Fly me a-quiver

Regular readers of my blog will know that I get a fair amount of material out of criticising the UK’s public transport system. All four of you will also, by now, have realised that I quite enjoy moaning about things in general, so it may come as quite a shock to read this particular post, which will be both upbeat in tone, AND complimentary about a certain British transport company. General humanity will reel in their seats when they discover the company I’m talking about is Ryan Air.

Have I taken leave of my senses? Part of the experience of taking a Ryan Air flight is to then moan about the experience of taking a Ryan Air flight, advising everyone you ever known never to take a Ryan Air flight ever again, until of course you take another Ryan Air flight. It has always been this way.

But, over the course of the past six months, I’ve developed a… fondness, shall we say, for this no-frills, no-thrills (please, no thrills) budget airline, which has freighted (and frightened) me a total of twelve successful* journeys in the last half-year.

Let me go back and explain.

I hate flying. Always have. I find it akin to my hatred and fear of the dentist, and in fact the two experiences are not dissimilar. You are led into a cramped, fearful waiting room. You’re then strapped into an inadequately proportioned chair for a human being, subjected to an array of alarming noises, at which point you close your eyes, wrench your hands, and wait for it all to be over. At various points throughout the procedure you will be offered an array of unappealing items to go in your mouth, and for the pleasure of the whole experience you will be charged an inordinate sum of money. The only plus point to flying is that it’s generally a bit warmer when you get out.

But last year Ben was offered some work in Barcelona, and so I had a choice: stay at home and quietly seethe at his Instagram account, or undertake regular hops over the Pyrenees to join in the Catalunyan capers. I chose the latter, and since October last year have travelled about 11,000 miles, spent close to 260 hours in the sky, and approximately £690 on departure lounge Prosecco.

For I now have a routine. I never realised before that there is actually a way to travel successfully, by airplane – even Ryan Air. First you have to choose the right flight. Don’t fly too early. There’s nothing classy about swigging a can of Heineken (to calm the nerves) on the 8.52 Stansted Express, even if you are in good company with at least half of the commuters changing at Audley End.

Better to wait until the airport and chug back a breakfast bellini with a round of avocado on toast, before hitting up HEMA for all your stroopwaffle essentials whilst waiting for your Gate to be called. Then, depending on your Gate number (and if you’re flying with our Irish friends be prepared for a good walk as you find yourself pretty much back on a layby of the M11 where they’ve parked the plane), you’ve just time for a swift wee and another cheeky glass of the fizzy stuff as you wait for the departure board to turn from green to red. Why those people patiently wait in line for a pre-booked seat, only to patiently wait in the pre-booked seat for those not in line, I will never understand. Ok, so sometimes you have to surrender your hand luggage to the hold if you’re last on, but seeing as all I need from my hold bag is money (for booze) and tissues (for crying) this has never particularly bothered me.

As you board it’s important to take a quick glance into the cockpit to reassure yourself there are two vaguely competent people at the flight deck, who at least look old enough to hold a driver’s licence, and aren’t visibly sweating. Then it’s a quick clamber into your chosen seat (12A, in case you’re wondering), and after a panicked rummage in pockets for sweets for take-off, the flight begins.

And this is where I actually love Ryan Air, because for the next two hours you’re so distracted by their relentless tactics to extract money from their passengers (seven different methods at the last count), by the time you touch down at the other end you barely realise you’ve been in the air. Well of course that’s not true, but what with the hot meals and the cold drinks, and the scratch cards and the donations to charity, and the unintentionally comical mispronunciations of safety information by the supposedly bilingual flight attendants, there’s barely enough time to worry about a slow and terrifying pirouette into the Pyrenees, with your last thought being “I paid £10.99 to do this.”

So, thank you Ryan Air, for your safe, efficient and ‘everyone-is-equal’ (i.e. we all get stiffed in the same way) approach to transportation, and I will be using your services in the future (not least because there is little other choice between the two airports). But, I must say this – I will not clap. I don’t get it. Much as I don’t understand people who clap in cinemas (the Spanish, and the over-enthusiastic), I don’t see why passengers clap a safe and healthy landing. That’s what’s supposed to happen. It’s essentially what you paid for, and the triumphant cavalry call pumped through the speakers at the end of the flight (seemingly regardless of whether the flight is on time) is sufficient to announce that the show’s now over.

Well, ok. Maybe a little clap is deserved. As I disengage my seat belt, unclench my sweaty palms, and be thankful that I still have all my teeth, I might acknowledge the two clever souls in the front seats who’ve safely transported me home. But I’ll need to be pissed.

* Successful = I didn’t die.