No one on this planet could possibly hate flying more than I do, but I have a feeling that's about to change, courtesy of the EU's announcement that its scrapping its ban on cell phone use on planes. EU officials state emphatically that additional safeguards have been put in place to “protect against terrorism”, but have any of these morons stopped to consider the inevitable fist-fights that will almost surely follow when someone decides they've had enough of “I'M ON THE PLANE, JA, DAHLING”?
The prospect of queuing for hours with your shoes and belt off while rude, power-drunk airport officials manhandle you “in the interests of your own safety” has, of late, been enough to send many travellers into overdrive. Terminal Five at Heathrow has already given most of us yet another reason to avoid flying anywhere near London, but do the powers-that-be really want to give weary, harrassed and inevitably-delayed air travellers the incentive to go completely nuclear?
As bearers of conflicting security messages extract lipsticks and jars of Pond's cold cream from old ladies, acres of half-drunk bottles of Coke and water sufficient to wash the world's laundry accumulate and arguments ensue about whether it's actually reasonable to alleviate travellers of their Duty Free purchases. All this after someone has smiled while telling you that you can't in fact take any luggage on board (“Madam, are you becoming aggressive? Because I must tell you, if you become aggressive I will call security.”)
No wonder many of us are only too pleased to avail of the booze the trolley dollies insist on plying us with. Problem is, we all know what happens when you combine a seriously pissed off person with, um, a seriously pissed person....
The irony is that, even as the beaurocrats tell us that cell phones pose absolutely no terrorism threat whatsoever (and I'm sorry, but if ever there's a trigger of choice, the cell phone has to be it), security staff the world over will continue to convince us that that emery board, “travel” tube of toothpaste and – horror of horrors – bottle of Fanta you're carrying constitute a clear and present danger.
After all that, you sit down thinking it's time your head got a little peace when ““I'M ON THE PLANE, JA, DAHLING” starts before the drinks trolley has even been unclipped and you're included in the finer details of little Brittany's piano lessons, how Frikkie really stuck it to those okes in sales or the not-so-quiet whispers of extroverts who have decided that, just because they're travelling alone, doesn't mean they can't at least try and join the Mile-High Club.
All this before the person in front of you reclines their seat all the way?
www.seat61.com. You know you'll thank me for it.
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