Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Teddy Tedaloo flying Virgin Atlantic

Well, yet another visit to the old country has come and gone. And it wouldn’t have been complete without the usual stupidity of airline passengers crammed onto a flight that lasts too bloody long. It just gives you one more reason to despair of the human race… as if we needed any more!

Even before takeoff, this Virgin Atlantic all-nighter from Miami to London Heathrow seemed destined to provide endless hours of entertainment (and I’m not talking about the little video screens we had at our private disposal either). A game of musical chairs from start to finish, we had a cast of characters to rival any Carry On film.

First of all, we had a flight attendant who was a dead ringer for English comedienne Catherine Tate. The only thing she didn’t do was point at her ginger-fringed mug and say “face, bovvered?” She was kept busy trying to sort out a pair of Italian passengers seated in the row in front of me, who were evidently having difficulty fitting into the space allocated them, despite being given bulkhead seats. One guy was as tall as two American basketball players placed head to foot, the other looked as if he’d just eaten Luciano Pavarotti for lunch (and probably had).

Add to this recipe an old Muslim lady who, right at the moment of takeoff, suddenly decided that she wanted to change seats, thereby prompting a severe reprimanding over the loudspeaker. For the entire flight she kept waddling past the new set of passengers seated in the bulkhead seats formerly occupied by the Italians. Back and forth, back and forth, she spent more time on her walkabout then she did on her arse. If she wasn’t teetering past someone, she was pestering someone to get her handbag down from the overhead bin. Why she couldn’t take charge of it herself is anyone’s guess.

I’ll admit that I was none too chuffed with my seating arrangements either. Oh, I had the aisle seat in the centre section as requested, however, Teddy did not have his own seat. Clearly, this could not be allowed to continue, especially considering there was a spare seat at the other end of our row. Alas, neither of the two blokes seated to my left were amenable to shifting down a seat, despite my explaining that Ted did not want to sit on the floor. (They obviously didn’t realise they were dealing with a celebrity and co-star of Mitzi TV.) Instead they suggested that once we were airborne I move two rows back, where there was one lone passenger with three spare seats. They tried to pacify me with some chewy sweets, which I accepted, though that didn’t solve the problem – which was securing Teddy a seat.

Unlike the ever-waddling Muslim lady, I waited until we were safely airborne and the fasten seat belts sign was switched off, then popped back to check out the situation in the 3/4 empty row. Well, the bitchy queen holding court there informed me that the flight crew had told him he could have the entire row to himself so he could sleep. Indeed. Perhaps he was related to the Queen as well. Not wanting to get into a bitch-slapping session, I let it go. It was going to be a long flight, and I didn’t want to get into a fight only a half hour into it. Instead I renegotiated with my seat mates, and went round to the other side and took the empty seat, with my companions shifting one seat over, thereby leaving the seat next to me free for Ted.

Peace at last. Well, except for the South African flight attendant who kept making announcements that no one listened to. Things finally got quieter after everyone had chowed down their airline meals and did the post-dinner run to the toilet. Although Mrs Waddle continued to do her waddling and handbag thing, the stupidity on our international flight finally began to lessen…

…Until it came time to make our descent into London.

The seat belt sign came on, and we were instructed to do the usual thing: return our seat backs to their upright position, put away our tray tables, shut off any electronic devices, get rid of pillows and blankies, and get the hell out of the toilets. Of course, there’s always someone, isn’t there? Sure, Mrs Waddle continued to be as stupid as possible, though by now we expected it. However, it appeared she had fierce competition. One row up and to my left sleeping silently like a bomb waiting to go off was a young female with ears like Eddie Munster. She had slept through the entire flight. (Don’t you just hate these people???) The flight attendant had to wake her up to alert her that we were preparing to land, despite the fact that anyone with half a brain would have realised this, sleeping or not.

Mind you, I did say half a brain. Well, this dozy twat had no brain. When she finally roused herself from her catatonia after several promptings from the flight attendant, she dug out her cavernous sack of a handbag and proceeded to apply makeup to her vapid unwashed face. This went on for a good half hour. I couldn’t help but notice her dangling seat belt, which had remained unfastened throughout the majority of the flight and continued to remain thus, despite our imminent landing. I figured she would eventually fasten it after she finished trying to instill some character into her characterless face, but I was wrong.

Five minutes before we were due to be on the tarmac, she dug out some paperback novel that I could only categorise as “Bint Lit”, judging by its cover, which consisted of a woman’s high-heeled legs kicking into the air and the word “Girl” in the title. (Who says you can’t judge a book by its cover?) Her seat belt continued to remain unfastened as she became heavily engrossed in some tale of a female protagonist who was likely as brainless as herself. Guess she thought she was on the tube. I kept hoping we’d hit severe air turbulence at the last minute so she’d bang some sense into her empty head, but sadly, our pilot did a cracking job of setting us down at Heathrow.

Damn.

This wasn’t the end of it by a long shot. Just as we were getting ourselves sorted to deplane, this airhead suddenly realised that she still had a ton of crap she needed to return to her handbag, so back went all her makeup, the fine literature she’d been reading, and god knows what else – I’d not seen the big Italian in hours, maybe he went in there too. Then she started to put her shoes back on. People were leaving the aircraft and there’s Miss Bint still mucking about with her shoes. It just beggars belief, dunnit?

I’ve never wanted to slap anyone so much in my life. Between her and Mrs Waddle, who was slowly waddling up the other aisle and doing one hell of a job of delaying everyone behind her, I was ready to scream. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d ordered a taxi, I might’ve stuck around for a fight. But I wasn’t in proper form, not having slept a wink for the entire flight. Besides, I had an exhausted little bear with me.

I think I need to take a break from flying for awhile…

Well, it’s that time of year again when I’m receiving panicked emails from my mother informing me that yet another hurricane is about to hit South Florida. Seems like only yesterday when this end-of-the-world scenario was transpiring, with wild-eyed rabid shoppers climbing all over each other to lay claim to the last torch (flashlight to you Yanks) on the shelf at The Home Depot, not to mention queuing up to buy petrol for the family car. I well remember being stranded in Glorious Sunshine Land during Hurricane Katrina, the eye of which went right over the roof of my mother’s house, sparking off a psychedelic light show on the power lines that would have put any rave to shame, leaving us with no power for several days – and no air conditioning. If you’ve ever spent a summer in South Florida, you’ll know that this is tantamount to the very worst of CIA torture techniques. It took three days before we could find a hotel that had either electricity or a working generator. My flight back home to Blighty had to be delayed by another week, and I was never so glad to see the glum-faced immigration officers at Heathrow in my life.

Which makes me wonder why people get so worried about earthquakes. I’ve experienced a few during my time on the West Coast. These are the little things in life that keep you on your toes. I mean, there’s nothing like being jolted out of a sound slumber at 5am and having to sprint naked into the nearest doorway (for those of you who don’t know about such things, doorways are apparently the strongest part structurally in a building). With the opening lyrics to “The End” by The Doors playing in your head, you wonder if this is finally THE BIG ONE that everybody’s been going on about – the one where the San Andreas Fault will crack wide open and swallow up Los Angeles. Now I ask you, is that such a bad thing? Just think, no more mediocre television sitcoms or plasticised dim-witted celebrities!

You don’t get warnings about earthquakes, therefore there’s no need for those panicked trips to Home Depot or the BP station. Theoretically you’re supposed to have an emergency supply kit on hand anyway, which includes flashlight, radio, batteries (gotta have them batteries, and I don’t necessarily mean for the flashlight and radio either!), canned food, and a generous supply of water for both drinking and washing (and to help flush the loo if things get really dire). Of course hardly anyone bothers with this. I never did. Guess I figured I’d just get in the car and get the hell out of town.

As it happens, we have earthquakes in England too, though they’re pretty wimpy compared to those butch California ones. I remember being awakened in my bed in Sheffield in the middle of the night, thinking “did we just have an earthquake?”, whereupon I promptly fell back to sleep. The next morning I heard on the news that there had been an earthquake across the Pennines in Greater Manchester. A few broken windows and fallen bricks – nothing remotely along the lines of the 1906 San Francisco quake that nearly destroyed the city or the one in 1989 that re-deposited cars on the upper level of the Bay Bridge to the lower level.

Volcanoes. That’s one thing we don’t hear too much about on our curious little island, though they do exist. Now those can be tricky. I lived in Seattle for awhile, and had a rather oblique view of Mount Rainier from the balcony of my apartment. In fact, I even climbed it once (Mount Rainier, not my apartment building), though abandoned the quest at the halfway mark when I passed some snowboarder who couldn’t have been more than 15 looking on the verge of a stroke as he scrambled back down after only having made it part of the way. Needless to say, I ended up leaving Seattle before any lava came rolling in my direction. Or any more snowboarders.

I guess it’s safe to say that I’d take an earthquake over a hurricane any day. I mean, why get all worked up about something before it even happens? Then again, why not just opt for the quiet life? Aside from random earthquakes, windstorms, floods, tornadoes, strikes, football hooliganism, terrorist attacks, riots, never-ending engineering work on the railways and tube, Chancellors with surnames like “Darling“, and wood lice that somehow manage to get through your front door, life in Britain is pretty peaceful overall.

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