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
Saturday 22 June 2013
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.
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