The pilot eventually shut up, and we only had to sit on the tarmac for another ten minutes or so before he started driving over towards the runway. Of course, because we were so late taking off, we had missed our scheduled take-off window, and had to sit there watching all the other planes take off for sunnier climes before we were allowed go.
Finally, hurtling down the runway at over 100 miles an hour, I began to relax. I picked up my book and started reading. The sound of the wind rushing past drowned out the sounds of quiet chatter from the other passengers, and I snuggled down into my seat, delighting in the fact that for the next forty minutes or so, I could read uninterrupted.
And then the trolley dollies started making their announcements.
"Please remain seated... blah...."
"We will shortly begin our snack service.... blah blah....."
"We have a range of duty free..... blah blah blah....."
Of course, all announcements are made in some Eastern European accent which, I'm sorry to say, is difficult to understand at the best of time, let alone when it's at ear splitting volume. I've noticed that PA systems on airplanes have only two volumes - the barely audible mutter and the ear-bleed-inducing piercing screech. And the trolley dollies always seem to use the latter.
I always find it quite funny when you see these trolley dollies, on the short-haul flights, trying to flog as much booze/tea/coffee/sandwiches/snacks/duty-free as possible in thirty minutes. As soon as the plane is in the air, they're up out of their seats, getting their trollies ready. Then they whip up the aisles asking "Any drinks or snacks? Any drinks or snacks?" but not actually watching the passengers to see their reactions. I don't know how many times I've thought "Oh, I could murder a cup of tea and a Twix" and then tried, in vain, to get the dollies attention before they speed walk past my row. I've only ever managed to catch the guy's attention once. I've since given up.
Incidentally, the 'hot' drink selection only has two options also - it's always either luke warm or scalding. Anyway, if they do deign to look at you, as soon as they've handed you the cup, they're on their way back down the aisle, clearing up as "We're now ready for landing." So you have to neck back the scalding cup of tea whilst the trolley dolly stands beside you, tapping her foot with impatience, waiting for you to hand her your empty cup. But, wait! Before we land we'd like to offer you a chance to purchase some of our fantastic duty-free perfumes or booze, or maybe you'd like a scratch card? There's plenty of time for that! Ever heard a north-Dublin trolley dolly trying to sell J-Lo's new perfume? No? It's worth taking a trip on Ryanair for that alone.
Let's hope her salary isn't commission based.
But I digress.
The pilot, in fairness to him, made up some of the lost time and the flight only took about 40 minutes in total. Before long, we were beginning our descent into Southampton. The descent was surprisingly smooth, considering the massive thunder and lightening storms around the whole of Southampton. So I was really, really surprised when the pilot then whalloped the plane down onto the tarmac. I'm sure it must have been his first time landing a plane. There's no other excuse for such recklessness. I could have done it better myself, and I'm a girl! All around us, people gasped and gripped their arms rests with white knuckles, and I'm not ashamed to say I was doing the same. That was one of the worst landings I've experienced in a while.
Is it just me, or have airlines decided not to bother training their pilots how land airplanes anymore?
Anyhoo, two days later, I'm back at the airport for my return flight. I got to the airport about two hours early, but figured I'd connect to the wireless network and waste some time on Myspace, have a beer, etc. Southampton airport is pretty small, and once you've checked in, the only place to go to is the departures lounge. There's not a whole lot else to do there.
So, I went through security with no problems (*gasp!* I know! But I never have any problems in S'ton! Weird, innit? Hmm...) and looked around for the wireless 'hot spot'. And there it was, upstairs, right below the huge glass skylights with the sun beaming down through them. Somebody really didn't think that through when designing the place.
"Let's see.... where could we put the computer corner? Oh, I know! Let's put it over here in direct sunlight so none of the nerds can see their laptop screens! What a great idea! And when they go to sit down, they'll scorch their cord-covered arses on the really hot metal seats! Hahahah, fuckin' nerds....!"
On second thoughts, perhaps they knew exactly what they were doing.
Anyway, before I got my computer all hooked up, I decided to get a beer as it was really hot that day, and the old air conditioning wasn't really up to much. I went upstairs to the restaurant-type place, and queued for about five minutes. When I got to the counter, I ordered my beer, which came to £3.80. I handed the lady my company credit card (natch) to pay for it, and she then informed me that there's a £4 minimum when paying with plastic. Why? There just is. But I'm only 20p under. Sorry, ma'am, no can do.
So I had to hold up the entire rest of the sweating, hungry, cranky queue whilst I searched for something to add to my beer to bring the total up to, or beyond, £4. Didn't feel like eating anything (remember kids, eating is cheating!), but eventually I found a bottle of water, paid for my drinks, and scurried away before anyone tried to poke me in the eye with a fork. Having thought about it, perhaps I should have just ordered another beer. Damnit brain!
The plane was only delayed by half an hour this time. My taxi driver only got lost twice on the way from the airport to my house. He insisted that he knew all these shortcuts, and I didn't complain as the taxi was paid for by the company. But I did get a bit pissed off when he, yet again, I told him to go straight on, but he insisted on taking a right as "it's waaaaaay quicker than going straight on". Then we'd get to a junction and he'd turn around, eyeball me impatiently and say "Well, where do I go now?" I swear, I was beginning to think the whole trip was one big Candid Camera set-up.
And, do you know what the best part of all of this is? Can you guess? Yep, I get to do it all over again next week! Woo hoo!
Ok, that's out of my system now. Regularly scheduled programming will resume tomorrow.
Showing posts with label flying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flying. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 August 2006
Tuesday, 1 August 2006
Heaving on a jet plane - Part II
Having survived the ritual humiliation of getting felt up by the butch female security guard, I now had to face the gut-wrenching wait for the muppets to announce which gate my flight would be leaving from. I hate this part because they usually only post up the gate number about 20 minutes before the plane is scheduled to leave, and then everyone rushes down to the gate and you end up standing there for ages and every time I swear to myself that I'm not going to do it, that this time I'm not going to run down there like a lunatic, and then every time I panic and think "If I don't run to Gate 11 this very minute, the plane will take off without me." Of course, it never does.
And then you spend the next forty minutes trying to surreptitiously shuffle closer and closer to the desk where they check your tickets so that you'll be the first on the plane as if it was some sort of prize; as if spending half an hour longer sitting in that cramped metal tube waiting for the rest of the morons to board was some sort of goal that leads to inner enlightenment once achieved.
Anyway, they announced the gate, and I dutifully trundled along with my fellow passengers. Luckily there weren't too many taking this flight, so there were plenty of seats to spare. The flight wasn't due to board for another five minutes or so, so I took a seat. And waited. And I waited a bit more. I took out my book and started distractedly flicking through it, thinking there's no point in getting stuck into it, as we'll be boarding any time soon.
Aaaaaaaaaany minute now.
Oooh! There's the trolley dolly, I mean, air hostess. We must be boarding soon.
Then I looked out the window and noticed that there was no airplane. And my heart sank. I understand that if you're going to pay budget prices for your flights then you have to expect budget services. But I am shit sick of waiting for the damn plane to show up. This seems to happen every time I fly on a low budget airline. And it's not as if the tickets are that cheap either! I was only flying to Southampton, but it still cost me (well, the company) almost £150. I'm tired of budget airlines thinking they can treat passengers like cattle just because we refuse to pay astronomical prices for the privilege of being given an actual seat number with a bigger airline. If your don't have the fleet numbers to be able to provide airplanes at the allotted time, then change your fucking timetable. If you only have three airplanes, and you're offering ten flights a day between London and Paris, then you really need to rethink your business plan.
Anyway, the trolley dolly announced that they were still waiting for the plane (duh) as it had been late taking off from its previous destination, and there would be a 15-minute delay (yeah right) and that they apologise sincerely for any inconvenience this might cause (uh huh, sure).
Then my boss arrived. I prayed to all the gods I could think of that, just this one time, they would grant me super-chameleon powers so I could blend in with the awful upholstery of the chair I was sitting on, so that he wouldn't see me and he'd walk on by. The gods did not look favourably upon me (I don't blame them, really. I'm not a very nice person). He came over and sat right beside me and, whilst trying to block out his noise, I stared daggers at the trolley dolly in a vain attempt to let her know that this is all her fault and, come judgment day, she'll be first against the wall.
The plane eventually arrived, only forty minutes after we were supposed to actually depart, which was about five minutes before we were due to land in Southampton, had everything gone to plan. We had to wait another twenty minutes or so for the arriving passengers to get off the plane, then for the pilot to have his regulation cup of tea, then for the throwers, I mean, 'baggage handlers' to load the luggage onto the plane, and then we were allowed to board.
When we were all settled and seat-buckled in, the pilot made an announcement over the PA, apologising for the delay but saying that it was due to a technical fault before they took off in Southampton. He then proceeded to describe said fault, in almost excruciating detail, which I find completely unnecessary. Again, this is something I find completely irrational in the wake of 9/11. Before the terrorist attacks in the USA, pilots would never discuss this kind of stuff.
They'd never tell you that the reason they were late taking off is because they had no power on the plane when they were on the ground in Southampton because they couldn't find a power cable to go into the ground and therefore couldn't switch the engines on, and when someone eventually found the power cable, they then realised that they had an electrical fault with some of the equipment in the cockpit and they had to wait for someone to find an engineer to take a look at it, and then when the engineer arrived he had to go off again to find some part to fix the problem. And all this had made them late taking off.
No, the pilot would never have told you that. He would have said that some passenger was too pissed to board, so they'd chucked him off and had to wait to find his bags in the cargo hold before they could depart. That's a nice, comfortable, safe lie.
This era of FTMFI (that's 'far too much fucking information' for those of you who don't deal in acronyms) is starting to carry over into other industries too. A few weeks ago, I was on the train to London and we had to stop for half an hour whilst the driver explained in minute detail why he couldn't continue on the track because someone had thrown something onto it, and then explained all the possible accident scenarios that could have happened, had he not stopped in time in front of this obstruction.
And I know why they do it too. They're just trying to pass the buck. They're ensuring that people know it's not their fault that the plane/train/whatever is late departing. They're doing all they can. In fact, if they could, they'd just pile everyone into their own car and drive us to our destination; that's how nice the pilot/driver is. But, you know, company regulations, blah blah blah. So, instead, here's a whole lot of technical info which proves that I'm not making this up and the situation really is out of my hands.
But, all that does is make me wonder, well, even if they do find a power cable and plug the plane in so he can start the engines, what happens when we take off? Is the cable long enough to make it to Southampton? How can they make power cables that long? What happens if it snaps? Or comes out of the ground? Is the pilot planning on freewheeling it all the way to the other end of the country? Those are not things I want to think about on an airplane. Neither do I want to start thinking about the 'real' electrical problems they're having in the cockpit (i.e., that the co-pilot has spilt her coffee all over the dials and they're currently arguing about the best way to remove it), and how that might possibly affect the functioning of the plane.
Too much information. We don't need it. Stop telling us that kind of stuff.
And then you spend the next forty minutes trying to surreptitiously shuffle closer and closer to the desk where they check your tickets so that you'll be the first on the plane as if it was some sort of prize; as if spending half an hour longer sitting in that cramped metal tube waiting for the rest of the morons to board was some sort of goal that leads to inner enlightenment once achieved.
Anyway, they announced the gate, and I dutifully trundled along with my fellow passengers. Luckily there weren't too many taking this flight, so there were plenty of seats to spare. The flight wasn't due to board for another five minutes or so, so I took a seat. And waited. And I waited a bit more. I took out my book and started distractedly flicking through it, thinking there's no point in getting stuck into it, as we'll be boarding any time soon.
Aaaaaaaaaany minute now.
Oooh! There's the trolley dolly, I mean, air hostess. We must be boarding soon.
Then I looked out the window and noticed that there was no airplane. And my heart sank. I understand that if you're going to pay budget prices for your flights then you have to expect budget services. But I am shit sick of waiting for the damn plane to show up. This seems to happen every time I fly on a low budget airline. And it's not as if the tickets are that cheap either! I was only flying to Southampton, but it still cost me (well, the company) almost £150. I'm tired of budget airlines thinking they can treat passengers like cattle just because we refuse to pay astronomical prices for the privilege of being given an actual seat number with a bigger airline. If your don't have the fleet numbers to be able to provide airplanes at the allotted time, then change your fucking timetable. If you only have three airplanes, and you're offering ten flights a day between London and Paris, then you really need to rethink your business plan.
Anyway, the trolley dolly announced that they were still waiting for the plane (duh) as it had been late taking off from its previous destination, and there would be a 15-minute delay (yeah right) and that they apologise sincerely for any inconvenience this might cause (uh huh, sure).
Then my boss arrived. I prayed to all the gods I could think of that, just this one time, they would grant me super-chameleon powers so I could blend in with the awful upholstery of the chair I was sitting on, so that he wouldn't see me and he'd walk on by. The gods did not look favourably upon me (I don't blame them, really. I'm not a very nice person). He came over and sat right beside me and, whilst trying to block out his noise, I stared daggers at the trolley dolly in a vain attempt to let her know that this is all her fault and, come judgment day, she'll be first against the wall.
The plane eventually arrived, only forty minutes after we were supposed to actually depart, which was about five minutes before we were due to land in Southampton, had everything gone to plan. We had to wait another twenty minutes or so for the arriving passengers to get off the plane, then for the pilot to have his regulation cup of tea, then for the throwers, I mean, 'baggage handlers' to load the luggage onto the plane, and then we were allowed to board.
When we were all settled and seat-buckled in, the pilot made an announcement over the PA, apologising for the delay but saying that it was due to a technical fault before they took off in Southampton. He then proceeded to describe said fault, in almost excruciating detail, which I find completely unnecessary. Again, this is something I find completely irrational in the wake of 9/11. Before the terrorist attacks in the USA, pilots would never discuss this kind of stuff.
They'd never tell you that the reason they were late taking off is because they had no power on the plane when they were on the ground in Southampton because they couldn't find a power cable to go into the ground and therefore couldn't switch the engines on, and when someone eventually found the power cable, they then realised that they had an electrical fault with some of the equipment in the cockpit and they had to wait for someone to find an engineer to take a look at it, and then when the engineer arrived he had to go off again to find some part to fix the problem. And all this had made them late taking off.
No, the pilot would never have told you that. He would have said that some passenger was too pissed to board, so they'd chucked him off and had to wait to find his bags in the cargo hold before they could depart. That's a nice, comfortable, safe lie.
This era of FTMFI (that's 'far too much fucking information' for those of you who don't deal in acronyms) is starting to carry over into other industries too. A few weeks ago, I was on the train to London and we had to stop for half an hour whilst the driver explained in minute detail why he couldn't continue on the track because someone had thrown something onto it, and then explained all the possible accident scenarios that could have happened, had he not stopped in time in front of this obstruction.
And I know why they do it too. They're just trying to pass the buck. They're ensuring that people know it's not their fault that the plane/train/whatever is late departing. They're doing all they can. In fact, if they could, they'd just pile everyone into their own car and drive us to our destination; that's how nice the pilot/driver is. But, you know, company regulations, blah blah blah. So, instead, here's a whole lot of technical info which proves that I'm not making this up and the situation really is out of my hands.
But, all that does is make me wonder, well, even if they do find a power cable and plug the plane in so he can start the engines, what happens when we take off? Is the cable long enough to make it to Southampton? How can they make power cables that long? What happens if it snaps? Or comes out of the ground? Is the pilot planning on freewheeling it all the way to the other end of the country? Those are not things I want to think about on an airplane. Neither do I want to start thinking about the 'real' electrical problems they're having in the cockpit (i.e., that the co-pilot has spilt her coffee all over the dials and they're currently arguing about the best way to remove it), and how that might possibly affect the functioning of the plane.
Too much information. We don't need it. Stop telling us that kind of stuff.
Sunday, 30 July 2006
Heaving on a jet plane - Part I
I hate airports with a passion. Because I live in foreign places, and because of my job, I travel quite a bit, and it seems like I'm in Manchester airport every other week. And I'm really beginning to loathe the place. The sooner they build some sort of teleportation device, the better, as far as I'm concerned. But that's another story.
Lately, my airport experiences have been unfavourable, to say the least. It's probably something to do with the fact that, now, I almost always expect the worst when I'm flying anywhere, but I think it's also something to do with the fact that airports are run by muppets. Complete and utter muppets.
It's funny (that's 'funny hysterical-verging-on-madness' rather than 'funny ha ha') because I'm not afraid of flying whatsoever. In my job, I know a little bit more about airplanes and how they work (and sometimes don't work) than the average person. I know what noises to listen out for during the flight, and how to tell if everything's going ok or if there might be a slight problem, etc. In this age of hyper-sensitivity regarding all things big and shiny and metal hurtling through the air at speeds upwards of 500mph, I'm quite comfortable with flying. It's definitely my preferred mode of transport, unless the alternative is a swanky BMW with a cooler full of beer. I love seeing the land spread out before me, marvelling at how tiny all the houses and fields are, watching the sun glinting off car windshields miles below, and then soaring above the cotton wool clouds, feeling as though the laws of physics and gravity do not apply. I love flying. It's the bits beforehand and afterwards that bother me.
Last week, I had to fly to Southampton for a couple of days work, and it was, without doubt, one of the worst trips I've ever been on. Things got off to a funky start in the taxi to Manchester airport. I hopped into the regulation Black Cab, and gave my destination to the driver. Before I could even sit down, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, throwing me backwards into my seat, and sped off towards the airport. At the first set of lights I was still adjusting myself, desperately trying to buckle my seatbelt and willing my heart rate to slow down, when the driver decided that some hardcore dance music was needed to liven up the trip, and turned the stereo up full blast. As both my eardrums simultaneously started to bleed, I tried to shout at the driver to please turn the music down, but, of course, he couldn't/wouldn't hear me, and so I had to endure "duf-duf-duf-duf" for the rest of the very long 20 minute journey.
We eventually got to the airport, and I practically fell out of the cab. My ears had that weird ringing/cotton wool sensation that makes you feel like you're really, really stoned. I wandered into the airport in a daze, and checked in for my flight. I have always found checking in for my flight in Manchester to be a doddle. I think they do it on purpose - make check-in as easy as physically possible in order to lull you into a false sense of security before you have to face the complete mindfuck that is running the security gauntlet before you can get to your gate.
The security area in Manchester airport must have been designed by an alcoholic with the DT's and not enough cash to buy chewing gum, let alone his next bottle of moonshine, and who wanted to inflict the same amount of pain and confusion on anyone able to afford to get this far in the airport. If you're travelling to anywhere in the UK, Channel Islands or Ireland, they have a separate 'fast channel' through which you can get your boarding card and passport checked and then you can go through to a separate X-ray machine, and basically you skip the huge queues of Mancs heading off to Torremolinos, or wherever. But, if the airport isn't particularly busy, then you all go through the same security machines. In theory, this is a good idea, and it usually works.
Anyhoo, so, I went off down this corridor, expecting to get through to the departure lounge fairly quickly, so I could get my caffeine fix smartish. I arrived at the end of the corridor only to find out that there was, unusually, a really long queue. This is because the muppet in charge of checking the passports, etc., was... well, he was being a muppet. He was pretty much going through everybody's passport, page-by-page, double checking the photographs, etc.
As an aside: I know 9/11 was an awful, awful event. I watched it live on TV. I saw the second plane hitting the WTC in real time, and it scared the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine how the people who were directly involved or who lost family members or friends must feel. But I have to say that airport security has gone to the point where it's ridiculous. And, what's worse is that it's not even consistent. One day, you might get strip searched even though you're only flying to Dublin. The next day, you could be flying to LA and they won't even glance at your luggage as it goes through the X-ray machine. That really annoys me.
Anyway, so there was this huge queue, and I looked over at the queue for the people flying to other destinations, and there were only about five people in it. So I thought what most normal people would think, which was "Why am I standing here waiting for Kermit the Frog to check my passport when I could get through security there in about 30 seconds?" We were all being directed to the same X-ray machines, so I didn't think it would be a problem. I went over to the other queue, waited behind the five people for my turn, got to the top of the queue and handed the lady my boarding card and passport. She looks at it and says "Oh no, you have to queue over there".
I said "But, that queue is really long, and we're all going through the same machines, so could you not just check my details here".
"No. You have to queue up over there."
"But I'm only going to Southampton. It's not like I'm flying to foreign places."
"No. Over there."
The woman had a head for slaps. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever for her to make me wait in the really long queue. There was no one behind me, so it's not like I was holding up other passengers. All she had to do was check my boarding card and passport, and she could have let me go through. But, because she's a bitch, and because it would require a small amount of thinking, she refused. I can't stand people who do this kind of thing. It reminds me of going into KFC or some other such fast food place once. I ordered a burger and fries. The girl asked me what drink I wanted. I told her I didn't want a drink. But... why not? She couldn't understand this. I said I don't like fizzy drinks, therefore I don't want one. But it only costs 1p more to get the drink. I don't care, I don't want a drink, I just want the burger and fries. At this point, the girl's head exploded. Moron. Life doesn't run according to the script! Get used to it! USE YOUR BRAIN!!!
*and breathe*
Anyhoo, so I queued for ages and Kermit eventually checked my details and let me through. Then the fun started. I put my bags through the X-ray machine, and then stepped through the metal detector. As per usual, the detector didn't beep because I had nothing metal in my pockets and, oh yeah, because I'm not a terrorist. But, every time I go through the metal detector in Manchester airport, they always call me over for a random search. I like to think it's because I'm so damn hot that the women can't wait to run their hands up and down my body, but in reality I know it's because I always look guilty and/or like I'm hiding something. I kid you not - every single time I go through security there, I get searched. Anyway, this 'lady' calls me over (I'm using quotes there because she was rough! I felt kind of dirty afterwards) and starts to feel me up. She spent a long time feeling my bra to check I didn't have a grenade or something hiding in there. She had me there for about two minutes and I swear I had bruises afterwards.
*shudder*
She eventually let me go, and I grabbed my bags and ran all the way to Starbucks for the precious rocket fuel, and finally began to relax. Then I remembered that my boss would be along soon, and I got all stressed out again. I swear I'm going to have a stomach ulcer before my contract is up in October.
Lately, my airport experiences have been unfavourable, to say the least. It's probably something to do with the fact that, now, I almost always expect the worst when I'm flying anywhere, but I think it's also something to do with the fact that airports are run by muppets. Complete and utter muppets.
It's funny (that's 'funny hysterical-verging-on-madness' rather than 'funny ha ha') because I'm not afraid of flying whatsoever. In my job, I know a little bit more about airplanes and how they work (and sometimes don't work) than the average person. I know what noises to listen out for during the flight, and how to tell if everything's going ok or if there might be a slight problem, etc. In this age of hyper-sensitivity regarding all things big and shiny and metal hurtling through the air at speeds upwards of 500mph, I'm quite comfortable with flying. It's definitely my preferred mode of transport, unless the alternative is a swanky BMW with a cooler full of beer. I love seeing the land spread out before me, marvelling at how tiny all the houses and fields are, watching the sun glinting off car windshields miles below, and then soaring above the cotton wool clouds, feeling as though the laws of physics and gravity do not apply. I love flying. It's the bits beforehand and afterwards that bother me.
Last week, I had to fly to Southampton for a couple of days work, and it was, without doubt, one of the worst trips I've ever been on. Things got off to a funky start in the taxi to Manchester airport. I hopped into the regulation Black Cab, and gave my destination to the driver. Before I could even sit down, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, throwing me backwards into my seat, and sped off towards the airport. At the first set of lights I was still adjusting myself, desperately trying to buckle my seatbelt and willing my heart rate to slow down, when the driver decided that some hardcore dance music was needed to liven up the trip, and turned the stereo up full blast. As both my eardrums simultaneously started to bleed, I tried to shout at the driver to please turn the music down, but, of course, he couldn't/wouldn't hear me, and so I had to endure "duf-duf-duf-duf" for the rest of the very long 20 minute journey.
We eventually got to the airport, and I practically fell out of the cab. My ears had that weird ringing/cotton wool sensation that makes you feel like you're really, really stoned. I wandered into the airport in a daze, and checked in for my flight. I have always found checking in for my flight in Manchester to be a doddle. I think they do it on purpose - make check-in as easy as physically possible in order to lull you into a false sense of security before you have to face the complete mindfuck that is running the security gauntlet before you can get to your gate.
The security area in Manchester airport must have been designed by an alcoholic with the DT's and not enough cash to buy chewing gum, let alone his next bottle of moonshine, and who wanted to inflict the same amount of pain and confusion on anyone able to afford to get this far in the airport. If you're travelling to anywhere in the UK, Channel Islands or Ireland, they have a separate 'fast channel' through which you can get your boarding card and passport checked and then you can go through to a separate X-ray machine, and basically you skip the huge queues of Mancs heading off to Torremolinos, or wherever. But, if the airport isn't particularly busy, then you all go through the same security machines. In theory, this is a good idea, and it usually works.
Anyhoo, so, I went off down this corridor, expecting to get through to the departure lounge fairly quickly, so I could get my caffeine fix smartish. I arrived at the end of the corridor only to find out that there was, unusually, a really long queue. This is because the muppet in charge of checking the passports, etc., was... well, he was being a muppet. He was pretty much going through everybody's passport, page-by-page, double checking the photographs, etc.
As an aside: I know 9/11 was an awful, awful event. I watched it live on TV. I saw the second plane hitting the WTC in real time, and it scared the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine how the people who were directly involved or who lost family members or friends must feel. But I have to say that airport security has gone to the point where it's ridiculous. And, what's worse is that it's not even consistent. One day, you might get strip searched even though you're only flying to Dublin. The next day, you could be flying to LA and they won't even glance at your luggage as it goes through the X-ray machine. That really annoys me.
Anyway, so there was this huge queue, and I looked over at the queue for the people flying to other destinations, and there were only about five people in it. So I thought what most normal people would think, which was "Why am I standing here waiting for Kermit the Frog to check my passport when I could get through security there in about 30 seconds?" We were all being directed to the same X-ray machines, so I didn't think it would be a problem. I went over to the other queue, waited behind the five people for my turn, got to the top of the queue and handed the lady my boarding card and passport. She looks at it and says "Oh no, you have to queue over there".
I said "But, that queue is really long, and we're all going through the same machines, so could you not just check my details here".
"No. You have to queue up over there."
"But I'm only going to Southampton. It's not like I'm flying to foreign places."
"No. Over there."
The woman had a head for slaps. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever for her to make me wait in the really long queue. There was no one behind me, so it's not like I was holding up other passengers. All she had to do was check my boarding card and passport, and she could have let me go through. But, because she's a bitch, and because it would require a small amount of thinking, she refused. I can't stand people who do this kind of thing. It reminds me of going into KFC or some other such fast food place once. I ordered a burger and fries. The girl asked me what drink I wanted. I told her I didn't want a drink. But... why not? She couldn't understand this. I said I don't like fizzy drinks, therefore I don't want one. But it only costs 1p more to get the drink. I don't care, I don't want a drink, I just want the burger and fries. At this point, the girl's head exploded. Moron. Life doesn't run according to the script! Get used to it! USE YOUR BRAIN!!!
*and breathe*
Anyhoo, so I queued for ages and Kermit eventually checked my details and let me through. Then the fun started. I put my bags through the X-ray machine, and then stepped through the metal detector. As per usual, the detector didn't beep because I had nothing metal in my pockets and, oh yeah, because I'm not a terrorist. But, every time I go through the metal detector in Manchester airport, they always call me over for a random search. I like to think it's because I'm so damn hot that the women can't wait to run their hands up and down my body, but in reality I know it's because I always look guilty and/or like I'm hiding something. I kid you not - every single time I go through security there, I get searched. Anyway, this 'lady' calls me over (I'm using quotes there because she was rough! I felt kind of dirty afterwards) and starts to feel me up. She spent a long time feeling my bra to check I didn't have a grenade or something hiding in there. She had me there for about two minutes and I swear I had bruises afterwards.
*shudder*
She eventually let me go, and I grabbed my bags and ran all the way to Starbucks for the precious rocket fuel, and finally began to relax. Then I remembered that my boss would be along soon, and I got all stressed out again. I swear I'm going to have a stomach ulcer before my contract is up in October.
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