like.
I'd also like to give my thanks at this point to whoever came up with the bright idea to invent the single currency. By eliminating the need to 'get rid of your foreign' on the last day of the holiday, this clever person has caused a partial collapse of the souvenir shop industry. I no longer have to say 'Oh you SHOULDN'T have!!' when I am forced to display an ornamental plate of a Greek house in my kitchen.
To summarise:
1. Postcards were worse than Facebook for blagging about your fab life/holiday etc
2. Those T-Shirts they sell in Turkey aren't real designer labels
3. If you holiday in the UK, you are a boring tool who probably goes on trips to Black Pudding factories and empathises with Roy Cropper's character in Corrie.
Friday 30 August 2013
Nightstops from Hell!
Greetings my fellow passengers! Glad to see some of you have stayed on for the ride and you've got your sick bags at the ready, welcome on board to the new ones and to the ones who have stopped reading, good riddance. I'm sick of you prudes who moan about my writing, the clue is in the title that the blog is called The Mile High Confessional and my nom de plume is Flight Deck Floozie, that should give it away that it's not about flipping European Air Passenger Rights. I'm not that fuckwit Simon Calder.
Anyway, today's blog post is about what happens when we clock off for the day and go to our hotels. 'Oh your lifestyle sounds so glamorous!' say all those who've never flown before. I tell you what, some of you readers sound as if your lives are boring as frig but you're not half lucky as when you finish your shift at the chicken plucking factory/ call centre/ claiming benefits for your depression, you don't have to eat your dinner, breakfast and spend the night with the boring twunts you work with. There are two ways a nightstop can go- fabulous with a load of fit PILFs and fun, party animal cabin crew, or mind numbingly awful, with jobsworth crew who feel guilty stealing coke off the plane (the drink I mean, not beak) and pilots who seem to have come dressed as Luxembourg in a 1980s Eurovision with the sense of humour to match.
When I spotted a night in Paris on my roster, I got rather excited and calculated complex equations in my head as to the probability of having a load of PILFs for the eye candy and my best pals on the nightstop with me. Also, I researched into what other airlines may possibly use my hotel in the hope that there'd be an orgy with a load of Gulf Air swarthy PILFs or maybe the opportunity to make party with a big-nosed, circumnavigated Turkish Airlines cadet First Officer. Nah, scrap that. Airline Cougar told me those cadets are cadets in more ways than one and if they use an autopilot to land the plane, then the lucky lady will obviously have to finish herself off. Talk about First Officer's Mess!
Anyway, D-day drew near and my mate decided to pull a sickie, so bang went my party partner. The top drawer PILFs had been rostered on to other duties. Who the hell was I going to spend one night in Paris with? I checked my roster in the morning. Oh no. Oh please god no. No no no no nooooooo! I was rostered with a bunch of the most miserable twats on the face of this earth. This was the days before I Phones, Facebook and many other great antisocial gadgets too. This was 2005. A period when conversation was to be expected. I needed an action plan.
The group of people I was with were known as penny pinching tight arses. If they saw me, they'd try and blag a drink off me. The worst thing was, we were to passenger down and then work the next day. I hope to god the people in rostering weren't expecting us to sit together on the plane like some sort of jolly outing? I hated that stuff at school, I'm not doing it now. Work and private life should be kept separate, unless you've pulled a fit PILF that is.
My strategy was to hide in places where tight arses tend not to go. I checked in 3 hours before departure for my flight, knowing that tight arses check in last minute as to avoid spending money in rip off joint airport caffs. I promptly made my way to the most expensive airport caff, armed with a load of mags, my Nokia brick for some hardcore Snake playing and that new invention of the time, the MP3 player. Bitte nicht fucking storen, my vibes were giving off hopefully. As I was in my civvies, I hoped I was harder to spot but those pesky gits spotted me when I was at the gate listening to Sugababes Push the Button. 'FLIGHT DECK FLOOZIE! WE'RE HEEEERE!' They shouted. Weird, they usually ignore me. I felt like Shirley Valentine when Dougie and Jeannette asked her to sit with them. Reluctantly, I walked over to an evening of boredom, the pitying glances of the whole of gate 59 burning into my back. My 'friends' were already bitching about the price of milk or some other boring topic that people under 60 shouldn't be interested in, I carried on listening to Sugababes and pretended to sleep. It got worse. A member of ground staff offered to preboard us all and let us sit together! How utterly generous! Think Floozie, think. How am I going to get out of this situation. Then it came to me- the runs! I started clutching my stomach and said I need a seat by the bog as I was going to be needing it and not to join the mile high club. This deterred them for the duration of the flight. Phew. I was still within earshot of them though and all they were doing was moaning about the French and asking every 10 minutes for a drink or an item of free food. I sincerely hope that the sadistic looking purser on the flight had shot his man milk into the complimentary caffe latte. Saying that, my colleagues would probably have relished it as it was free. A money shot indeed.
After touching down in the city of love, I thought I was being clever as I only took hand luggage and they checked in a massive case each full of food to save them buying stuff in Paree. No such luck. I was hoping to intercept them but the bus was an hourly service so it meant waiting for the bus with them. I bagged that seat next to the bus driver that nobody ever wants to sit on (plus he was a bit of alright, swarthy and North African mmmm what a BILF). I managed to get off the bus first and check in, not revealing my room number to them thank God. The worst was yet to come though, breakfast the next morning. The number of tools had multiplied overnight and there was about 10 of them round the table, discussing money, politics and which nationalities they hated. I was hoping for a cosy table for 1 with my pot of coffee and Take A Break mag but instead, I was stuck in a low budget re-enactment of the four powers having that conference in Potsdam at the beginning of the Cold War. 'Hey Floozie, that is a big handbag' one of them said to me. Wow, how nice of him to compliment me, I thought. 'Is there any room in it to put these bread rolls in as I don't want to buy lunch' he said. WTF. OMG. Floozie was speechless for once. Why the hell was he being a tight arse and nicking from the breakfast buffet and more importantly, why did he want to shove his stinking contraband Brie sarnies into my expensive bag? I told him to do one in the most polite way possible. I had to work with 3 of them that day, so I turned up at the airport 2 hours early so I didn't have to bus it with them. After 2 hours of eyeing up French businessmen tanked up on coffee, I sailed through what could have been an awful day.
The following day, they had invited me to the mall with them. Can these people not take the hint or did they want to torture me? I got up at the crack of dawn and went to the mall myself, again to avoid bussing it with them, and hid in the most expensive, designer shops and caffs as I knew they'd be homing in on the Euro Shop or cheap and nasty fast food joints, eating the stolen goods from breakfast on a bench somewhere like a bunch of bag heads. Success.
The measures that you have to go to sometimes to avoid the workplace arsehole can be exhausting, but if you are successful, it is a rewarding feeling. All you smug gits who do 9-5 jobs have it lucky, air crew have to do breakfast, lunch and dinner with horrid colleagues at times.
So, to summarise:
1. Every workplace has twats
2. Your friendly cabin crew probably hate each other's guts
3. If you're a businessman in the Paris area, you have probably been mentally undressed by me
Anyway, today's blog post is about what happens when we clock off for the day and go to our hotels. 'Oh your lifestyle sounds so glamorous!' say all those who've never flown before. I tell you what, some of you readers sound as if your lives are boring as frig but you're not half lucky as when you finish your shift at the chicken plucking factory/ call centre/ claiming benefits for your depression, you don't have to eat your dinner, breakfast and spend the night with the boring twunts you work with. There are two ways a nightstop can go- fabulous with a load of fit PILFs and fun, party animal cabin crew, or mind numbingly awful, with jobsworth crew who feel guilty stealing coke off the plane (the drink I mean, not beak) and pilots who seem to have come dressed as Luxembourg in a 1980s Eurovision with the sense of humour to match.
When I spotted a night in Paris on my roster, I got rather excited and calculated complex equations in my head as to the probability of having a load of PILFs for the eye candy and my best pals on the nightstop with me. Also, I researched into what other airlines may possibly use my hotel in the hope that there'd be an orgy with a load of Gulf Air swarthy PILFs or maybe the opportunity to make party with a big-nosed, circumnavigated Turkish Airlines cadet First Officer. Nah, scrap that. Airline Cougar told me those cadets are cadets in more ways than one and if they use an autopilot to land the plane, then the lucky lady will obviously have to finish herself off. Talk about First Officer's Mess!
Anyway, D-day drew near and my mate decided to pull a sickie, so bang went my party partner. The top drawer PILFs had been rostered on to other duties. Who the hell was I going to spend one night in Paris with? I checked my roster in the morning. Oh no. Oh please god no. No no no no nooooooo! I was rostered with a bunch of the most miserable twats on the face of this earth. This was the days before I Phones, Facebook and many other great antisocial gadgets too. This was 2005. A period when conversation was to be expected. I needed an action plan.
The group of people I was with were known as penny pinching tight arses. If they saw me, they'd try and blag a drink off me. The worst thing was, we were to passenger down and then work the next day. I hope to god the people in rostering weren't expecting us to sit together on the plane like some sort of jolly outing? I hated that stuff at school, I'm not doing it now. Work and private life should be kept separate, unless you've pulled a fit PILF that is.
My strategy was to hide in places where tight arses tend not to go. I checked in 3 hours before departure for my flight, knowing that tight arses check in last minute as to avoid spending money in rip off joint airport caffs. I promptly made my way to the most expensive airport caff, armed with a load of mags, my Nokia brick for some hardcore Snake playing and that new invention of the time, the MP3 player. Bitte nicht fucking storen, my vibes were giving off hopefully. As I was in my civvies, I hoped I was harder to spot but those pesky gits spotted me when I was at the gate listening to Sugababes Push the Button. 'FLIGHT DECK FLOOZIE! WE'RE HEEEERE!' They shouted. Weird, they usually ignore me. I felt like Shirley Valentine when Dougie and Jeannette asked her to sit with them. Reluctantly, I walked over to an evening of boredom, the pitying glances of the whole of gate 59 burning into my back. My 'friends' were already bitching about the price of milk or some other boring topic that people under 60 shouldn't be interested in, I carried on listening to Sugababes and pretended to sleep. It got worse. A member of ground staff offered to preboard us all and let us sit together! How utterly generous! Think Floozie, think. How am I going to get out of this situation. Then it came to me- the runs! I started clutching my stomach and said I need a seat by the bog as I was going to be needing it and not to join the mile high club. This deterred them for the duration of the flight. Phew. I was still within earshot of them though and all they were doing was moaning about the French and asking every 10 minutes for a drink or an item of free food. I sincerely hope that the sadistic looking purser on the flight had shot his man milk into the complimentary caffe latte. Saying that, my colleagues would probably have relished it as it was free. A money shot indeed.
After touching down in the city of love, I thought I was being clever as I only took hand luggage and they checked in a massive case each full of food to save them buying stuff in Paree. No such luck. I was hoping to intercept them but the bus was an hourly service so it meant waiting for the bus with them. I bagged that seat next to the bus driver that nobody ever wants to sit on (plus he was a bit of alright, swarthy and North African mmmm what a BILF). I managed to get off the bus first and check in, not revealing my room number to them thank God. The worst was yet to come though, breakfast the next morning. The number of tools had multiplied overnight and there was about 10 of them round the table, discussing money, politics and which nationalities they hated. I was hoping for a cosy table for 1 with my pot of coffee and Take A Break mag but instead, I was stuck in a low budget re-enactment of the four powers having that conference in Potsdam at the beginning of the Cold War. 'Hey Floozie, that is a big handbag' one of them said to me. Wow, how nice of him to compliment me, I thought. 'Is there any room in it to put these bread rolls in as I don't want to buy lunch' he said. WTF. OMG. Floozie was speechless for once. Why the hell was he being a tight arse and nicking from the breakfast buffet and more importantly, why did he want to shove his stinking contraband Brie sarnies into my expensive bag? I told him to do one in the most polite way possible. I had to work with 3 of them that day, so I turned up at the airport 2 hours early so I didn't have to bus it with them. After 2 hours of eyeing up French businessmen tanked up on coffee, I sailed through what could have been an awful day.
The following day, they had invited me to the mall with them. Can these people not take the hint or did they want to torture me? I got up at the crack of dawn and went to the mall myself, again to avoid bussing it with them, and hid in the most expensive, designer shops and caffs as I knew they'd be homing in on the Euro Shop or cheap and nasty fast food joints, eating the stolen goods from breakfast on a bench somewhere like a bunch of bag heads. Success.
The measures that you have to go to sometimes to avoid the workplace arsehole can be exhausting, but if you are successful, it is a rewarding feeling. All you smug gits who do 9-5 jobs have it lucky, air crew have to do breakfast, lunch and dinner with horrid colleagues at times.
So, to summarise:
1. Every workplace has twats
2. Your friendly cabin crew probably hate each other's guts
3. If you're a businessman in the Paris area, you have probably been mentally undressed by me
Saturday 22 June 2013
FLIGHT REVIEW- Thomson Airways MAN-AGP
Greetings passengers! The holiday season is upon us, so during my travels, I decided to write a trip report of my flight. I'm not going to be writing about boring stuff like luggage allowance and legroom as let's face it, it's only fat bastards and thick women who bring 28 pair of shoes for a weekend away who care about that. My readership is more refined. You lot are all connoisseurs of the air.
Manchester airport is shite at the best of times so choosing to fly on the hottest day of the year was a bit stupid of me. They're all going to be pulling sickies and sitting on the steps of their terraced houses with their man tits out and a bottle of cider! If you think they're going to be loading bags onto a plane with their scrotes sticking to their thigh, think again. Thank fuck for Polish immigration, at least they work. While we're on the subject of workshy, don't fly from Liverpool on Grand National weekend as chances are you'll incur a delay and be fobbed off with a £2 voucher for piss weak coffee. I was to fly to Malaga (airport code AGP, we'll be using shorthand like proper aviation professionals in this post) so was anticipating lots of golf cunts, petty criminals and those fucking moronic balloon titted illiterates from TOWIE on my flight. One of my Twitter followers informed me 'there's always one fat man in an England shirt who walks like he has a telly under each arm' on Spanish flights. I take it there weren't going to be any BOBs then.
In the queue for check in, I spotted lots of stereotypes including a bunch of scruffs from South Yorkshire who had a 5 year old in a pram. 5! Maybe its parents were making the most of its childhood as it looked like it would be a parent itself by the age of 12, commoners. I got excited when I saw a flight to DLM was due out too, I scanned the queue looking for Turk Slags in their Primark tat with their norks out and toyboy deportees outstaying their 'wisa'. I spotted a common (no pun intended)theme as I saw lots of birds with silver sequinned bags. I think they were meant to be beach bags but they obviously had no money to carry in a normal purse or handbag. My mum informed me they were in Primark about 2 years ago for about £4. Primates.
I was then informed it was to be 3 hrs delayed and we were only entitled to a voucher after 4 hours. Well I hit the roof. I quoted paragraphs of the EU Passenger Law that states air passengers are entitled to compo after 3 hrs and the check in chick nearly shat herself. I think I was a bit much, considering the usual clientele who 'mustn't grumble' and think Spain still uses pesetas. Anyway, Thomsons got a very long letter from me which I will chase up.
During my delay, I done plenty of chav spotting. I flew from Terminal 2 and there were some mighty fat arses in the shape of some Virgin crew. I saw plenty of VPL and regional accents talking about Orlanduurr. Bless them, if it wasn't for Richard Branson, these poor cows wouldn't have been able to afford to leave Derbyshire or whatever nondescript place they hail from. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a couple of Monarch PILFs strutting through the airport in full uniform, but on closer inspection they looked like a pair of narks who'd tell you to take your shoes off in their house but leave their socks on during lovemaking. Top totty was spotted working in Frankie and Benny's, there was someone in there with a fit accent (Portuguese?) and a tight bottom, plus a few of the lads on customs were fit. I bet they sit there behind that two way glass mirror thing having a wank over the female security staff patting down the lady passengers, don't you think? You have to make your own entertainment at work really, since the bosses started removing Minesweeper and Solitaire from the computers. I saw a big bunch of chavs from Lancashire and they had about 6 Trunkies between them. Why do they have them? I never had luggage when I was 2! Is it for people who can't afford a Samsonite so buy one of them to assert their 'status', a bit like A class Merc drivers? Is it for 'yummy mummies' who want to annoy other passengers and want to scream to the world 'I have a kid', the way some people namedrop or constantly talk about their career? Here's some news for you- there's 15 year olds shitting out kids nowadays. There's some people in the third world who have 10 kids, some with 8 arms and 2 heads. You're nowt special.
Anyway. I boarded the flight and I was sat behind the Trunki Family From Hell. The kid was called Reuben (what a fucking awful name, bring back John, James and normal names please!) and he was an angry red faced git like his dad. He wouldn't stop crying and the chavvy, disinterested parents wouldn't discipline him. Nightmare. I think Thomson have gone downhill since they dropped the Britannia name- it's gone oh so Sleazyjet now but with better mannered cabin crew. There are no longer any inflight meals or entertainment, not even any meals available to purchase just bacon butties that the baggage handlers have probably farted in. Thank God for Frankie and Bennys. The chavs on the plane were annoying me so much, I started going on about Air Crash Investigation, travel sickness and Tory benefit cuts; topics that were sure to scare them into shock and hopefully pass out and leave me in peace. I flicked through the inflight mag which wasn't as good as it was, even the route map was shit and looked like the opening credits to Dad's Army. It was a crude Ryanair style drawing and not a relief map with distances and other cities on. I even spotted a typo on the safety demo video- a nasty case of Greengrocer's Apostrophe. It said Thomson Airway's! Seriously. Jesus wept.
The flight deck weren't up to scratch either. The First Officer was pushing 60 and looked like an Operation Yewtree celebrity nonce but the Captain was a slight improvement. He was also vintage but wore his uniform with panache and didn't let the uniform wear him, a true silver fox. He didn't turn around though so didn't manage to assess his arse.
The nightmare flight was soon over and I knew what was coming next. Passport control with a chav booming out 'Are we domestic or international?' Tip for you- if you ever see a family full of daft mummies with loads of bags and brats, bypass them quick as they're a nightmare at passport control and even worse when they're going through security. I'd sooner issue a passport to Bin Laden than these deviants.
Baggage reclaim was the usual predictable fun. We were sharing a carousel with a Sleazyjet flight from chavvy Stansted so there was a heady intellectual mix of Essex, South Yarkshire and Lancashire working class wit. 'Wha are thurrr bags from Easuhjet from St..Stan...urrr London when wur flew Thomsons from Manchesturrr' commented someone from Rotherham. 'That bag's been around twice' said another keen observer. Then I saw it. A textbook chav family. I was scared to get my phone out to take a pic in case they robbed it. The girl had blonde hair on top and black underneath, GHDed to death. Her illegitimate son and her dad both had matching earrings in and a fat mess who looked like a transvestite was looking her Primark case going round the carousel like it was her night's entertainment. Her scummy family members were calling her 'Nannan' which I thought might have been an Arabic name but it turns out it means 'Grandma' in some parts of Yarkshire. How common. The dad then displayed his manhood by putting his foot on the carousel as if he was trying some dangerous sport. Delightful. I hope they had fun spending their benefits in Spain. They deserve it after a stressful year of not answering the door to bailiffs.
To summarise:
1. Thomson Airways is now Easyjet painted blue
2. PILFs are becoming an endangered species and there are fitter men in the airport habitat
3. The cast of the Full Monty and Brassed Off probably call their grandmothers 'Nannan'
4. Trunkies probably get wanked in by baggage handlers
Manchester airport is shite at the best of times so choosing to fly on the hottest day of the year was a bit stupid of me. They're all going to be pulling sickies and sitting on the steps of their terraced houses with their man tits out and a bottle of cider! If you think they're going to be loading bags onto a plane with their scrotes sticking to their thigh, think again. Thank fuck for Polish immigration, at least they work. While we're on the subject of workshy, don't fly from Liverpool on Grand National weekend as chances are you'll incur a delay and be fobbed off with a £2 voucher for piss weak coffee. I was to fly to Malaga (airport code AGP, we'll be using shorthand like proper aviation professionals in this post) so was anticipating lots of golf cunts, petty criminals and those fucking moronic balloon titted illiterates from TOWIE on my flight. One of my Twitter followers informed me 'there's always one fat man in an England shirt who walks like he has a telly under each arm' on Spanish flights. I take it there weren't going to be any BOBs then.
In the queue for check in, I spotted lots of stereotypes including a bunch of scruffs from South Yorkshire who had a 5 year old in a pram. 5! Maybe its parents were making the most of its childhood as it looked like it would be a parent itself by the age of 12, commoners. I got excited when I saw a flight to DLM was due out too, I scanned the queue looking for Turk Slags in their Primark tat with their norks out and toyboy deportees outstaying their 'wisa'. I spotted a common (no pun intended)theme as I saw lots of birds with silver sequinned bags. I think they were meant to be beach bags but they obviously had no money to carry in a normal purse or handbag. My mum informed me they were in Primark about 2 years ago for about £4. Primates.
I was then informed it was to be 3 hrs delayed and we were only entitled to a voucher after 4 hours. Well I hit the roof. I quoted paragraphs of the EU Passenger Law that states air passengers are entitled to compo after 3 hrs and the check in chick nearly shat herself. I think I was a bit much, considering the usual clientele who 'mustn't grumble' and think Spain still uses pesetas. Anyway, Thomsons got a very long letter from me which I will chase up.
During my delay, I done plenty of chav spotting. I flew from Terminal 2 and there were some mighty fat arses in the shape of some Virgin crew. I saw plenty of VPL and regional accents talking about Orlanduurr. Bless them, if it wasn't for Richard Branson, these poor cows wouldn't have been able to afford to leave Derbyshire or whatever nondescript place they hail from. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a couple of Monarch PILFs strutting through the airport in full uniform, but on closer inspection they looked like a pair of narks who'd tell you to take your shoes off in their house but leave their socks on during lovemaking. Top totty was spotted working in Frankie and Benny's, there was someone in there with a fit accent (Portuguese?) and a tight bottom, plus a few of the lads on customs were fit. I bet they sit there behind that two way glass mirror thing having a wank over the female security staff patting down the lady passengers, don't you think? You have to make your own entertainment at work really, since the bosses started removing Minesweeper and Solitaire from the computers. I saw a big bunch of chavs from Lancashire and they had about 6 Trunkies between them. Why do they have them? I never had luggage when I was 2! Is it for people who can't afford a Samsonite so buy one of them to assert their 'status', a bit like A class Merc drivers? Is it for 'yummy mummies' who want to annoy other passengers and want to scream to the world 'I have a kid', the way some people namedrop or constantly talk about their career? Here's some news for you- there's 15 year olds shitting out kids nowadays. There's some people in the third world who have 10 kids, some with 8 arms and 2 heads. You're nowt special.
Anyway. I boarded the flight and I was sat behind the Trunki Family From Hell. The kid was called Reuben (what a fucking awful name, bring back John, James and normal names please!) and he was an angry red faced git like his dad. He wouldn't stop crying and the chavvy, disinterested parents wouldn't discipline him. Nightmare. I think Thomson have gone downhill since they dropped the Britannia name- it's gone oh so Sleazyjet now but with better mannered cabin crew. There are no longer any inflight meals or entertainment, not even any meals available to purchase just bacon butties that the baggage handlers have probably farted in. Thank God for Frankie and Bennys. The chavs on the plane were annoying me so much, I started going on about Air Crash Investigation, travel sickness and Tory benefit cuts; topics that were sure to scare them into shock and hopefully pass out and leave me in peace. I flicked through the inflight mag which wasn't as good as it was, even the route map was shit and looked like the opening credits to Dad's Army. It was a crude Ryanair style drawing and not a relief map with distances and other cities on. I even spotted a typo on the safety demo video- a nasty case of Greengrocer's Apostrophe. It said Thomson Airway's! Seriously. Jesus wept.
The flight deck weren't up to scratch either. The First Officer was pushing 60 and looked like an Operation Yewtree celebrity nonce but the Captain was a slight improvement. He was also vintage but wore his uniform with panache and didn't let the uniform wear him, a true silver fox. He didn't turn around though so didn't manage to assess his arse.
The nightmare flight was soon over and I knew what was coming next. Passport control with a chav booming out 'Are we domestic or international?' Tip for you- if you ever see a family full of daft mummies with loads of bags and brats, bypass them quick as they're a nightmare at passport control and even worse when they're going through security. I'd sooner issue a passport to Bin Laden than these deviants.
Baggage reclaim was the usual predictable fun. We were sharing a carousel with a Sleazyjet flight from chavvy Stansted so there was a heady intellectual mix of Essex, South Yarkshire and Lancashire working class wit. 'Wha are thurrr bags from Easuhjet from St..Stan...urrr London when wur flew Thomsons from Manchesturrr' commented someone from Rotherham. 'That bag's been around twice' said another keen observer. Then I saw it. A textbook chav family. I was scared to get my phone out to take a pic in case they robbed it. The girl had blonde hair on top and black underneath, GHDed to death. Her illegitimate son and her dad both had matching earrings in and a fat mess who looked like a transvestite was looking her Primark case going round the carousel like it was her night's entertainment. Her scummy family members were calling her 'Nannan' which I thought might have been an Arabic name but it turns out it means 'Grandma' in some parts of Yarkshire. How common. The dad then displayed his manhood by putting his foot on the carousel as if he was trying some dangerous sport. Delightful. I hope they had fun spending their benefits in Spain. They deserve it after a stressful year of not answering the door to bailiffs.
To summarise:
1. Thomson Airways is now Easyjet painted blue
2. PILFs are becoming an endangered species and there are fitter men in the airport habitat
3. The cast of the Full Monty and Brassed Off probably call their grandmothers 'Nannan'
4. Trunkies probably get wanked in by baggage handlers
Saturday 15 June 2013
The Aviation Wedding- yawn.
Greetings my depraved bunch of mile high wannabes! I'm going to tell you another story now so sit back, relax and spread your legs. In an industry with a lot of people in uniform shagging each other, it's inevitable that some crew end up marrying each other and what a clusterfuck that is!
The first wedding I will only touch on briefly as it's pretty uneventful- the quickie wedding. An air hostess and a boring, ageing PILF will get married somewhere abroad where they can get cheap on staff travel and have the whole lot over and done with as quickly as a Cadet Pilot reaches orgasm. Vegas and the Maldives and places like that are common. The bride will wear a shite £20 maxi dress from Dorothy Perkins in lieu of a meringue. Mr Pilot has already spent up on his two previous weddings and Mrs Trolley Dolly is too fat to wear a garter and too friendless to have a do close to home. Their Facebook pics will have a sickening beach shot, someone making a heart with their hands or that nauseating pose of intertwined arms drinking champagne, as overdone as the Leaning Tower of Pisa pic.
The second wedding is the Big One. Usually in an aviation location like an airport hotel or a stately home in the middle of nowhere to prevent the chavvier members of the bride's family not being able to attend as it's not on the 79 bus route. Or the groom's for that matter, some pilots are estate rats saddled with debt, believe it or not, but that's another tale. The hen night will consist of Miss Trolley Dolly wearing pilot uniforms from Ann Summers, her size 18 mates busting out all over and looking more like a dinner lady than Captain Clit. The stag night will be a more sombre affair- he will pretend he's going to lap dancers but in actual fact, it'll be a taste test in a brewery or go karting.
The wedding will be a cliquey affair, alienating those who have never worked in aviation, causing a massive divide of them and us. From the moment the guests arrive, they will notice the aviation theme whether it be the favour boxes shaped as planes or the tables instead of having numbers will be called fucking Airbus or Dash 8 or something. The best man will look like an Inbetweener with less dress sense and make a faux pas like having his shirt sticking through his flies, no belt on or rolled up sleeves, the label of his British Home Stores suit sticking up. You might even catch a glimpse of the price tag on his suit as it's going back the shop the next day. Disappointingly, his speech won't contain lewd jokes but boring in jokes to their time at flight school or some shite about programming the wrong co-ordinates that nobody understands. The groom's mother either looks like a battered wife terrified of her husband or is an out and out common tart with her chebs out, sniffing out PILFs. No happy medium there then.
On Facebook the other day, I vomited as I nosed through my ex-colleagues wedding pics. On one pic, I saw a model aircraft in lieu of bride and groom on top of the cake, on another, I saw a cut out plane stuck on the wall outside the room where they have the reception, on another, I spotted a fucking awful pic of the PILF groom and his mates with their arms outstretched like cunting planes. God give me strength. If it was a bus driver's wedding, would they all get up to fucking Wheels on the Frigging Bus and request shite like Ticket To Ride and the Vengabus is coming? No. Then why the hell do they have a fucking playlist containing Come Fly With Me, Take my breath away and I believe I can Fly? If they want a proper aviation wedding, they should provide sick bags for the guests to vomit into at this sick inducing experience and come round with a duty free trolley so you can get bladdered on cheap foreign Pedro's Piss wine and forget the whole sorry experience the next day.
And there we have it. The next morning, the bride looks not so much radiant as signed up to a lifetime of subservience to her breadwinner hubby. She will be judged by some, an everyday version of a footballer's WAG if you like. Not all PILFs are braggers though so girls, if you're thinking about bagging a PILF. get a vintage one that's done a few miles and got the bragging and womanising out of his system. Just make sure he's taken a bluey.
The first wedding I will only touch on briefly as it's pretty uneventful- the quickie wedding. An air hostess and a boring, ageing PILF will get married somewhere abroad where they can get cheap on staff travel and have the whole lot over and done with as quickly as a Cadet Pilot reaches orgasm. Vegas and the Maldives and places like that are common. The bride will wear a shite £20 maxi dress from Dorothy Perkins in lieu of a meringue. Mr Pilot has already spent up on his two previous weddings and Mrs Trolley Dolly is too fat to wear a garter and too friendless to have a do close to home. Their Facebook pics will have a sickening beach shot, someone making a heart with their hands or that nauseating pose of intertwined arms drinking champagne, as overdone as the Leaning Tower of Pisa pic.
The second wedding is the Big One. Usually in an aviation location like an airport hotel or a stately home in the middle of nowhere to prevent the chavvier members of the bride's family not being able to attend as it's not on the 79 bus route. Or the groom's for that matter, some pilots are estate rats saddled with debt, believe it or not, but that's another tale. The hen night will consist of Miss Trolley Dolly wearing pilot uniforms from Ann Summers, her size 18 mates busting out all over and looking more like a dinner lady than Captain Clit. The stag night will be a more sombre affair- he will pretend he's going to lap dancers but in actual fact, it'll be a taste test in a brewery or go karting.
The wedding will be a cliquey affair, alienating those who have never worked in aviation, causing a massive divide of them and us. From the moment the guests arrive, they will notice the aviation theme whether it be the favour boxes shaped as planes or the tables instead of having numbers will be called fucking Airbus or Dash 8 or something. The best man will look like an Inbetweener with less dress sense and make a faux pas like having his shirt sticking through his flies, no belt on or rolled up sleeves, the label of his British Home Stores suit sticking up. You might even catch a glimpse of the price tag on his suit as it's going back the shop the next day. Disappointingly, his speech won't contain lewd jokes but boring in jokes to their time at flight school or some shite about programming the wrong co-ordinates that nobody understands. The groom's mother either looks like a battered wife terrified of her husband or is an out and out common tart with her chebs out, sniffing out PILFs. No happy medium there then.
On Facebook the other day, I vomited as I nosed through my ex-colleagues wedding pics. On one pic, I saw a model aircraft in lieu of bride and groom on top of the cake, on another, I saw a cut out plane stuck on the wall outside the room where they have the reception, on another, I spotted a fucking awful pic of the PILF groom and his mates with their arms outstretched like cunting planes. God give me strength. If it was a bus driver's wedding, would they all get up to fucking Wheels on the Frigging Bus and request shite like Ticket To Ride and the Vengabus is coming? No. Then why the hell do they have a fucking playlist containing Come Fly With Me, Take my breath away and I believe I can Fly? If they want a proper aviation wedding, they should provide sick bags for the guests to vomit into at this sick inducing experience and come round with a duty free trolley so you can get bladdered on cheap foreign Pedro's Piss wine and forget the whole sorry experience the next day.
And there we have it. The next morning, the bride looks not so much radiant as signed up to a lifetime of subservience to her breadwinner hubby. She will be judged by some, an everyday version of a footballer's WAG if you like. Not all PILFs are braggers though so girls, if you're thinking about bagging a PILF. get a vintage one that's done a few miles and got the bragging and womanising out of his system. Just make sure he's taken a bluey.
Thursday 30 May 2013
Dubai Stepford Pilot WAGs from hell
Hi again you bunch of pikey Jet2 lovers! I've got a bit of time on my hands so I thought I'd write a few more social observations of my past down before I obliterate them from my memory. As you may know from Twitter and previous blog posts, I used to live in Dubai, the city of contrast. I had a love/hate relationship with the place, the main thing I hated was the behaviour of people. Nouveau riche chavs from Doncaster, lots of fakery, poor human rights, 1950s behaviour towards women and slave labour all meet in this wonderfully modern immigration experiment! However, I want to tell you about an annoying group of people called the Flight Deck WAGs, otherwise known as Angry Birds.
In Dubai, the two major airlines are Emirates and their low cost bastard lovechild known as FlyDubai. FlyDubai are a bit like Easyjet but their destinations aren't as bad as Alicante and Ibiza, they fly to cleaner, more developed places like Chittagong and Uzbekistan. Down the road in Abu Dhabi is Etihad, but their employees and employees' spouses are somewhat nicer. It's the Dubai set who are the real cunts.
The pilot WAGs are a bland looking bunch. Back in the UK, pilot WAGs either seem to be intellectual heavyweights or fit trophy birds, or maybe even both. Out in the Middle East, they are a bizarre combination of WI members meet Job Centre. They all seem to wear a uniform of capri pants in white, ugly shoes like kitten heels or Crocs, bleach blonde bob and a garish concoction of Laura Ashley and Primark. They also have fat arses, I don't know if that's a prerequisite or they're just spending hubby's sector pay at Dunkin Donuts. Back home, they have either worked as budget airline trolley bags where they have snared their PILF or had a shite job in a call centre or an airport branch of Boots. God knows what some PILFs look for in a bird. Anyway, they are desperately homesick and see themselves as some sort of martyr with the same lost and lonely look with a dash of bitchiness as Victoria Beckham when David went to LA Galaxy. In their minds eye that is, Emirates pilots are no Goldenballs and their spouses are about 8 stone heavier than Posh. To quell the homesickness, they spend their time blogging (pot, kettle, black HAHA), showing off on Facebook to their friends back home, learning how to use Skype, shopping at Whittards in the mall as they think it's oh so British and finally, their most beloved pursuit of all. Trolling. Yes, these sophisticated WAGs love nothing more than to troll other expat women on an annoying website called www.expatwoman.com. See for yourself! They cast judgement, they critique and all they talk about is spending hubby's money! How lovely.
There is a cunty club they can all join called Emirates Pilot Club which enables them to get discount in gyms and overpriced restaurants. The catch is the membership is more than the discount- they wield these cards like an 18 year old student displaying an NUS card, eagerly asking in every shop they go in for discount, thinking it gives them some sort of power. It just outs them as the tight Yorkshire slappers they are. You can take the girl out of the estate and all that....
Right, I'll blog a bit more later about these twats who boiled my piss during my time in Dubai.
In Dubai, the two major airlines are Emirates and their low cost bastard lovechild known as FlyDubai. FlyDubai are a bit like Easyjet but their destinations aren't as bad as Alicante and Ibiza, they fly to cleaner, more developed places like Chittagong and Uzbekistan. Down the road in Abu Dhabi is Etihad, but their employees and employees' spouses are somewhat nicer. It's the Dubai set who are the real cunts.
The pilot WAGs are a bland looking bunch. Back in the UK, pilot WAGs either seem to be intellectual heavyweights or fit trophy birds, or maybe even both. Out in the Middle East, they are a bizarre combination of WI members meet Job Centre. They all seem to wear a uniform of capri pants in white, ugly shoes like kitten heels or Crocs, bleach blonde bob and a garish concoction of Laura Ashley and Primark. They also have fat arses, I don't know if that's a prerequisite or they're just spending hubby's sector pay at Dunkin Donuts. Back home, they have either worked as budget airline trolley bags where they have snared their PILF or had a shite job in a call centre or an airport branch of Boots. God knows what some PILFs look for in a bird. Anyway, they are desperately homesick and see themselves as some sort of martyr with the same lost and lonely look with a dash of bitchiness as Victoria Beckham when David went to LA Galaxy. In their minds eye that is, Emirates pilots are no Goldenballs and their spouses are about 8 stone heavier than Posh. To quell the homesickness, they spend their time blogging (pot, kettle, black HAHA), showing off on Facebook to their friends back home, learning how to use Skype, shopping at Whittards in the mall as they think it's oh so British and finally, their most beloved pursuit of all. Trolling. Yes, these sophisticated WAGs love nothing more than to troll other expat women on an annoying website called www.expatwoman.com. See for yourself! They cast judgement, they critique and all they talk about is spending hubby's money! How lovely.
There is a cunty club they can all join called Emirates Pilot Club which enables them to get discount in gyms and overpriced restaurants. The catch is the membership is more than the discount- they wield these cards like an 18 year old student displaying an NUS card, eagerly asking in every shop they go in for discount, thinking it gives them some sort of power. It just outs them as the tight Yorkshire slappers they are. You can take the girl out of the estate and all that....
Right, I'll blog a bit more later about these twats who boiled my piss during my time in Dubai.
Tuesday 21 May 2013
Geography and History lessons with thick cabin crew
Don't know much about history? Don't know much Geography? Don't know much about the French you took? It's about time you worked for frigging Ryanair then. You'll be perfect. It's not just Ryanscare who employ complete bulbs though. At The Airline, I met several thick cunts who I am ashamed to say were my coworkers. Here are some nuggets of intellect I heard during my time:
- Him 'Wales doesn't have an airport' Me: 'Yes it does, but we don't fly there, Cardiff' Him: 'Hahaha you silly cow, Cardiff's near Liverpool!'
- Do you want ice with your red wine?
- Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Scotland's capital city, Glasgow.
-Welcome to Turkey's capital, Istanbul. (wow, a time travelling plane! Next stop Constantinople)
-We also fly to Edinborough (Isn't that where Neighbours is filmed? ;) )
-So you're Muslim and can't eat ham? Never mind, we have bacon sandwiches.
- Rome's a bit nicer than the other parts of Spain, innit?
- There's a wall thing in Germany isn't there? Isn't there a nightclub thing or something called Checkpoint Charlie?
- Eeeee! The Greeks are all coming over for visas!
- The French girls don't look after themselves like we do. You never see them use sunbeds or have false nails.
- Oh my goooood, the pilots are like overpaid bus drivers!
- Oh look, there's a country called Jordan! Do you think she knows there's a country named after her?
- We don't accept foreign money (said when presented with Scottish and Irish pounds)
- What's the exchange rate between Spanish Euros and French Euros? Can you spend each others?
- I don't speak Belgium (worryingly, a pilot said this)
- Me 'this sandwich has salami on'. Dumb council estate 18 year old stewardess 'IT'S NOT SALAMI IT'S PEPERAMI!!!'
- Him 'Wales doesn't have an airport' Me: 'Yes it does, but we don't fly there, Cardiff' Him: 'Hahaha you silly cow, Cardiff's near Liverpool!'
- Do you want ice with your red wine?
- Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Scotland's capital city, Glasgow.
-Welcome to Turkey's capital, Istanbul. (wow, a time travelling plane! Next stop Constantinople)
-We also fly to Edinborough (Isn't that where Neighbours is filmed? ;) )
-So you're Muslim and can't eat ham? Never mind, we have bacon sandwiches.
- Rome's a bit nicer than the other parts of Spain, innit?
- There's a wall thing in Germany isn't there? Isn't there a nightclub thing or something called Checkpoint Charlie?
- Eeeee! The Greeks are all coming over for visas!
- The French girls don't look after themselves like we do. You never see them use sunbeds or have false nails.
- Oh my goooood, the pilots are like overpaid bus drivers!
- Oh look, there's a country called Jordan! Do you think she knows there's a country named after her?
- We don't accept foreign money (said when presented with Scottish and Irish pounds)
- What's the exchange rate between Spanish Euros and French Euros? Can you spend each others?
- I don't speak Belgium (worryingly, a pilot said this)
- Me 'this sandwich has salami on'. Dumb council estate 18 year old stewardess 'IT'S NOT SALAMI IT'S PEPERAMI!!!'
Sunday 21 April 2013
Covert Research aka The Interview!
FDF has been rather naughty recently- don't worry, I've not participated in Brown Sports with a KLM training captain or been flagellated by a Nazi dominatrix from Lufthansa, but I have had a job offer of returning to the skies which I politely declined (and a really friendly guy from Manchester got offered the job instead- ex BMI crew, passionate and an asset to the skies to boot!) I attended the interview in the hope I would get a blog post out of it so here are my findings!
I turned up at the airport on time and thought I'd turned up at my sixth form common room back in 1998. Fashion and behaviour-wise. Have standards declined so much in the time I've been out of the loop or at 30, have I turned into one of those sad fuckers who always say policemen are looking younger? I took in the scene before me and I spotted the object that most employers take the piss out of. You guessed it, the Record of Achievement folder. For those too old, too young or too foreign to know what I'm on about, this folder was (or still is? Who knows) given to schoolkids to prepare them for the rocky path of job seeking. In it, you documented achievements at school like punctuality, certificates you got for shite like getting 100% in a French Oral (and I don't mean fellatio with an Air France hottie) and as you progressed through school, you were supposed to write personal statements, what you wanted to be when you grew up and how you were to achieve that goal. Now, in actual fact, these folders were used to make you feel grown up and have some sort of responsibility about your career, but nobody over the age of 20 were expected to carry these round. These folders give the impression of an awkward teenager on their first day of work experience on the production line in a horse lasagne factory. Darling, if you carry one of those horrors, you are game for practical jokes. These folders SCREAM 'send me for a long stand'.
The majority of the interview attendees were from Yorkshire for some reason (can I please stress that I did NOT attend a Jet2 interview!) and I don't know if it's a regional thing but the interview attire was awful. Scuffed ballerinas do not a good impression make, it's ok if you're runnin' dahn t' shop but it only embellishes cankles and the fact you look like a tonne of King Edwards in a body stocking. I also saw the dreaded shoes, the forbidden shoes that nobody should ever, ever wear, unless it's fancy dress. Yes, I'm talking about kitten heels, the most pointless, unflattering shoes ever to have existed since Crocs. I also spotted a few rotund ladies in bodycon skirts- I wear bodycon myself but a) I am a size 6 and b) I am not attending a job interview. How are you expected to fashion a suit out of bodycon? Do they not teach children interview dress in school anymore? Suit jacket and a New Look spandex skirt make you look like a Turk Slag high on HRT. I groaned inwards and a part of me died when I saw rucksacks and shopping bags and also a fake Claireabella. If you feel the need to carry a bag with your name on, you're obviously still a bit young in the head to deal with the hardcore cabin crew life. If you're partial to a rucksack, I can tell you now you will never be able to carry of the Airport Walk or point to the exits in a feminine manner.
I was sad to see a demise of the Fuck Off Neck Scarf. How can someone apply for a job as cabin crew and not have a natural instinct to put on a neck scarf with a jaunty knot? Would you apply for a job as a hooker if you couldn't put a rubber on? I noticed that all the girls who bothered to wear the scarf got through to the second round of the interview stage.
Hair and make up was all over the shop as well. I could tell some of these girls had never applied make up in their life and left a big ring of white skin round their neck where their foundation wasn't blended in like some sort of fucking mallard drake. Waist length hair was left loose and hair dyes and piercings were on full view. If you can't be bothered taking out your nose ring and putting your hair in an updo for the interview, you're definitely going to be a troublemaker in the workplace, causing delays due to you being pulled in for a uniform check. The PILFs aren't gonna be interested either and the baggage handlers will mistake you for a piece of luggage- ugly, outsize and misshapen. We're not in school now you know, no rolling up your skirt.
Full marks go to all the lads at the interview, they all made an effort, suited and booted. Particular recognition goes to the girls of Manchester, Liverpool and the South who were all immaculate (and got through to the final round too!) Take it from me, if you're attending a cabin crew interview and you've no prior cabin crew work experience, dress the part, talk the talk and you're halfway there. Pick out a suit, a white blouse, a neck scarf and if your hair is longer than your shoulders, make sure it's up as this will be what they'll expect of you and it helps the interviewer visualise you in the role.
Certain words and phrases will be picked up on in your one to one interview too- I always like Teamwork, Empathy, Safety and throw in a bit of jargon too. CRM stands for Crew Resource Management and basically means teamwork and rapport with colleagues- get it in there for extra brownie points! For God's sake don't mention pulling pilots or saying you hate chav passengers. Positivity at all times! You can moan once your foot is in the door! Some of these candidates hadn't prepared for the interview at all, didn't know a thing about the airline and treated it like it was a bog standard office job.
At the interview there was a teamwork exercise in addition to the one to one interview- make sure you're not a wallflower and not a bossy boots either- a happy medium is what they're looking for.
I was sad to see the airline didn't provide any refreshments on the day as I had been with this particular airline 10 years previously and was provided delicious cakes and coffee. Sad economic times or a tight employer? Who knows. Either way, aviation has changed an awful lot since my debut and so have the standards in society. It's a dog eat dog world out there, make sure you stay abreast of the competition.
I turned up at the airport on time and thought I'd turned up at my sixth form common room back in 1998. Fashion and behaviour-wise. Have standards declined so much in the time I've been out of the loop or at 30, have I turned into one of those sad fuckers who always say policemen are looking younger? I took in the scene before me and I spotted the object that most employers take the piss out of. You guessed it, the Record of Achievement folder. For those too old, too young or too foreign to know what I'm on about, this folder was (or still is? Who knows) given to schoolkids to prepare them for the rocky path of job seeking. In it, you documented achievements at school like punctuality, certificates you got for shite like getting 100% in a French Oral (and I don't mean fellatio with an Air France hottie) and as you progressed through school, you were supposed to write personal statements, what you wanted to be when you grew up and how you were to achieve that goal. Now, in actual fact, these folders were used to make you feel grown up and have some sort of responsibility about your career, but nobody over the age of 20 were expected to carry these round. These folders give the impression of an awkward teenager on their first day of work experience on the production line in a horse lasagne factory. Darling, if you carry one of those horrors, you are game for practical jokes. These folders SCREAM 'send me for a long stand'.
The majority of the interview attendees were from Yorkshire for some reason (can I please stress that I did NOT attend a Jet2 interview!) and I don't know if it's a regional thing but the interview attire was awful. Scuffed ballerinas do not a good impression make, it's ok if you're runnin' dahn t' shop but it only embellishes cankles and the fact you look like a tonne of King Edwards in a body stocking. I also saw the dreaded shoes, the forbidden shoes that nobody should ever, ever wear, unless it's fancy dress. Yes, I'm talking about kitten heels, the most pointless, unflattering shoes ever to have existed since Crocs. I also spotted a few rotund ladies in bodycon skirts- I wear bodycon myself but a) I am a size 6 and b) I am not attending a job interview. How are you expected to fashion a suit out of bodycon? Do they not teach children interview dress in school anymore? Suit jacket and a New Look spandex skirt make you look like a Turk Slag high on HRT. I groaned inwards and a part of me died when I saw rucksacks and shopping bags and also a fake Claireabella. If you feel the need to carry a bag with your name on, you're obviously still a bit young in the head to deal with the hardcore cabin crew life. If you're partial to a rucksack, I can tell you now you will never be able to carry of the Airport Walk or point to the exits in a feminine manner.
I was sad to see a demise of the Fuck Off Neck Scarf. How can someone apply for a job as cabin crew and not have a natural instinct to put on a neck scarf with a jaunty knot? Would you apply for a job as a hooker if you couldn't put a rubber on? I noticed that all the girls who bothered to wear the scarf got through to the second round of the interview stage.
Hair and make up was all over the shop as well. I could tell some of these girls had never applied make up in their life and left a big ring of white skin round their neck where their foundation wasn't blended in like some sort of fucking mallard drake. Waist length hair was left loose and hair dyes and piercings were on full view. If you can't be bothered taking out your nose ring and putting your hair in an updo for the interview, you're definitely going to be a troublemaker in the workplace, causing delays due to you being pulled in for a uniform check. The PILFs aren't gonna be interested either and the baggage handlers will mistake you for a piece of luggage- ugly, outsize and misshapen. We're not in school now you know, no rolling up your skirt.
Full marks go to all the lads at the interview, they all made an effort, suited and booted. Particular recognition goes to the girls of Manchester, Liverpool and the South who were all immaculate (and got through to the final round too!) Take it from me, if you're attending a cabin crew interview and you've no prior cabin crew work experience, dress the part, talk the talk and you're halfway there. Pick out a suit, a white blouse, a neck scarf and if your hair is longer than your shoulders, make sure it's up as this will be what they'll expect of you and it helps the interviewer visualise you in the role.
Certain words and phrases will be picked up on in your one to one interview too- I always like Teamwork, Empathy, Safety and throw in a bit of jargon too. CRM stands for Crew Resource Management and basically means teamwork and rapport with colleagues- get it in there for extra brownie points! For God's sake don't mention pulling pilots or saying you hate chav passengers. Positivity at all times! You can moan once your foot is in the door! Some of these candidates hadn't prepared for the interview at all, didn't know a thing about the airline and treated it like it was a bog standard office job.
At the interview there was a teamwork exercise in addition to the one to one interview- make sure you're not a wallflower and not a bossy boots either- a happy medium is what they're looking for.
I was sad to see the airline didn't provide any refreshments on the day as I had been with this particular airline 10 years previously and was provided delicious cakes and coffee. Sad economic times or a tight employer? Who knows. Either way, aviation has changed an awful lot since my debut and so have the standards in society. It's a dog eat dog world out there, make sure you stay abreast of the competition.
Tuesday 29 January 2013
Tools in Dubai and I don't mean hardware!
Why does Dubai attract so many tools? Or why do some nice, friendly blokes morph into tools when moving to Dubai, a bit like butterflies turning into caterpillars? I've ranted enough about the Expat Wimmin, now it's time for a rant about the driving force behind them, the Expat Blokes.
Firstly, let me introduce you to the single expat man. Usually an Emirates pilot or 'something in construction', these exhibit their toolness by hitting on Filipina waitresses and using chat up lines banned in the UK like 'do you come here often'. They also target pissed-up blonde estate agents from the Antipodes and former Ryanair stewardesses from the Eastern Bloc. Eager to show off his new found Dubai wealth, he will go on and on and on about his favourite subjects- Barasti, work and himself of course. For those reading who don't know Dubai, Barasti is a cunty beach bar kind of thing which plays contrived techno beats and is populated by people who wouldn't even set foot in a Wetherspoons back home, never mind a nightclub. They dance in a style reminiscent of dads at a wedding bopping to Hi Ho Silver Lining. For some reason, they think clubbing at Barasti will make them a celebrity as a few shite DJs have been there and some of the local rags take pics of clubbers. I like to call the patrons of this crappy place 'Barastards'.
What do these expat studs wear? Their plumage is usually those awful espadrilles they call Toms which look like something from Shoe Express circa 1993, a T-shirt from some shop which sounds like a foreign name for Air Mail and either skinny jeans that indecently show the bollockular region or some 3/4 trousers. Hot.
The not so single expat man will either be a selfless, kind soul who is into family life and has genuinely come to Dubai to better his family's life, or a fat, arrogant Fanny Rat with an equally annoying wife- the textbook Expat Woman. Let's discuss the latter as it's more fun. He will also be an EmiRATs pilot or more recently, a SlyDubai one, or maybe 'something in banking'. He will flash his HSBC Premier card like some sort of access all fanny areas pass, even if it is just to buy a few tins of baked beans and a Peperami from Spinneys. When he is chatting up single stewardesses and other bored Expat Wimmin, he will flirt with the ugly ones all the more and win them over with some politically incorrect, possibly racist jokes about other nationalities in Dubai. Despite coming off as modern to strangers, he is in fact of a 1950s mentality and describes his wife as 'her indoors', treating her like some sort of baby making machine. On his day off, he will frequent somewhere called Hotel Moscow, his dumb wife believing it is a cultural exhibit on Communism when in reality, it's a whorehouse.
So ladies, take your pick! Which British Expat man are you gonna pull?
Firstly, let me introduce you to the single expat man. Usually an Emirates pilot or 'something in construction', these exhibit their toolness by hitting on Filipina waitresses and using chat up lines banned in the UK like 'do you come here often'. They also target pissed-up blonde estate agents from the Antipodes and former Ryanair stewardesses from the Eastern Bloc. Eager to show off his new found Dubai wealth, he will go on and on and on about his favourite subjects- Barasti, work and himself of course. For those reading who don't know Dubai, Barasti is a cunty beach bar kind of thing which plays contrived techno beats and is populated by people who wouldn't even set foot in a Wetherspoons back home, never mind a nightclub. They dance in a style reminiscent of dads at a wedding bopping to Hi Ho Silver Lining. For some reason, they think clubbing at Barasti will make them a celebrity as a few shite DJs have been there and some of the local rags take pics of clubbers. I like to call the patrons of this crappy place 'Barastards'.
What do these expat studs wear? Their plumage is usually those awful espadrilles they call Toms which look like something from Shoe Express circa 1993, a T-shirt from some shop which sounds like a foreign name for Air Mail and either skinny jeans that indecently show the bollockular region or some 3/4 trousers. Hot.
The not so single expat man will either be a selfless, kind soul who is into family life and has genuinely come to Dubai to better his family's life, or a fat, arrogant Fanny Rat with an equally annoying wife- the textbook Expat Woman. Let's discuss the latter as it's more fun. He will also be an EmiRATs pilot or more recently, a SlyDubai one, or maybe 'something in banking'. He will flash his HSBC Premier card like some sort of access all fanny areas pass, even if it is just to buy a few tins of baked beans and a Peperami from Spinneys. When he is chatting up single stewardesses and other bored Expat Wimmin, he will flirt with the ugly ones all the more and win them over with some politically incorrect, possibly racist jokes about other nationalities in Dubai. Despite coming off as modern to strangers, he is in fact of a 1950s mentality and describes his wife as 'her indoors', treating her like some sort of baby making machine. On his day off, he will frequent somewhere called Hotel Moscow, his dumb wife believing it is a cultural exhibit on Communism when in reality, it's a whorehouse.
So ladies, take your pick! Which British Expat man are you gonna pull?
The UAE- Cabin crew and PILF heaven and hell
Hi passengers! My next few posts are going to be taken from a blog I done whilst living in Dubai many moons ago. The UAE features quite heavily in crewlife due to it offering more opportunities than back home on the job front. It can be a great stepping stone for a pilot career and a new way of life for hosties too. However, it does have a dark side, the fake glamorous lifestyle causing people not only to live beyond their means, but develop a bitchy, arrogant streak. Here's a quick rundown of the airlines of the area:
Emirates- the main one. The one everyone's heard of. They swan around Dubai as if they own the place. Increasing number of Filipinas in the airline, after the pilots' bulging pay packets.
FlyDubai- the Easyjet of the UAE. British staff from crap airlines like Excel with a polyester uniform to match, plus lots of Indians. Flies to exotic destinations like Turkmenistan and Bangladesh.
Etihad- Abu Dhabi's airline, the UAE flag carrier. Crew are classier than Emirates and better behaved. Large amount of Northerners work here plus a few Eastern Europeans with a past history of Ryanair.
Air Arabia- The Jet2 of the region. Cabin crew from war torn countries. PILFs swarthy and hot.
Private companies- Amsterdam in the sky if you get my drift.
Emirates- the main one. The one everyone's heard of. They swan around Dubai as if they own the place. Increasing number of Filipinas in the airline, after the pilots' bulging pay packets.
FlyDubai- the Easyjet of the UAE. British staff from crap airlines like Excel with a polyester uniform to match, plus lots of Indians. Flies to exotic destinations like Turkmenistan and Bangladesh.
Etihad- Abu Dhabi's airline, the UAE flag carrier. Crew are classier than Emirates and better behaved. Large amount of Northerners work here plus a few Eastern Europeans with a past history of Ryanair.
Air Arabia- The Jet2 of the region. Cabin crew from war torn countries. PILFs swarthy and hot.
Private companies- Amsterdam in the sky if you get my drift.
Sunday 20 January 2013
Amsterdamaged
When someone mentions Amsterdam to you, what do you think? Tulip bulbs, the Dutch masters, peaceful bike rides down by the canal? Thought not, you filthy filthy individuals. My goodness, if I mentioned Anne Frank to you lot, you'd think it was rhyming slang for male masturbation! Today, I'm going to educate you about people who fly to Amsterdam.
The Amsterdam flight differs depending on where you're flying to and what day of the week. Weekdays are the quietest time, especially early morning. Businessmen are the most common species seen, plus the odd school party going to visit Anne Frank's house. Nothing to report. A nice, civilised uneventful flight. However, evenings and weekends are manic.
Amsterdam is a diverse city full of dykes and bikes. A cultural melting pot of working girls from the Ukraine and 'grafters' from Liverpool, Amsterdam has something for everyone. Let me introduce you to the passengers on my plane.
The shifty solo traveller- British, travelling alone, looking awkward, mid 20s, dressed in chav leisurewear, this person is probably a dealer or a smuggler. He or she will use a fear of flying the 25 minute flight as a cover up for their real fear- getting a cavity search from a large-handed Dutchman on arrival!
The Businessman- I have spoken at length about Mr Businessman. A reasonable looking man in his 40s, he will always make an impulse duty free perfume purchase on the inbound flight. I mean proper perfume, none of this J-Lo and Kylie shite. He's doing a bad job of covering his guilt, you see. Us hosties can smell his fingers. He has been enjoying the sights of Amsterdam with his cock out. In the words of Amy Winehouse, he had no time for regrets, kept his dick wet. The only tulips from Amsterdam he has seen is 'two lips' of a cheap brass in a window clamped round his manhood. Cunt.
The brass- Yes, our airlines transport working girls too. Scary to think that some of the budgets thrive on people trafficking! Some hoes are independent women though, think Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Mostly Eastern European, they often fly in their work gear, thigh high boots and those crappy denim skirts that were popular in 2001. Sometimes they're old, their Botoxed faces and obscene boob jobs reminiscent of one of those souvenir aprons from Benidorm contradicting their turkey necks. Brasses often spend a lot of money on duty free make up and that perfume that most people wouldn't wear as it 'smells like a tart's handbag'.
The pimp- Wherever there are pros and dealers, pimps aren't too far behind. Leather jackets, nasty gold jewellery and hair gel, pimps are often well behaved passengers as they don't want to draw too much attention to themselves. In fact, they only identify themselves as pimps when they make their sneaky business-related phone call before take off!
The Amsterdam flight differs depending on where you're flying to and what day of the week. Weekdays are the quietest time, especially early morning. Businessmen are the most common species seen, plus the odd school party going to visit Anne Frank's house. Nothing to report. A nice, civilised uneventful flight. However, evenings and weekends are manic.
Amsterdam is a diverse city full of dykes and bikes. A cultural melting pot of working girls from the Ukraine and 'grafters' from Liverpool, Amsterdam has something for everyone. Let me introduce you to the passengers on my plane.
The shifty solo traveller- British, travelling alone, looking awkward, mid 20s, dressed in chav leisurewear, this person is probably a dealer or a smuggler. He or she will use a fear of flying the 25 minute flight as a cover up for their real fear- getting a cavity search from a large-handed Dutchman on arrival!
The Businessman- I have spoken at length about Mr Businessman. A reasonable looking man in his 40s, he will always make an impulse duty free perfume purchase on the inbound flight. I mean proper perfume, none of this J-Lo and Kylie shite. He's doing a bad job of covering his guilt, you see. Us hosties can smell his fingers. He has been enjoying the sights of Amsterdam with his cock out. In the words of Amy Winehouse, he had no time for regrets, kept his dick wet. The only tulips from Amsterdam he has seen is 'two lips' of a cheap brass in a window clamped round his manhood. Cunt.
The brass- Yes, our airlines transport working girls too. Scary to think that some of the budgets thrive on people trafficking! Some hoes are independent women though, think Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Mostly Eastern European, they often fly in their work gear, thigh high boots and those crappy denim skirts that were popular in 2001. Sometimes they're old, their Botoxed faces and obscene boob jobs reminiscent of one of those souvenir aprons from Benidorm contradicting their turkey necks. Brasses often spend a lot of money on duty free make up and that perfume that most people wouldn't wear as it 'smells like a tart's handbag'.
The pimp- Wherever there are pros and dealers, pimps aren't too far behind. Leather jackets, nasty gold jewellery and hair gel, pimps are often well behaved passengers as they don't want to draw too much attention to themselves. In fact, they only identify themselves as pimps when they make their sneaky business-related phone call before take off!
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