Those Wright brothers had little idea of what they were starting did they? After several tests & many messy crashes in the early 1900’s, they upgraded the type of lollipop sticks & paper they used on their first gliders to altogether stronger lollipop sticks & (get this) that cloth you wrap xmas puddings in & so The Flyer was born. The big difference between this & the previous gliders (other than the ability to wrap a lot of xmas puddings) was the addition of a bunch of chains, an aluminium block & a broken fan, all deftly attached to the front of the contraption.
In December 1903, Orville (not the duck) replete with very brown trousers, having lost the toss of a coin, flew this not terribly pretty contraption for about 60 metres at a cruising altitude of about 3 metres. He then landed, changed his trousers & posed for the cameras. Flying had now become a “reality” , or at least a distinct possibility.

I’ve done an absurd amount of flying over the past few years. Much for business, but also a lot for pleasure & I don’t recall the Wright brothers mentioning many things I feel they really should have done.
Booking. Go online to a cheap flight locater & register. Once the deluge of spam email has finally subsided, you can sift through it to find your login details.
Once through the digital obstacle course (for the fourth time), you hit that all seeing “search” button & wait for a list to appear. Most of the offers usually involve a change of plane with barely more than 15 minutes to get from one terminal to another, which isn't going to happen unless you are Clark Kent, in which case, you’d not bother anyway. Now choose the one best for you, & go directly to the airline’s site to book it. This is usually cheaper & involves the exchange of less spam.

Airports are amazing places. Vast hubs of activity. Shops, restaurants, bars, evil Starbucks, those machines that cling-wrap your house-sized suitcase (to stop people breaking in, of course). Oh & a few airplanes for authenticity.

After the “check-in” speech (Q: Did you pack this yourself? A: Yes (even if mum did it). Q: Does it contain sharp things? A: Yes. My clothes…etc.), you weave your way through crowds of people, most of whom seem to have brought enough baggage to justify a separate charter flight for it all, to the gates. Err. No.
To passport control actually, or “guilt ray” as I like to think of it.
Next up, time to irradiate your belongings. Even though these machines can see through stuff, they don’t appear to be advanced enough to penetrate laptop bags just yet. As if laptops bags are made from a special fabric like that cloak thing Harry Potter’s got.
As you finally re-pack & pull on your shoes, all the time holding your breath, to avoid the foul stench from the Nikes of that travelling football fan who’s not changed for 3 days, you are drawn to the “departure lounge”….NOT!!
It’s the departure shopping centre. I’ve blogged shopping, so I’ll not witter on here about it (brrrr..so cold).
An hour until your flight & (if you’re me) a bee line to the bar, which is usually the tackiest imitation of a traditional pub ever conceived. CNN (‘cos everyone watches it) piped into all the plasma screens, but oddly, with the sound off & fellow travelers having that dilemma moment when they realize they need another drink & can’t leave their bag unattended. As soon as they haul themselves to the bar (with all their bags) someone pounces on the vacant table.

2 pints, a microscopic sandwich & a bar maid’s attitude problem later & time to board. Or rather wait with a couple of hundred others for half an hour while a “team” finish cleaning the mess left by the previous passengers from the plane.
When the gate finally opens, the whole concept of queuing is forgotten. Listen people. You have a boarding pass with a seat number on it. Why the sudden panic that you aren’t going to get your seat? Ever seen anyone standing for a whole flight?

Once on board, you make your way up the aisle, pausing to wait for people to cram bizarrely coloured rucksacks & “clearly too big” bags into the overhead lockers, as if they expect the mouldings to somehow open wider just for them.
In the seat, you strap on the belt & ponder what actual purpose it serves, whilst completely ignoring the safety instruction demonstration & picking your latest iprod playlist.
As you get to the second verse of Alice’s House, a stewardess with a worryingly orange face tells you to switch it off until after take-off. You do. She turns. You switch it on a again.
Take off is the best bit. To do it without a sound track is unthinkable!
The thunder of the engines, the feeling of being scooped up, all played out to the intro of Temple Of Love, or Give Me It. Perfect!
We're flying (at last) woohoo!
No sooner as the craft has levelled, the orange people, with lighting precision, draw the "magic curtain" to shield us "peasants" from the delights to be offered to those that paid that little bit more for a bucks fizz & menu. & ice cold metal cutlery.
A quiet clanking of wine bottles & glasses ensues until eventually they emerge with "the trolley of delights". I use this term loosely, as the pre-packed morsels foisted on the rest of us is actually food of non-determinable origin (FONDO).
Mmmmm. This yellow "stuff" looks, well, like yellow stuff & tastes like gillette's finest grooming product. Nom!
Thankfully, fondo comes in ludicrously small portions, so as not to promote overuse of the airplane toilet. The toilet is a marvel of technology. No clear signs as to what button does what & a plethera of different paper towels that should not be flushed into the night sky with whatever else you've tried to flush over your least favourite city in passing.

Back in your seat, you may try the on screen entertainment (or low grade hidden camera show) with the headphones provided. You have to use these, because there is a unique jack that plugs in & adapters are only available to those "in the know". The right phone imitates a wasp in your ear with each sound to the degree that you simply have to revert to aforementioned iprod niceness with occasional glances at the journey info on screen. Ooh, it's -40degrees outside. Good job the doors are closed eh?

As we approach the destination, all tables & seats to upright position. A blessed relief as you can feel the blood flow into your legs once more & iprods off please……..Naaaah! I think not thankyou.
One last glance at that guy's confidential, but incredibly dull spreadsheet or presentation, as he closes his notebook & we are ready for touch down.

Depending on where you are in the world, the landing may or may not get a ripple of applause from the passengers. Especially if the approach was through an electrical storm & gale force winds. But as soon as you realise the captain isn't going to come out & take a bow, or do an encore, indignation soon sets in.
The short journey to the "finger" is accompanied by the sound of mobile phones being switched on & the "welcome to wherever you are" sms messages arriving, mixed with cries of, "can you please stay in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete halt?" From desperate sounding orange people.
& now everyone wants to be first off, presumably to use a proper toilet that doesn't threaten to suck you through a tiny hole & into the freezing night.
Crumpled jackets & squashed bags of duty free chocolate are extracted from those TARDIS-like overhead lockers & we all shuffle off the plane having left a mess of fondo & having stolen the branded sugar sachet & sick bag.

Once in the terminal, there seems to be a labyrinth to negotiate, with absolutely no signs to direct you. Like homing pigeons we seem to find our way to the "guilt ray" section, where bad tempered border guards "welcome" you to the country.
On to baggage collection. For some reason, all baggage appears to have taken the scenic route to the terminal & we all wait impatiently for half an hour until the moment it starts to tumble onto the conveyer in various states of disrepair (at least I cling filmed mine).
Luggage in hand, it's now into "guilt ray II". The customs channel. Do people really go through the red one?
A collection of customs officials stare as you pass through, as if they expect you to break down & admit to smuggling an extra pack of smokes in or stealing the sick bag off the plane. You remain as steady as a rock, but no matter how hard you try, you feel as if you have a big neon sign above your head that reads "criminal".
& out!!! Yay!
A sea of taxi drivers & people holding hastily made signs with "Mr Zsow" or "grandma" scrawled on them awaits, as you search desperately for a familiar face & normality.
A hug is obligatory. Along with all the "how was the flight" chit chat & you are eventually out searching for the car.

So, from those magnificent men in their flying machines, to the hell that is flying today, I wonder if Orville had enough bucks fizz to ease his nerves on that first flight & I hope his luggage arrived safely.

Fly safely all & send your sick bags to…….


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