Happy New Year my passengers currently suffering on a retrofitted 777 with no legroom and a big cheery wave to all those sitting in a £150 business class seat on a blacklisted airline! Today’s topic that we are going to mass debate (fnarrr) is are PILFs damaging their rep by making themselves Instafamous?
..... coming soon.....
Sunday, 7 January 2018
Friday, 1 September 2017
TV Review- Easyjet Inside The Cockpit
Good evening everyone, yes even you, the deportee sitting in the last row of economy! I have been convinced to come out of my self imposed retirement by all my die hard Flooz fans as they all want to know my view on that new Sleazyjet programme. Excuse the typos in advance, I'm composing this review on the toilet of a Flybe Dash 8.
Easyjet are getting a hard time by the press and public as usual along with 99.9% of other airlines in the world, usually because someone called Chantelle has lost her Tyler's Trunki, or Demi-Rose and Mason are going on a 'babymoon' whatever that means and are suing the airline for gastroenteritis as they sharted during their holiday. Chavs and their compo claims will never change.
So, when I saw Easyjet were making a new docusoap, I was praying for sonething similar to the previous one involving French blokes in shit clothes brawling with check in staff about missed connections or Scousers on a stag party dressed as Borat. Then I heard it was about Flight Deck and my excitement turned to another kind of excitement. I was hoping for PILFs, fit hot aviators of the sky. I prepared for this beanflicker of a series but alas, Id have been better watching Fake Taxi.
5 minutes into the show, it felt like I was watching an episode of the inbetweeners, I gleefully expected them to say Plane Wanker or Bumder. The pilots were all a bit on the young side for me, the training captain was a bit of a silver fox but still no eye candy. The whole show reeked of political correctness and positive gender discrimination. Since I started flying, the whole calibre of PILF seems to have gone from dashing airmen to a bunch of mockney wankers using Daddy's money to go to CTC who do the PA in the style of Parklife 'welcome on board flight 69 to Amsterdam gets intimidated by the pigeons, they love a bit of it Parklife!' or scruffy Northerners who use regional dialect and get words mixed up despite being native speakers of English. I flew with one Yorkshireman who said Australia is in the Anti Podes instead of the proper 'antipodees' pronunciation, and An-car-a in Turkey. The Polish cleaners at Gatwick should take over PA duties. We have a lot of female pilots making their way in the horny skies now too, but although I am for women in aviation, I don't believe that companies like EasyJet should turn down a man for a role in favour of a woman just so they look positively discriminatory. Equal rights mean equal chances at jobs-that is true gender equality, not these bollocks female pilot initiatives that Sleazyjet are going on about.
The programme did nothing to persuade me to book with Sleazyjet and when the so-called eye candy of the flight deck was going on about Tinder, I got excited and thought maybe Easyjet had dragged itself into the 21st century amd put wifi on the planes. No chance. Poor sod didn’t even have a layover to up his online dating game and from the image he portayed of himself would probably get cockblocked by a baggage handler should he go on the pull in the Northern Quarter. The cabin crew left a lot to be desired too, the senior looked about 12 (what’s the female equivalent of saying his balls haven’t dropped yet?) and bizarrely the juniors looked as if they still remember BOAC. After about 10 minutes, I got bored with this televisual plug for Sleazy and longed for the days of Celeb Air (shite airline related reality show with Lisa off Steps in) and the fake PILF episodes of Corrie from 1998.
To summarise:
1) low cost airlines’ PILFs have to pay to come to work. Fake Taxi would be a better career move.
2) TV no longer has decent docusoaps. We will never have a Jane McDonald or a Just Cook Will Ya chef again.
3) UK airlines no longer have quality PILFage. Emirates it is or maybe even IranAir.
Easyjet are getting a hard time by the press and public as usual along with 99.9% of other airlines in the world, usually because someone called Chantelle has lost her Tyler's Trunki, or Demi-Rose and Mason are going on a 'babymoon' whatever that means and are suing the airline for gastroenteritis as they sharted during their holiday. Chavs and their compo claims will never change.
So, when I saw Easyjet were making a new docusoap, I was praying for sonething similar to the previous one involving French blokes in shit clothes brawling with check in staff about missed connections or Scousers on a stag party dressed as Borat. Then I heard it was about Flight Deck and my excitement turned to another kind of excitement. I was hoping for PILFs, fit hot aviators of the sky. I prepared for this beanflicker of a series but alas, Id have been better watching Fake Taxi.
5 minutes into the show, it felt like I was watching an episode of the inbetweeners, I gleefully expected them to say Plane Wanker or Bumder. The pilots were all a bit on the young side for me, the training captain was a bit of a silver fox but still no eye candy. The whole show reeked of political correctness and positive gender discrimination. Since I started flying, the whole calibre of PILF seems to have gone from dashing airmen to a bunch of mockney wankers using Daddy's money to go to CTC who do the PA in the style of Parklife 'welcome on board flight 69 to Amsterdam gets intimidated by the pigeons, they love a bit of it Parklife!' or scruffy Northerners who use regional dialect and get words mixed up despite being native speakers of English. I flew with one Yorkshireman who said Australia is in the Anti Podes instead of the proper 'antipodees' pronunciation, and An-car-a in Turkey. The Polish cleaners at Gatwick should take over PA duties. We have a lot of female pilots making their way in the horny skies now too, but although I am for women in aviation, I don't believe that companies like EasyJet should turn down a man for a role in favour of a woman just so they look positively discriminatory. Equal rights mean equal chances at jobs-that is true gender equality, not these bollocks female pilot initiatives that Sleazyjet are going on about.
The programme did nothing to persuade me to book with Sleazyjet and when the so-called eye candy of the flight deck was going on about Tinder, I got excited and thought maybe Easyjet had dragged itself into the 21st century amd put wifi on the planes. No chance. Poor sod didn’t even have a layover to up his online dating game and from the image he portayed of himself would probably get cockblocked by a baggage handler should he go on the pull in the Northern Quarter. The cabin crew left a lot to be desired too, the senior looked about 12 (what’s the female equivalent of saying his balls haven’t dropped yet?) and bizarrely the juniors looked as if they still remember BOAC. After about 10 minutes, I got bored with this televisual plug for Sleazy and longed for the days of Celeb Air (shite airline related reality show with Lisa off Steps in) and the fake PILF episodes of Corrie from 1998.
To summarise:
1) low cost airlines’ PILFs have to pay to come to work. Fake Taxi would be a better career move.
2) TV no longer has decent docusoaps. We will never have a Jane McDonald or a Just Cook Will Ya chef again.
3) UK airlines no longer have quality PILFage. Emirates it is or maybe even IranAir.
Monday, 17 August 2015
TOWIE slapper embarrassed of MILE HIGH role!
Hi to my Croc wearing economy passengers and a big wave to all my business class pax wearing their onesies chilling on their flatbeds! Hope the summer's treating you well and you haven't all been brawling in Benidorm in a traditional British Pub, arguing for a free £5 roast dinner in an intellectual quiz about Corrie.
Back in 2003 or so (showing my age now aren't I) all hot hosties and PILFs used to tune in to a really badly acted TV show called Mile High. Full of in jokes about #crewlife and bad set design (I think the aircraft was an Airbus 737) the only people who watched it who didn't work in the airline were probably bachelors and teenage lads who were in a steady relationship with Madam Palm and her 5 daughters. It was full of busty babes, soap rejects, gay hunks and the odd silver fox PILF (the main PILF was even called Nigel!)
The main point of this blog is to point out that a member of crap TV show TOWIE, Lauren Pope was in this with her jugs out on a plane wing. Back in the day before the only way is implants, she was just a lowly tit model and Mile High was her biggest claim to fame. Now, she has gone all uppity and if anyone mentions it on her Instagram, she deletes their comment instantly and blocks the person (me included!) Even if people aren't trolling her but complimenting her on her norks, she goes into PMT mode on a blocking spree. But why is she so paranoid about it? Is it because she has her thruppenys out? Is it because in the show she claims they're natural? Is it because she wants people to think she was plucked from obscurity to be in TOWIE? Or is it because it may be proof she is lying about her age and is really pushing 40? Either way, she looked fit in Mile High and didn't have that sense of shit don't stink that she does now. Here's a YouTube vid for your perusal anyway! Enjoy.
Credit to www.scenebabe.com for the vid.
CLICK HERE
Back in 2003 or so (showing my age now aren't I) all hot hosties and PILFs used to tune in to a really badly acted TV show called Mile High. Full of in jokes about #crewlife and bad set design (I think the aircraft was an Airbus 737) the only people who watched it who didn't work in the airline were probably bachelors and teenage lads who were in a steady relationship with Madam Palm and her 5 daughters. It was full of busty babes, soap rejects, gay hunks and the odd silver fox PILF (the main PILF was even called Nigel!)
The main point of this blog is to point out that a member of crap TV show TOWIE, Lauren Pope was in this with her jugs out on a plane wing. Back in the day before the only way is implants, she was just a lowly tit model and Mile High was her biggest claim to fame. Now, she has gone all uppity and if anyone mentions it on her Instagram, she deletes their comment instantly and blocks the person (me included!) Even if people aren't trolling her but complimenting her on her norks, she goes into PMT mode on a blocking spree. But why is she so paranoid about it? Is it because she has her thruppenys out? Is it because in the show she claims they're natural? Is it because she wants people to think she was plucked from obscurity to be in TOWIE? Or is it because it may be proof she is lying about her age and is really pushing 40? Either way, she looked fit in Mile High and didn't have that sense of shit don't stink that she does now. Here's a YouTube vid for your perusal anyway! Enjoy.
Credit to www.scenebabe.com for the vid.
CLICK HERE
Friday, 10 April 2015
Reservations Agent Wankers
Buenos dias my dear readers! How is Summer treating you? Are you soaking up the local culture in Benidorm in Paddy O'Leary's Irish bar, eating the traditional cuisine of Yorkshire Pudding, partaking in a traditional Catalonian quiz night of Only Fools and Horses quotes? Thought so you bunch of chavs. Today's blog is a behind the scenes look at a select group of wankers on £15k a year (but they get 20% off on Upper Crust in Manchester Airport so they keep reminding us) . Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Reservations Call Centre Agents! You ever booked a ticket to Manchester and ended up in Manchester, New Hampshire, USA and wondered why you can't get Lancashire hot pot or spot a Corrie star? You ever wanted to fly to Dublin and spoke to soneone who didn't understand your accent and ended up with a pot luck trip to Durban or Dubai? These are the tosspots in question.
Before anyone gets offended by this post, this is a job I have done and actually quite enjoyed, and 99.9% of the people were nice too, in fact I'll go as far to say it's the most unpretentious, fun office I've ever worked in. It's outside the office where the wankerishness occurs though.
There are 2 areas for reservations agents to display tool traits in the manner of a peacock spreading its tail to pull a peahen. The first is on social networking sites (as per), the second is of course the airport.
Social network is the breeding ground of lunacy and tool behaviour. Whether it's some slag wanting to show off her Jeremy Kyle baby with the tagline 'feeling blessed' next to it or someone trying to earn sympathy likes like some slag saying her Jeremy Kyle baby's dad didn't get it a birthday card, Fakebook is one way of losing friends and influencing people to laugh at you. On Fakebook, they will act all mysterious about their role, leading people on to think they're a pilot for Ryanair or a trolley dolly for Emirates. Job title- 'works for an airline'. Status updates 'dead after working nights', 'flight delays don't you just hate them', 'woo discount at the airport #perksofthejob'. On Twatter they will hashtag #avgeek to try and get in with plane spotters. They will even have the audacity to set up a Pprune account, out of their depth amongst PILFs and blokes called Nigel. This mediocre job is their passport to a perceived glamorous life.
At the airport, the desperation really comes out. Like a scrawny blackbird fighting over chips with a pack of angry seagulls, the reservations agent wanker is really struggling. No longer hiding behind his computer but faced with being bottom of the list of the ID90 travel, even below the first officer's grandma, he/she is getting agitated, their power slipping. They wave their works ID in the face of everyone in the airport but they all know it's a blag airside pass and doesn't have the same magical qualities. When Mr Reservations gets denied boarding for his cheapo flight, he manages to find time in between ranting on Facebook to go to Costa Coffee and wave his ID at the surly Polish bird serving to get his 20p off his coffee.
To summarise:
1) Book flights online so you don't have to speak to these people
2) If you work in Costa, spit in their drinks
3) Even the baggage handlers have a more glam life
Before anyone gets offended by this post, this is a job I have done and actually quite enjoyed, and 99.9% of the people were nice too, in fact I'll go as far to say it's the most unpretentious, fun office I've ever worked in. It's outside the office where the wankerishness occurs though.
There are 2 areas for reservations agents to display tool traits in the manner of a peacock spreading its tail to pull a peahen. The first is on social networking sites (as per), the second is of course the airport.
Social network is the breeding ground of lunacy and tool behaviour. Whether it's some slag wanting to show off her Jeremy Kyle baby with the tagline 'feeling blessed' next to it or someone trying to earn sympathy likes like some slag saying her Jeremy Kyle baby's dad didn't get it a birthday card, Fakebook is one way of losing friends and influencing people to laugh at you. On Fakebook, they will act all mysterious about their role, leading people on to think they're a pilot for Ryanair or a trolley dolly for Emirates. Job title- 'works for an airline'. Status updates 'dead after working nights', 'flight delays don't you just hate them', 'woo discount at the airport #perksofthejob'. On Twatter they will hashtag #avgeek to try and get in with plane spotters. They will even have the audacity to set up a Pprune account, out of their depth amongst PILFs and blokes called Nigel. This mediocre job is their passport to a perceived glamorous life.
At the airport, the desperation really comes out. Like a scrawny blackbird fighting over chips with a pack of angry seagulls, the reservations agent wanker is really struggling. No longer hiding behind his computer but faced with being bottom of the list of the ID90 travel, even below the first officer's grandma, he/she is getting agitated, their power slipping. They wave their works ID in the face of everyone in the airport but they all know it's a blag airside pass and doesn't have the same magical qualities. When Mr Reservations gets denied boarding for his cheapo flight, he manages to find time in between ranting on Facebook to go to Costa Coffee and wave his ID at the surly Polish bird serving to get his 20p off his coffee.
To summarise:
1) Book flights online so you don't have to speak to these people
2) If you work in Costa, spit in their drinks
3) Even the baggage handlers have a more glam life
Monday, 23 March 2015
British Airways- what a DUMP your planes are
Long time no see passengers! Just when you thought it was safe to fly again without fear of being judged for your Primark hand luggage or the correct etiquette for sick at usage, I appear again like an ill timed turtle's head! I've lost interest in blogging so frequently lately but a shocking news item has made me pick up my iPad again and air my views.
This month has witnessed one of the biggest mysteries in the history of aviation and it happened in European airspace on a British registered aircraft. 2014's Malaysia incident has paled into insignificance and passengers are now on red alert, worried the same fate will befall them. It's rather unnerving when the flight deck inform you there's a suspect package on board, toxic fumes filling the cabin. It's also a right pain in the arse when your holiday gets delayed due to it, could this airline be any shittier or are they just spouting the usual crap as an excuse, you wonder. God knows what it says in the captain's log about this event.
However, you can't help but empathise with the poor bloke (or woman) who has made headline news because of this event and has decided to remain anonymous. This passenger has been both vilified and labelled a top lad by social media and international press but cannot bask in his or her fame due to an angry lynch mob of Dubai bound passengers turning up on his doorstep, not to mention the fact he could become a social outcast, tainted for life due to the fact that his shite wouldn't flush away properly. Some internet trolls are blaming a Tory MP for dropping his smelly kids off at the pool as he was the first to tweet about it, it could be true as the saying goes 'whoever smelt it dealt it'. Never has the world been kept in suspense this much since Stig blew his cover in Top Gear.
A big round of applause for the man whose bowels turned round an entire plane, the man who unwittingly gave the world of aviation a bit of light relief from terrorist threats, crashes and bomb scares. It's not often that a cancelled flight can make the world smile and become a trending topic on Twitter. Let's just hope BA compensate their pax and don't dismiss it as an Act of God.
This month has witnessed one of the biggest mysteries in the history of aviation and it happened in European airspace on a British registered aircraft. 2014's Malaysia incident has paled into insignificance and passengers are now on red alert, worried the same fate will befall them. It's rather unnerving when the flight deck inform you there's a suspect package on board, toxic fumes filling the cabin. It's also a right pain in the arse when your holiday gets delayed due to it, could this airline be any shittier or are they just spouting the usual crap as an excuse, you wonder. God knows what it says in the captain's log about this event.
However, you can't help but empathise with the poor bloke (or woman) who has made headline news because of this event and has decided to remain anonymous. This passenger has been both vilified and labelled a top lad by social media and international press but cannot bask in his or her fame due to an angry lynch mob of Dubai bound passengers turning up on his doorstep, not to mention the fact he could become a social outcast, tainted for life due to the fact that his shite wouldn't flush away properly. Some internet trolls are blaming a Tory MP for dropping his smelly kids off at the pool as he was the first to tweet about it, it could be true as the saying goes 'whoever smelt it dealt it'. Never has the world been kept in suspense this much since Stig blew his cover in Top Gear.
A big round of applause for the man whose bowels turned round an entire plane, the man who unwittingly gave the world of aviation a bit of light relief from terrorist threats, crashes and bomb scares. It's not often that a cancelled flight can make the world smile and become a trending topic on Twitter. Let's just hope BA compensate their pax and don't dismiss it as an Act of God.
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
Why are airport shops so shite?
A big ALRITE MATE you bunch of common, human cattle Ryanair cheapskates! How is the summer treating you? How many brats have you tried to kill for running over your feet with a Trunki? How many poncy students from down South have you tutted at in Upper Crust at the airport for holding up the queue asking for discount? Today's lecture is about airport shopping.
No matter what country you're in and whether you're travelling in First with Emirates or sitting on the shitter on Sleazyjet, we are all equals when it comes to the shite being flogged to us. You'd think the introduction of the Euro in 2002, the drop in costs of air travel and Tony Bliar giving the go ahead in 1997 to end intracontinental duty free would have put a stop to airport shopping. No, it just got out if control! Duty Free within Europe may have ended, but chavs started going to Shaaaarm and Orlandur , benefit claims and credit card limits increased and people basically became greedy gits. Take a look at any airport in the UK and even the world and the same shite is getting peddled. Let me start with one for you fat bastards.
Chocolate
Have you ever got to an airport or on board a plane and said to your mate 'Ey, do you know what I'm craving right now? A 500g bar of Toblerone!' Me neither. Why do airports feel the need to sell these bars that break your teeth, don't even taste nice unless you're Swiss (and that lot like shitting on each other and killing their grannies so I wouldn't trust their tastebuds), and why do you need half a kilo of the stuff? Most people think perfume, fags and ale when it comes to airports, not Toblerones.
Shortbread
Another one like the Toblerone, something that is in abundance on planes, airports and executive lounges. Why? Is the CEO of Walkers Shortbread shagging Willie Walsh or something? Nothing says First Class travel more than a glass of champagne, some foie gras and a packet of fucking shortbread with NOT FOR RESALE emblazoned on it. Why on earth would you come back from a week in Dubai and think 'oh Ill get me ma a tin of Scottish shortbread to remind her of my trip to Arabia.' Shortbread needs to be limited to the Christmas cupboard next to the eggnog that gets wheeled out when the relatives you dont like come round.
Swarovski
God I hate this kitsch, faux-classy jewellery. It looks the type of idiotic, childlike shite that a 60 year old from Bolton would buy his 18 year old mail order bride to give a pretend image of youth. Swarovski necklaces have a cheap looking leather chain on that is reminiscent of 1990s boyband jewellery and has a charm on like a cat's head or a bunch of grapes in Swarovski crystal. It screams 'my missus isnt worth diamonds but I cant be arsed standing in the queue for the lucky lucky man so Ill meet her halfway'. The Swarovski pen is sold on most aircraft too and is a popular gift for businessmen getting their other halves a guilt present after sticky fingers in Amsterdam. Crew get them for their not so loved ones too.
Suitcases
Why oh why would you buy a suitcase airside? Yes, Manchester airport, why do you continue to sell these in Terminal 1 when that space could be put to good use like installing a few extra bogs.
Radley bags
Girls, I love a nice handbag but one with a Scottie dog hanging off? I don't care if it's tax free, it looks like something a catwoman would carry. I bet you bring your own teabags on board too.
Posers' corner
That area in WH Smiths that have destination-based novels and is always full of Tarquins reading not buying. You know, those off to Thailand will stand there and read The Beach and those on a Greek island hop will feign interest in Captain Corelli's banjo string or whatever it was called. The Beindorm lot just read Take A Break. Nobody buys these books! That's why theyre all in the second hand shop next to the vuvuzelas and the Spanish dolls.
Airport Set
Cabin crew and child haters will know this one. The little 10 piece airport set you can buy on most airlines and duty free shops that has a noisy plane with flashing lights. The brats are usually in possession of a Trunkie too. The plane gets turned on, lights blazing for the first half of the flight and ends up tripping you up when you get up to go the bog. Also, the other bits of the airport set get neglected and you always end up crushing the air traffic controller under your foot which starts the brat off crying and its parents giving you evils. Why do they make this shite?
To summarise:
1.Toblerones taste vile
2. If you've got a Swarovski pen, your hubby has played away
3. Radley bags are as bad as Crocs
No matter what country you're in and whether you're travelling in First with Emirates or sitting on the shitter on Sleazyjet, we are all equals when it comes to the shite being flogged to us. You'd think the introduction of the Euro in 2002, the drop in costs of air travel and Tony Bliar giving the go ahead in 1997 to end intracontinental duty free would have put a stop to airport shopping. No, it just got out if control! Duty Free within Europe may have ended, but chavs started going to Shaaaarm and Orlandur , benefit claims and credit card limits increased and people basically became greedy gits. Take a look at any airport in the UK and even the world and the same shite is getting peddled. Let me start with one for you fat bastards.
Chocolate
Have you ever got to an airport or on board a plane and said to your mate 'Ey, do you know what I'm craving right now? A 500g bar of Toblerone!' Me neither. Why do airports feel the need to sell these bars that break your teeth, don't even taste nice unless you're Swiss (and that lot like shitting on each other and killing their grannies so I wouldn't trust their tastebuds), and why do you need half a kilo of the stuff? Most people think perfume, fags and ale when it comes to airports, not Toblerones.
Shortbread
Another one like the Toblerone, something that is in abundance on planes, airports and executive lounges. Why? Is the CEO of Walkers Shortbread shagging Willie Walsh or something? Nothing says First Class travel more than a glass of champagne, some foie gras and a packet of fucking shortbread with NOT FOR RESALE emblazoned on it. Why on earth would you come back from a week in Dubai and think 'oh Ill get me ma a tin of Scottish shortbread to remind her of my trip to Arabia.' Shortbread needs to be limited to the Christmas cupboard next to the eggnog that gets wheeled out when the relatives you dont like come round.
Swarovski
God I hate this kitsch, faux-classy jewellery. It looks the type of idiotic, childlike shite that a 60 year old from Bolton would buy his 18 year old mail order bride to give a pretend image of youth. Swarovski necklaces have a cheap looking leather chain on that is reminiscent of 1990s boyband jewellery and has a charm on like a cat's head or a bunch of grapes in Swarovski crystal. It screams 'my missus isnt worth diamonds but I cant be arsed standing in the queue for the lucky lucky man so Ill meet her halfway'. The Swarovski pen is sold on most aircraft too and is a popular gift for businessmen getting their other halves a guilt present after sticky fingers in Amsterdam. Crew get them for their not so loved ones too.
Suitcases
Why oh why would you buy a suitcase airside? Yes, Manchester airport, why do you continue to sell these in Terminal 1 when that space could be put to good use like installing a few extra bogs.
Radley bags
Girls, I love a nice handbag but one with a Scottie dog hanging off? I don't care if it's tax free, it looks like something a catwoman would carry. I bet you bring your own teabags on board too.
Posers' corner
That area in WH Smiths that have destination-based novels and is always full of Tarquins reading not buying. You know, those off to Thailand will stand there and read The Beach and those on a Greek island hop will feign interest in Captain Corelli's banjo string or whatever it was called. The Beindorm lot just read Take A Break. Nobody buys these books! That's why theyre all in the second hand shop next to the vuvuzelas and the Spanish dolls.
Airport Set
Cabin crew and child haters will know this one. The little 10 piece airport set you can buy on most airlines and duty free shops that has a noisy plane with flashing lights. The brats are usually in possession of a Trunkie too. The plane gets turned on, lights blazing for the first half of the flight and ends up tripping you up when you get up to go the bog. Also, the other bits of the airport set get neglected and you always end up crushing the air traffic controller under your foot which starts the brat off crying and its parents giving you evils. Why do they make this shite?
To summarise:
1.Toblerones taste vile
2. If you've got a Swarovski pen, your hubby has played away
3. Radley bags are as bad as Crocs
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
Foreign Totty
Greetings you bunch of full cavity search loving masochists! Holiday season is upon us so let's discuss fit people from all round the globe. We have already discussed Amsterdam working girls and Turkish romeos getting romanced by HRT fuelled widows so let's see what other natural beauty the world has to offer. If you think I'll be discussing Niagara Falls and the Colossus of Rome, you obviously made a typo and should be on the Lonely Planet homepage instead. I'm talking the real natural beauties like sultry Latina babes with big arses, Italian stallions managing to pull off a Man Bag, dashing Arabs in full robe and swarthy English lads from Salford in trackies (err maybe not).
So let us begin with North America. Some of you girls get a right bean-on seeing Canadian Mounties, you sure wanna mount them but that's all I can say about Canada. The country bores me a bit, I was in Toronto the other year and no deposits were made in my female wankbank, I was still relying on a 2011 pic of the Dubai Aquarium to flick my bean over. No you sick bastards, I dont fancy sharks, it was a sneaky shot I took of a load of local men admiring the chameleon. So on to the good old US of A, a popular destination with our Chubby Chasers. Extension seatbelts in economy plus at the ready lads!
South America is a favourite with the gays. For some reason, ever since Ricky Martin came out, the floodgates have opened, poppers are getting popped and all the European twinks are heading over to re-enact the human centipede on the beaches of Brazil. The world cup is a perfect opportunity for my gay stewards to combine Latin passion with the grit of Triga Films (if you dont know what Triga is, get off this blog and read House Beautiful magazine instead).
Africa is a continent of heat, danger and variation, a bit like the menopausal, hormone fuelled women from Nottingham who go there in search of toyboys. Let us start with North Africa. Women of a certain vintage have a fond memory of films like Lawrence of Arabia and ever since their female icon Lady Di shagged Dildo Al Fayed on his yacht in 1997, theyve always wanted to score with an Arabian. Too fat, old and not blonde enough to cop off with one of the Gulf lot, they try and pull the bargain bucket reject ones in Morocco and Tunisia, a bit like Deirdre in Corrie. Those who like their men like their coffee, hot, strong and black tend to head further south like the Gambia for toyboy marriage. It is estimated that middle aged women marrying toyboys since the advent of budget airlines has caused an increase in Home Office and border control jobs by 200% .
Europe is the best place for talent spotting. Those kinky so and so's love Holland, Germany and Belgium to indulge in watersports. At my previous airline, my German air hosts loved nothing better than being trussed up in a makeshift dungeon in the basement of a block of flats in East Berlin and having root vegetables shoved up their arse. Even some of the flightdeck loved getting pissed on by some six foot Teutonic bird with no tits and hairy pits. The sooner we leave the EU the better I say. Let's get back to classic British pursuits like Dogging in time to the Benny Hill theme. Oh I forgot, I'm meant to be talking about fit countries. Germany-ugly. Eastern Europe- fit birds, blokes like bulldogs licking piss off a nettle. Central Europe- body of baywatch face of crimewatch. Southern Mediterranean- up North look like pasty Shetland ponies, down South fit Mateo off Benidorm and Shakira lookalikes. Holiday resorts- ugly inbreds from South Yorkshire and for this reason your airlines give you a free pair of Beer Goggles in addition to your luggage allowance.
Dubai- Russian whores, British Z- list fuckwits with fake boobs like Peter Andre, fit local lads with pure tents in their robes.
Thailand- no fit people but freaks of nature who can write Happy Birthday simply by using their sphincter muscles and an Argos biro.
So people, the world is your oyster! Columbus was so wrong when he said the world was round. It is in fact flat in parts like a German's ballbag and voluptuous in others like a Brazilian's arse.
To summarise:
1. Germans are dirty bastards
2. Lady Di is solely responsible for all the illegals doing bogus marriages
3. The recent world cup was merely a front to host a gay human centipede on the beaches of Brazil
So let us begin with North America. Some of you girls get a right bean-on seeing Canadian Mounties, you sure wanna mount them but that's all I can say about Canada. The country bores me a bit, I was in Toronto the other year and no deposits were made in my female wankbank, I was still relying on a 2011 pic of the Dubai Aquarium to flick my bean over. No you sick bastards, I dont fancy sharks, it was a sneaky shot I took of a load of local men admiring the chameleon. So on to the good old US of A, a popular destination with our Chubby Chasers. Extension seatbelts in economy plus at the ready lads!
South America is a favourite with the gays. For some reason, ever since Ricky Martin came out, the floodgates have opened, poppers are getting popped and all the European twinks are heading over to re-enact the human centipede on the beaches of Brazil. The world cup is a perfect opportunity for my gay stewards to combine Latin passion with the grit of Triga Films (if you dont know what Triga is, get off this blog and read House Beautiful magazine instead).
Africa is a continent of heat, danger and variation, a bit like the menopausal, hormone fuelled women from Nottingham who go there in search of toyboys. Let us start with North Africa. Women of a certain vintage have a fond memory of films like Lawrence of Arabia and ever since their female icon Lady Di shagged Dildo Al Fayed on his yacht in 1997, theyve always wanted to score with an Arabian. Too fat, old and not blonde enough to cop off with one of the Gulf lot, they try and pull the bargain bucket reject ones in Morocco and Tunisia, a bit like Deirdre in Corrie. Those who like their men like their coffee, hot, strong and black tend to head further south like the Gambia for toyboy marriage. It is estimated that middle aged women marrying toyboys since the advent of budget airlines has caused an increase in Home Office and border control jobs by 200% .
Europe is the best place for talent spotting. Those kinky so and so's love Holland, Germany and Belgium to indulge in watersports. At my previous airline, my German air hosts loved nothing better than being trussed up in a makeshift dungeon in the basement of a block of flats in East Berlin and having root vegetables shoved up their arse. Even some of the flightdeck loved getting pissed on by some six foot Teutonic bird with no tits and hairy pits. The sooner we leave the EU the better I say. Let's get back to classic British pursuits like Dogging in time to the Benny Hill theme. Oh I forgot, I'm meant to be talking about fit countries. Germany-ugly. Eastern Europe- fit birds, blokes like bulldogs licking piss off a nettle. Central Europe- body of baywatch face of crimewatch. Southern Mediterranean- up North look like pasty Shetland ponies, down South fit Mateo off Benidorm and Shakira lookalikes. Holiday resorts- ugly inbreds from South Yorkshire and for this reason your airlines give you a free pair of Beer Goggles in addition to your luggage allowance.
Dubai- Russian whores, British Z- list fuckwits with fake boobs like Peter Andre, fit local lads with pure tents in their robes.
Thailand- no fit people but freaks of nature who can write Happy Birthday simply by using their sphincter muscles and an Argos biro.
So people, the world is your oyster! Columbus was so wrong when he said the world was round. It is in fact flat in parts like a German's ballbag and voluptuous in others like a Brazilian's arse.
To summarise:
1. Germans are dirty bastards
2. Lady Di is solely responsible for all the illegals doing bogus marriages
3. The recent world cup was merely a front to host a gay human centipede on the beaches of Brazil
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
Etihad = Sketihad
I've been doing some covert research again lately as I had a day off work and I wanted something to laugh at. At the end of 2013, I had a mad idea in my head that I wanted to move back to the UAE and decided to apply for Etihad as cabin crew. My intentions weren't just about you my dear readers- I was thinking about the local scenery. I knew I wouldn't stand a chance at passing the medical and I'd shit myself if they asked me to jump into 10 feet of water fully clothed and pull up a colleague on the life raft so I decided to go along to the assessment day just in case other, ground-based opportunities were mentioned and if any local men were there for me to ogle. You see, 2013 was the year I became single again after leaving the waste of space chav in PILFs clothing and had a brief romance with a UAE national- but that's another blog. Trust me, proper top shelf Ann Summers reading. I expected Etihad would be the passport to fit foreign men on tap and possible mile high scenarios like this pic:
I had never seen so many commoners in all my life. This is how the day started.
9am- Hilton Hotel at Manc Airport. I stayed the night as good cabin crew always come early (PILFs shouldn't though, you understand.)Always be prepared, read up on the airline you're going to be working for and stand out in a good way. Some of these bints looked an absolute show. About 100 girls and 2 blokes (awww they were doing it for the puh-sayyy) were standing round the hotel reception and there was no sense of organisation whatsoever. They looked starstruck as if they were looking for Simon Cowell to make them the next Leona, eagerly fiddling with their name badges. These birds were less X-Factor and more floptastic Fame Academy though. Some of them had made no effort whatsoever. Like the Thomson interview I spied on, kitten heels seemed to be a running theme amongst the Yorkshire lasses. I even saw one Polish tart WITH THE PRICE LABELS ON UNDER HER SHOES!!! Good job I was short sighted as I might have groaned, cringed and maybe puked if I had seen it was a Deichmann label.
Stay tuned for the rest......... I'll write the rest when I stop getting images of polyester bodycon suits and cheap shoes out of my head.
But of course I am a lot slimmer than her and wouldn't have my hair ragged back in a bun. Anyway, from what I witnessed at my Etihad interview, it looked more like this:
I had never seen so many commoners in all my life. This is how the day started.
9am- Hilton Hotel at Manc Airport. I stayed the night as good cabin crew always come early (PILFs shouldn't though, you understand.)Always be prepared, read up on the airline you're going to be working for and stand out in a good way. Some of these bints looked an absolute show. About 100 girls and 2 blokes (awww they were doing it for the puh-sayyy) were standing round the hotel reception and there was no sense of organisation whatsoever. They looked starstruck as if they were looking for Simon Cowell to make them the next Leona, eagerly fiddling with their name badges. These birds were less X-Factor and more floptastic Fame Academy though. Some of them had made no effort whatsoever. Like the Thomson interview I spied on, kitten heels seemed to be a running theme amongst the Yorkshire lasses. I even saw one Polish tart WITH THE PRICE LABELS ON UNDER HER SHOES!!! Good job I was short sighted as I might have groaned, cringed and maybe puked if I had seen it was a Deichmann label.
Stay tuned for the rest......... I'll write the rest when I stop getting images of polyester bodycon suits and cheap shoes out of my head.
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
Economy Plus tossers
Hi passengers! After being suspended from Twitter yet again (think it's because I told the Prince of Dubai he was a permanent fixture in my wankbank but am waiting for Twitter to confirm this, those dumbass Yanks probably don't know what like a like wankbank is like y'all.) I am going to be blogging a lot more now about the issues that affect me and my fellow passengers. Really hard hitting issues like should fat bastards be allowed on planes, should female pilots be allowed to fly on routes with single female girls wanting to cop off with a pilot and is it mandatory that Faro passengers are all ugly twats who have the complexion of a golf ball? Today's hot topic is Economy Plus tossers. If you're of that unfortunate generation of youngsters who only know budget airlines, you won't understand this post.
Most 'proper' airlines offer something called economy plus which is basically the gooch of business and economy class. If you don't know what a gooch is, then go and read a travelogue from a twatty Daily Mail reporter instead. Economy plus is cheaper than business but has more legroom than economy and maybe an extra snack thrown in which leads us to our first Economy Plus twat....
The Foxtrot Bravo
Airline staff know that is the not so secretive codename we give to our lardy passengers, short for Fat Barsteward. Most Foxtrot Bravos live off benefits and tend not to have the wardrobe, the job or the overdraft to pay for business class so they will go for Eco Plus to get that much coveted extra legroom and seat width of course- most fatties suffer bagpeel, their overweight ballbags sticking to the side of the thigh in the style of a cardboard Vienetta box sticking to a poorly maintained freezer and needing to be ripped right off. Fat birds always have those massive norks and don't know what a brassiere is so the extra width of the seat will stop them swinging into the passenger next to them like a wibbly wobbly wrecking ball. There is also a bit extra food on there too. I discovered this when I flew economy plus as I used to be married to a right gobshite who paid for economy plus. He comes into our next category...
Small Man Syndrome
I have nothing against small men as height isn't the first thing I notice when I look at him- fitness is an attitude, a complete package you see- but my ex-husband had a bad case of small man syndrome. He was 5'8 which I don't think is small at all, but it bothered him to the point that he would lie on medical forms about his size and buy trousers too big for him which would be trailing the floor! He also complained about the legroom on most flights and insisted on Economy Plus as a way of asserting his 'manhood'. He couldn't afford the big car, so Eco Plus it had to be instead. Small Man Syndrome sufferers usually are a trolley dolly's worst nightmare too- they tend to pick on the smaller, younger hosties and call them bitches, constantly sending drinks back and pressing that damn callbell. They are the ones who do the check in staff's head in too, demanding the exit row or an aisle seat as 'I am sooo tall and I get cramp in my legs' and when this tactic fails, they use the old 'weak bladder' excuse as 'I am constantly needing the toilet and don't want to disturb my fellow passengers'. Yawn.
Nouveau Riche Chav wannabe
Eco Plus is full of chavs, for some inexplicable reason this is always on Vuuuurgin flights from Manchestuurrr to Orlanduuurrr and are mainly from Sauff Yaaarkshuurr. They probably have decided to upgrade as they have just cashed their sovereigns in on Cash for Gold or sent a load of 90s trance CDs to Music Magpie or their relative has invented yet another fake illness to sue their former employer at the mines/steelworks/biscuit factory. They want to show their bumpkin mates and 'those posh cunts from darn Sarf' that Yaarkshire folk are just as good as everyone else and wear their wealth by wearing their tracksuits to fly Eco Plus. Needless to say, they make the most of the free flowing ale on board. Chantelle, Tyler and Keeley are all rat arsed before they're out of UK airspace!
To summarise:
1. If you can't extend your penis, go Economy Plus
2. Yorkshire people call Orlando Orlandurrr
3. The Prince of Dubai is frigging fit
Most 'proper' airlines offer something called economy plus which is basically the gooch of business and economy class. If you don't know what a gooch is, then go and read a travelogue from a twatty Daily Mail reporter instead. Economy plus is cheaper than business but has more legroom than economy and maybe an extra snack thrown in which leads us to our first Economy Plus twat....
The Foxtrot Bravo
Airline staff know that is the not so secretive codename we give to our lardy passengers, short for Fat Barsteward. Most Foxtrot Bravos live off benefits and tend not to have the wardrobe, the job or the overdraft to pay for business class so they will go for Eco Plus to get that much coveted extra legroom and seat width of course- most fatties suffer bagpeel, their overweight ballbags sticking to the side of the thigh in the style of a cardboard Vienetta box sticking to a poorly maintained freezer and needing to be ripped right off. Fat birds always have those massive norks and don't know what a brassiere is so the extra width of the seat will stop them swinging into the passenger next to them like a wibbly wobbly wrecking ball. There is also a bit extra food on there too. I discovered this when I flew economy plus as I used to be married to a right gobshite who paid for economy plus. He comes into our next category...
Small Man Syndrome
I have nothing against small men as height isn't the first thing I notice when I look at him- fitness is an attitude, a complete package you see- but my ex-husband had a bad case of small man syndrome. He was 5'8 which I don't think is small at all, but it bothered him to the point that he would lie on medical forms about his size and buy trousers too big for him which would be trailing the floor! He also complained about the legroom on most flights and insisted on Economy Plus as a way of asserting his 'manhood'. He couldn't afford the big car, so Eco Plus it had to be instead. Small Man Syndrome sufferers usually are a trolley dolly's worst nightmare too- they tend to pick on the smaller, younger hosties and call them bitches, constantly sending drinks back and pressing that damn callbell. They are the ones who do the check in staff's head in too, demanding the exit row or an aisle seat as 'I am sooo tall and I get cramp in my legs' and when this tactic fails, they use the old 'weak bladder' excuse as 'I am constantly needing the toilet and don't want to disturb my fellow passengers'. Yawn.
Nouveau Riche Chav wannabe
Eco Plus is full of chavs, for some inexplicable reason this is always on Vuuuurgin flights from Manchestuurrr to Orlanduuurrr and are mainly from Sauff Yaaarkshuurr. They probably have decided to upgrade as they have just cashed their sovereigns in on Cash for Gold or sent a load of 90s trance CDs to Music Magpie or their relative has invented yet another fake illness to sue their former employer at the mines/steelworks/biscuit factory. They want to show their bumpkin mates and 'those posh cunts from darn Sarf' that Yaarkshire folk are just as good as everyone else and wear their wealth by wearing their tracksuits to fly Eco Plus. Needless to say, they make the most of the free flowing ale on board. Chantelle, Tyler and Keeley are all rat arsed before they're out of UK airspace!
To summarise:
1. If you can't extend your penis, go Economy Plus
2. Yorkshire people call Orlando Orlandurrr
3. The Prince of Dubai is frigging fit
Friday, 3 January 2014
Thick cunts and practical jokes
Practical jokes are one thing that can make a working day go so much quicker, especially if the joke is on a thick new colleague! Flying is no different to any other job, we LOVE practical jokes here, unless you work for Lufthansa or Flybe that is, where the joke is looking back in the mirror at you. Here are some of our faves:
The Long Stand- an oldie but a goodie. I can't believe people still fall for it, so it's best playing it on some wet behind the ears 20 year old or someone who speaks English as a second language. Rumour has it that a planeload of passengers missed their flight because the pilot never came back after his long stand. I'm not going to describe what happens in a long stand, because if you need that explaining to you, then you are a fucking hopeless bastard.
Petrol Points- The pilot will give the new cabin crew his BP points card and tell her to tell the refueller to add some points to it. Yes, the thick twats fall for it every time.
Safety Demo- the perfect opportunity to make a show of someone in front of a planeload of people. Fill their lifejacket with sugar or drink stirrers. Stick a page 3 girl inside the safety card for the plane to ogle/laugh at. Put something foul smelling in the oxygen mask. Put glue in the seatbelt so the poor twat cannot open it, looking like a right awkward numpty.
Locking someone in the bog- When your new recruit is doing the toilet check or on the toilet, lock them in by lifting up the flap that says 'lavatory' on the door and putting a 1 euro coin in the lock. They can't get out, no matter how hard they try!!! It's funny!!
Posh wank- fill a condom with liquid soap, leave it in the toilet and send them in to do a toilet check
Napkin Service- give a dopey looking new recruit a load of napkins and a pair of tongs and tell her to give each passenger a napkin before landing. She'll love this if it's a budget airline, she'll think she's been promoted to Emirates!
The Long Stand- an oldie but a goodie. I can't believe people still fall for it, so it's best playing it on some wet behind the ears 20 year old or someone who speaks English as a second language. Rumour has it that a planeload of passengers missed their flight because the pilot never came back after his long stand. I'm not going to describe what happens in a long stand, because if you need that explaining to you, then you are a fucking hopeless bastard.
Petrol Points- The pilot will give the new cabin crew his BP points card and tell her to tell the refueller to add some points to it. Yes, the thick twats fall for it every time.
Safety Demo- the perfect opportunity to make a show of someone in front of a planeload of people. Fill their lifejacket with sugar or drink stirrers. Stick a page 3 girl inside the safety card for the plane to ogle/laugh at. Put something foul smelling in the oxygen mask. Put glue in the seatbelt so the poor twat cannot open it, looking like a right awkward numpty.
Locking someone in the bog- When your new recruit is doing the toilet check or on the toilet, lock them in by lifting up the flap that says 'lavatory' on the door and putting a 1 euro coin in the lock. They can't get out, no matter how hard they try!!! It's funny!!
Posh wank- fill a condom with liquid soap, leave it in the toilet and send them in to do a toilet check
Napkin Service- give a dopey looking new recruit a load of napkins and a pair of tongs and tell her to give each passenger a napkin before landing. She'll love this if it's a budget airline, she'll think she's been promoted to Emirates!
Female Pilots
Hi passengers! Long time no see- I've been a bit quiet of late and you've probably been waiting longer for me to post than a young Flight Deck Floozie waits for her Viagra-induced sugar daddy to shoot his load! Anyway, a lot of my male passengers have been asking me one of life's mysterious questions- what are female pilots like? Are they as randy as male pilots or are they a bunch of Clare Balding body doubles?
Like real pilots (sorry, I was a 1950s man of the house there for a bit) and air hostesses, female pilots have different breeds too. Let us begin with the obvious one...
The Female PILF
The female PILF is a right little minx. Usually blonde, British and horsey posh or curvaceous Latina, the female PILF confuses both lads and girls with her mix of beauty and brains. She is Barbie in a man's world. Don't be fooled though, some of them can be right slags but get away with it thanks to their high salary (they ain't no golddiggers) and their combination of posh accent and intellect. Put it this way, you'd never hear a female PILF speaking South Yaaarkshire while watching TOWIE. These broads get their kicks by prickteasing the straight male air hosts, sending out the wrong signals and humiliating the poor bastards behind their backs, telling Base Captain Nigel and her male colleagues the shite chat up lines they come out with. As IF a female pilot would date someone in an orange uniform called Wayne from Bishops Stortford or some other shithole.
The Aviator
This female pilot is a figure to be respected. Never one to talk about her personal life, the Aviator is strictly that. Her first love is planes and people usually assume she is of the lesbian variety but she keeps her cards close to her chest. The conversation is strictly work work work but will play hard with the rest of the crew downroute. A great shoulder to cry on and will always stand up for you and the rest of the crew, the Aviator is the female pilot to admire.
The Token One
All employers deny it, but of course they have to stick to a quota of employing certain minority groups otherwise they'll get their arse sued. In this case, the minority group in question is the ladies. The Token One is usually a mediocre to shit pilot and if it were a man, she'd be sacked on the spot for her conduct. A bad team player (unless the team are men), ditzy and always moaning about that time of the month, The Token One is prone to pulling sickies and barely gets dragged into the office as 'she knows her rights'. She's the one who uses the autopilot to land. Believe me, I've been sat in the back and got my dinner all over me on landing thanks to that cow.
The Butch One
Yes, that old stereotype. There are butch female pilots to complement the dainty air hosts. A winning team. The Butch One is a great mate for lecherous old captains as they can discuss booze and birds together and can drink even the roughest, Yorkshirest Jet2 baggage handler under the table. They're damn good pilots too!
So to summarise:
1. Female pilots can be flight deck floozies too and have probably all joined the mile high club
2. Female pilots are real pilots too and don't have to make the tea and coffee for the captain
3. Yorkshire people are rough and don't tend to work as pilots
Like real pilots (sorry, I was a 1950s man of the house there for a bit) and air hostesses, female pilots have different breeds too. Let us begin with the obvious one...
The Female PILF
The female PILF is a right little minx. Usually blonde, British and horsey posh or curvaceous Latina, the female PILF confuses both lads and girls with her mix of beauty and brains. She is Barbie in a man's world. Don't be fooled though, some of them can be right slags but get away with it thanks to their high salary (they ain't no golddiggers) and their combination of posh accent and intellect. Put it this way, you'd never hear a female PILF speaking South Yaaarkshire while watching TOWIE. These broads get their kicks by prickteasing the straight male air hosts, sending out the wrong signals and humiliating the poor bastards behind their backs, telling Base Captain Nigel and her male colleagues the shite chat up lines they come out with. As IF a female pilot would date someone in an orange uniform called Wayne from Bishops Stortford or some other shithole.
The Aviator
This female pilot is a figure to be respected. Never one to talk about her personal life, the Aviator is strictly that. Her first love is planes and people usually assume she is of the lesbian variety but she keeps her cards close to her chest. The conversation is strictly work work work but will play hard with the rest of the crew downroute. A great shoulder to cry on and will always stand up for you and the rest of the crew, the Aviator is the female pilot to admire.
The Token One
All employers deny it, but of course they have to stick to a quota of employing certain minority groups otherwise they'll get their arse sued. In this case, the minority group in question is the ladies. The Token One is usually a mediocre to shit pilot and if it were a man, she'd be sacked on the spot for her conduct. A bad team player (unless the team are men), ditzy and always moaning about that time of the month, The Token One is prone to pulling sickies and barely gets dragged into the office as 'she knows her rights'. She's the one who uses the autopilot to land. Believe me, I've been sat in the back and got my dinner all over me on landing thanks to that cow.
The Butch One
Yes, that old stereotype. There are butch female pilots to complement the dainty air hosts. A winning team. The Butch One is a great mate for lecherous old captains as they can discuss booze and birds together and can drink even the roughest, Yorkshirest Jet2 baggage handler under the table. They're damn good pilots too!
So to summarise:
1. Female pilots can be flight deck floozies too and have probably all joined the mile high club
2. Female pilots are real pilots too and don't have to make the tea and coffee for the captain
3. Yorkshire people are rough and don't tend to work as pilots
Saturday, 5 October 2013
Big Bags of Sweets
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!
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!
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?
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