There’s something about snow that’s both utterly beguiling and completely bloody irritating.
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| "I've not seen snow yet!" |
Picture the joy of watching a five month-old chocolate-box Labrador discovering for the first time, his backyard blanketed in an undiscovered white substance - then imagine the angst of two weary travellers in a packed departure lounge waiting for the backlog of flights caused by a scant dusting of the white stuff to clear.
Manchester airport, a week before Christmas, and a good time to travel to Zurich we think as we check-in and clear security in under five minutes.
It’s a good time to spend a week in the mountains while everyone else is absorbed with the relentless march towards the siege of Christmas.
But over coffee and croissants it becomes clear that we’re in a no fly zone; the 07:55 to Helsinki is still on final call…so is the 08:05 to Chicago, the 08:15 to Doha, the 08:25 to Vancover, the 08:40 to Jersey and everything else before our 10:50 flight to Zurich.
It’s no surprise then, when we see that our flight has been delayed indefinitely and, with two Swissair flights to Zurich already cancelled, it’s not looking good.
There’s not much to entertain us in this Starbuck-Dixons-WH Smith-Tie Rack- shit you don’t want to buy-ridden Hades-like transit world; although the bored bloke selling raffle tickets at twenty-five quid a pop to win a Ferrari does his best by trying to interest two passing nuns. He’s got about as much chance as Morrissey has of writing a Christmas hit.
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| Nuns on you flight - closer go God? |
Nuns at an airport – never a good sign. And with snow lashing down against the window that divides us from the sepia-shaded apron outside, day-glowed workmen on ladders finishing new retail areas that will be re-designed by next week, it’s beginning to look a bit like the set for Diehard 2.
Eventually, to my surprise, flight EZY 1827 is called, we board and our waiting enters a fresh phase, as the plane is de-iced so diligently that we miss our allotted take off slot. I’m wondering just how long we can sit here before the little guy on the cherry picker with the de-icing power hose has to pay another visit and randomly spray us.
Then Captain John Entwistle comes on the blower, introduces himself, co-Captain Fred Smith and Ted who’s in charge of our safety and comfort and is as gay as a ten-bob note. Ted flounces off stage after instructing us to give our full attention to the generously proportioned air hostess - they used to be called that - trying to struggle into a life jacket built for someone half her size.
Capt Entwistle apologises for the delay, telling us it’s entirely to do with the weather. This is both good and bad. On the one hand, it means that the plane, an ancient Airbus 300 with more transparencies and air miles than the entire board of the Royal Bank of Scotland, has been deemed fit to fly. But on the other, it means that whatever weather it flew through to get to Manchester will be pretty much the same as the flight back to Zurich.
I’m not a good flier, and so I breathe a sigh of relief when we leave the ground well within 40 seconds – that being the marker that someone once told me was the point at which you should wondering if the pilot’s got his sums right.
“The flight today”, Capt Entwistle tells us, “will take approximately one hour, 42 minutes and 11 seconds.” There’s a bit of a gap between confidence and cockiness and he hasn’t quite bridged it yet. More game-show host than bespoke “I’m Tony fly me” British Airways pilot.
I relax and crack on with The Times crossword, waiting for the point that my Travel Calm pill will combine with the red wine which I’ll shortly be served and knock me out until Zurich.
Soon I’m relaxing with a glass of red at 39,000 feet with only three unsolved clues. I’m even beginning to believe that we might make Saas Fee before midnight, especially when Capt Entwistle tells us that we’re now beginning our descent into Zurich, so could we please finish off what we’re doing, fold up our tables and spill everything on the floor that we can’t fling into the passing bin-bag. I mean - how ridiculous – a hostess walking the aisle with a bin-bag. Can you imagine a Pam-Am hostess doing that in the ‘70s? She’s rather wing-walk without a harness.
Not one for a simple informative message, Capt Entwistle then tells us that the temperature in Zurich is eight degrees and that it is wet and windy. Extremely windy, he adds - winds reaching 80 mph, and, just to add to the drama, he specifies that they are crosswinds. Then to really get our attention, he tells us that it’s going to get a bit bumpy from here on in. His tone of voice even suggests that he’s really looking forward to it, that there’s nothing better then a good yank on the old joy-stick.
BA Tony would have conveyed this information differently: “Ladies and Gentlemen, the weather in Zurich is a little unseasonal with a fresh easterly breeze. We’ll be landing on the northern runway today and, for frequent visitors to Zurich, you’ll know that’s opposite the southern runway”. Tell them nothing Tony – nothing to get those fervent minds analyzing how God might judge them when they arrive at the Pearly Gates in around 15 minutes time. Nothing to get them wondering what they’re going to look like for that brief instant when they’re melded with the Japanese bloke seated in front of them before they both implode.
The turbulence has just ratcheted up sufficient for the cabin crew to buckle up when Capt Entwistle tells us he’ll have us on the ground in 15 minutes and wishes us a safe onward journey.
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| Going down...? |
If there’s one thing a pilot can predict with any certainty it’s that he’ll have you on the ground at some point. Gravity dictates. A good landing, it’s said, is any landing you can walk away from. And so, as I find out what it’s like to be on the inside of a washing machine entering its spin cycle, the safety of my onward journey is not at the forefront of my mind.
I try to concentrate on my crossword as the plane lurches onward as erratically as a drunk coming home on a Saturday night, churned in the vortex outside this whisker thin tube of metal. Six letters, first letter D, clue: “destined to failure or misfortune” – that’ll be doomed then. I fill it in and look out the window, hopeful for the sight of land as we loop the loop again.
Fifteen minutes have come and gone, my crossword is now on the floor with the other debris and there’s still not a hint of either land or the undercarriage being lowered.
There’s a woman seated ahead of me pretending to read her book and appear totally unperturbed while everyone else is gripping both armrests, promising God that they’ll never crack another racist joke or look at porn again if only He’ll let them land safely, and swearing never, ever to step aboard a plane again…If they survive this.
And then the rumble of the wheels being lowered confirms that Capt Entwhistle is still intent in attempting to land in this maelstrom. I recall an aborted landing at Bristol airport, diverted to Cardiff – that was a breeze compared to this.
And then the clouds part and we can see the city below – at least we get glimpses of it interspersed with the sky as we roll on erratically towards Zurich airport.
We’re coming in fast – too fast I think. And then the speed drops and I’m sure we’re going to stall. Why the hell can’t this gung-ho moron abort and fly us somewhere where it’s less windy, like Tenerife? I mean – is it any wonder that two Swiss Air flights to Zurich were cancelled? The pilots took one look out of the window this morning and said, “bugger this!”
We’re over the runway now, doing an impression of a Red Arrows fly-by. There seems to be a general resignation amongst my fellow passengers that the only Christmas ceremony we’ll be attending is inside or own coffins when, almost un-noticed, Capt Entwistle has all six wheels on the ground and is scrubbing off speed like there’s a speed-camera, and twenty cop cars up ahead.
“Welcome to Zurich”, he says with a nonchalance bordering on megalomaniacal.
“Once again apologies for our late arrival…we look forward to seeing you again soon.”
Ten minutes later we’re in the baggage collection hall where there is chaos. Everywhere there are unattended trolleys full of baggage bearing flight information. Eventually an announcement, translated from German by my companion, tells us that there will be a long delay, as baggage cannot be removed from aircraft due to the extreme weather conditions.
That must, I reflect, make Capt Entwistle feel even better.
Funny, isn’t it, how one moment you’re praying for your life and the next you’re cursing Health and Safety for the inconvenient non-retrieval of your baggage.
Still, It’s no good moaning.
Now here's an old classic...
THIS IS MY CHRISTMAS CARD TO EVEYONE I KNOW, AND I HOPE MANY OF YOU WILL ENJOY MY WORK NEXT YEAR, ESPECIALLY WHEN "COWBOYS AND INDIANS" GETS PUBLISHED. HAVE A GOOD ONE!
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING ELSE WHICH IS NOT TERRIBLY SEASONAL BUT IS ONE OF MY ALL TIME FAVOURITES. VERY IRISH AND VERY TRUE. DAVE ALLEN, A TRUE GENIUS IN THE DAYS WHEN WHISKEY AND FAGS WERE PART OF PERFORMANCE ART...RESPECT.
As Dave would say: "May your god go with you"...have a very happy Christmas!
