Airline Etiquette, or; Give me a good seat or I'm hi-jacking this Mother to Cuba!

www.goodaboom.com


I have just returned from playing a Festival in Lubeck, Germany, which involved 4 flights in 28 hours, having to fly via Palma, Majorca from Mainland Spain.

Kicking my heels in any number of departure/waiting/transit/boredom lounges gave me time to ruminate on the modern torture that is air travel. I’ve broken it down into four main bones of contention:

1) Seat Allocation.

Nowadays, not a given, although it doesn’t prevent the mentally challenged myopic woman looking for seat number 236. I have lost count of the number of times the stewardess has to repeat “It’s just your allocation number, you can sit anywhere.”By the time the penny has dropped with these people, “anywhere” is usually in the cargo hold.Like a shining light, some economy airlines still offer you the opportunity to choose your seat, if you’re at the airport early enough. Like before you were born.

I selected an exit seat, needing the extra legroom. “Aisle or window?” I was politely asked. I opted for the aisle. I got the aisle, but not the exit. I attempted to dislocate my knees, so that I might insinuate myself into the miniscule gap between my seat and the one in front. Once wedged, I could observe the tide of humanity coming down the aisle. Which brings me to the next point;

2) Passengers from Hell.

There are a number of types you wish to avoid, but basically we can narrow it down to two.
1) Mother with screaming kids

2) Extremely large person

You definitely don’t want screaming kids near you. They don’t shut up. Ever. And the small ones don’t know how to compensate for the air pressure thing with the ears. It hurts. They don’t know what to do. They cry. You try and put them out of the emergency exit. It’s all very embarrassing.

A word to families with noisy and/or badly behaved kids; If you’re going on holiday- TAKE THE CAR.

Extremely large people can be a problem in several ways. If they sit next to you, your armrest becomes enveloped in the folds of their body. I once sat with such a person and they could only open their dinner tray to their chin. Still, I guess it was easier to sweep the food in…

The second hazard from extremely large people is the one I suffered at the weekend. They sit in front of you. They like to test the “springiness” of the seat, and, even before take-off, see how far it will recline.

NEWSFLASH: This seat is reclining nowhere buddy, my knees are nearly coming out of your face, and I might never walk again but you’re getting NO extra degrees on this angle!

3) The Terrorist Inspired Mini-Industry manufacturing little bottles and transparent bags.

Who said Al Qaeda doesn’t believe in Free Enterprise? Why, singlehandedly they have created a new market for stupidly tiny receptacles for a pointlessly infintessimal amount of hair gel/toothpaste/pile cream etc. Retailers have been quick to jump on the band wagon “catering to our needs” and lining their pockets. There’s even a vending machine at some airports selling empty plastic bags. Now that’s cutting edge commercialism…Oh, sorry, no it isn’t, It’s a bloody great rip-off, I was confused.

So, there we have it. If Mr and Mrs Grey Haired Anglo-Saxon retirement couple from Dorking want to blow up a plane they’ll only be able to take a hundred millilitres of each dangerous substance in a clear plastic bag, that virtually no-one looks at, so that’s all right then,. We’re all safe.

4) In Flight Food

So called because it’s quickly thrown back at the stewardesses.Most economy (i.e.crap) airlines now fail to provide any food unless you provide them with the deeds to your house, so I suppose I should be grateful that I got “food” at the weekend.

On the first flight, a bottle of water and some cheese “snacks”. On the second, a slice of reconstituted Turkey in a J cloth…no, sorry, it was bread. An easy mistake to make. And the Turkey looked like the nearest it had ever been to a bird was the woman who was serving it.

Of course, this freebie food is designed to make you clamour for their executive menu, where you can pay 10 euros for…well, pretty much the same thing, but with some sauce.

So there you have it. If you really need to fly, buy your own plane.

Wherefore art thou, weary traveller?

www.goodaboom.com

You may well ask...Indeed if you have been asking yourself what has happened to "Ten Weeks in a Box" Miki and I's Travel tale, it's just taking a short break, while Miki completes an important Art commission, but rest assured it will return next Monday, picking up where we left off in Derby.

In the meantime, why don't you pop on over to The Coffee Cup Club and join in with the conversation and maybe post an entry there yourself. Or, with Halloween coming up, why not scare yourself to death with my new tale for All Hallows Eve; "Pumpkin Number Six"? Its on my Muse on the Rock blog, where you can also find another couple of creepy tales!

That should keep you busy until our travel tales return......

Let's meet at the Coffee Cup Club!!

www.goodaboom.com



You know the feeling, you've been working hard, your back aches, your throat is parched.....what you need is a great cup of coffee!

Failing that, perhaps your water has gone off like ours recently, with the storms, or perhaps your kettle has been abducted by aliens. Either way, let me offer you an alternative.

A kettle, Pre-abduction today


Pop along to The Coffee Cup Club set up by Miki, where you can swap paintings, stories and sketches of your favourite coffee cup. It's a fun forum for artists and coffee drinkers alike!

Stop the Itinerary, I want to get off!

www.goodaboom.com


So, there we have it. Another weekend, another show, and, for me, another journey through the hell that is the gig itinerary. Firstly, a 5 a.m. get-up, followed by a 7.15 a.m. arrival at airport parking, and then check in for my 8.45 am flight for Hannover from Alicante. Did I say 8.45? I meant delayed. My flight was posted with a one and a half hour delay, but in the event proved to be a full two and a half hours late! I had my first train booked for 14.06, normally plenty of time, but no, it was not to be. Even a 2 hour delay would not have troubled me, but that extra thirty minutes was crucial. It sent my day into chaos. My train ticket was non-changeable, my card had maxed out and I was at the mercy of the train staff, as I attempted to negotiate the five trains across Germany to the backwater of Meuselbach-Schwarzmulle, or whatever the hell it was called. Something double-barrelled. Meuselbach Tyler-Moore probably. I began my train journeys only an hour behind schedule, immediately coming face to face with German bureaucracy, in the form of a disgruntled train guard (they’d been on strike that week) telling me I was on the wrong train, I was reserved on the earlier one. Tell me something I don’t know, Herr Konductor. I explained about my horrendous flight delay, but he just replied in clipped English; “That’s not my problem!” Not a good start, but I refrained from explaining my position with aid of a fist in his face and thankfully he stamped my ticket, albeit reluctantly. On my arrival in Gottingen, I discovered that the connections did not automatically follow my pre-arranged pattern hour for hour, so I had to get a revised itinerary, after talking nicely to the platform staff. This at least ensured that I would arrive at my destination, but now a full two hours later than planned. At least it gave me an hour to chill in Miki’s old University town of Gottingen. I had a hot brownie (is that legal?) with Ice-Cream in her honour. Well, that was my excuse anyway. Suffice to say, I reached the hotel at 20.30., ate and showered in thirty minutes flat, and was on my way to the gig with the guys at 9, having barely had time to say hello. We actually caught up on news during the gig. The saving grace of this debacle, as always, was the show. A packed marquee in the town square cheered and jumped up and down to our 75 minute set, which we delivered with a verve that belied our travels (The guys had not had an easy trip either)
I was really happy with the show. Amazingly, after 5 hours sleep and a 14 hour travel day, my voice held out, and I felt it was one of my best performances. A brief rest in the dressing room with multivitamin drinks, and a few autographs signed, it was back to the hotel for bed, grabbing scant hours of precious sleep before yet again embarking on another train marathon. Eight trains today, beginning with breakfast at 7a.m. in the hotel. (The owner had to be woken to make it, as apparently they don’t start until 8, and that was when we were leaving.) I think it’s something to do with the fact that the majority of guests were over Eighty, and the extra hour was to allow for the crash cart and CPR. Then Rudi, our promoter dropped me at Meuselbach station, a little one-track one-shack affair in the middle of nowhere, where I spent a captivating twenty minutes watching a couple emerge from a motorhome in the car-park- the guy changing his trousers and shaving alfresco out of a bucket at just 6 degrees centigrade. They’re made of stern stuff here in the East. As I write, I am on my fifth train and its still the morning. I’m on the ICE trains now, which are a cut above the Thomas the tank engine stuff. All has gone smoothly so far. Fingers crossed it will continue. I will return to you, dear reader, when I board the Frankfurt to Dusseldorf express a little later.
An ICE Train earlier today...


Just a little bit later….
Aha! Well, you find me able to put pixel to screen a little earlier than anticipated, having located a power socket between the seats. So the laptop is raring to go. My conversational German, insofar as it pertains to travel, is rapidly becoming second nature. If you can forgive my appalling grandma, I mean grammar, I can ask for all sorts of things. Is the train after this one the Frankfurt train? Which platform do I need? Where is carriage one going to be? Why can’t you get me to the Airport on time? That sort of thing…
Anyway, ”mustn’t grumble” as the neighbour says in The Small Faces’ “Lazy Sunday”, Though I must say this is not really my idea of a lazy Sunday. That would be relaxing in the sun with Miki, eating brioche and curd….
But, as usual, patient and attentive reader, I digress. It was with deceptive ease that I negotiated the changeover between trains in Fulda, I barely broke into a sweat, and found my seat in seconds. German efficiency oiling the wheels of the transport system. Except when they go on strike. Tomorrow.
So, I’m safely on my sixth train, only another two to go, and with any luck, I shall be able to rendezvous with lifelong CHRISTIE fan Reiner in Dusseldorf before boarding the flight to Alicante.

A little bit later still…..
And so it came to be that I made the transition at Frankfurt Station without incident, insinuating myself onto the train amongst the great unwashed. I use the term specifically, because when you are herded into these metal canisters, at close proximity with your fellow man, you are party to intimate knowledge as to whether they are unwashed or not. Thankfully, I had a seat reservation, but all around me, chaos broke out like a rash. A confused American tourist (is there any other kind?) came out with a bewildered, glazed over look when a harried father of three told him his seat was taken.
“Really?” he asked, “where are the unreserved ones?”
“I don’t know!” answered the nonplussed, but clearly fluent in English and reservation-replete German.
And so it continued, from the comfort of my very own seat, I could marvel at my shoulder being used as a butt-rest, large luggage blocking the corridor, hemming me in, and unfeasibly fat German women with bags protruding at obtuse angles, hell-bent on navigating the carriage, and to hell with whoever lost an eye in the process. I have a new take on the acronym for their train service, ICE; Incredibly Cramped Exasperation.
Of course, it being Germany, you might be jostled black and blue or harried out of your seat when you arrive at your destination, but at least you’ll be on time.

15.00 p.m. Dusseldorf Railway station.
Ironically, after a day of impeccable timekeeping, my eighth and final (or so I thought) train of the day was five minutes late. My ironic smile not withstanding, I eventually boarded it for the five minute journey out to Dusseldorf Airport. Upon alighting to the platform, bone-weary, I heard cries of “Kevin! Kevin!” and looked up to see Reiner, number one Christie fan and old friend rushing up to greet me. He gladly took my guitar for me, and I gladly let him, exhausted as I was. We made for check-in. Except I’d forgotten one thing, I had one more train to catch. The Mag-Lev into the airport. Nine today, Fourteen in the space of twenty-five hours!! Am I insane? Probably.

Anyway, check-in out of the way, Reiner and I sat and discussed old times over coffee, he reminding me it was around three years since we’d last met, and he showed me a few photos of him and Jeff Christie, when they’d met up recently at a T.V. show Jeff was filming. He also insisted on phoning a couple of Christie fans so I could say hello!
Sadly, I didn’t have a great deal of time as I had to catch my flight to Alicante, but getting to meet old friends helps the journey a little bit more bearable.
I landed in Alicante on time, my guitar came off the belt reasonably quickly, but then I had to suffer a forty-five minute wait for someone to come and take me to my car. It’s times like this, after 39 hours of almost continuous travel hell, that you really wish you’d paid premium rate in the airport car park. The ability to just get in and go home (I would’ve been nearly there by the time the guy came to take me to my car) is beyond price.
But the most priceless thing is the welcome I get when I pull up outside the gates from Miki. It’s nice to be missed, and it’s nice to come home.