Category: Flying

No Frills Thrills

Today’s the day we bid au revoir to our friends in Bordeaux and board the no frills flight to Gatwick, stay overnight in a no frills Sussex hotel and board another no frills flight home to thrilling Bodrum. This is a no frills post. Normal broadcasts will be resumed shortly.

This is most famous test card of all, Test Card F, still in use today by the BBC and used in 30 other countries. Designed by George Hersee and featuring his daughter Carole Hersee, it made its first appearance on BBC2 in 1967. I remember this so well, growing up before 24 hour multi-channel TV took over our lives. I wonder where she is now?

Get more thrills from

A Star is Born

The Homecoming

Brace, Brace

Nowadays, who pays attention to aircraft safety announcements when fiddling uncomfortably in a cramped seat and thumbing through the glossy but vacuous in-flight magazine?  Been there, done that, know the drill. We’re off on our holidays. Who wants to be reminded that we may die on the way? There’s no such thing as an atheist at 30,000 feet when the engines fail. Airlines sometimes go to extraordinary lengths to grab the attention of their passengers. Who hasn’t chuckled at the camp flying mattress flapping his arms about like a drag queen as he points out the emergency exits. Remember your nearest exit may be behind you. Pegasus, the no frills Turkish airline went one step further. It kept our attention and made us laugh.

The Turkish version is even cuter

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKgYqO9w-Do&feature=related

In other words, when you hear the brace, brace announcement put your head between your legs and kiss your arse goodbye.

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Grand Design

A Pansy flasher in Washington DC brought back happy memories of journeys across the pond. Over dinner I led Liam on a jolly romp down memory lane. He kindly indulged my remembrance. I’ve been to the States four times – to New York, Boston, LA and my first visit was to the District of Columbia at the tender age of 20. I had dallied with a travelling Yank who worked for the Federal Government and was attending a conference in London. He invited me to stay so I did. I had tired of my dull, dead end job as chief cashier and pound counter for Habitat in Chelsea and had in mind to do as millions of others had done before me and seek my fortune in the land of opportunity. I saved my pennies, quit my job, booked a one way ticket on Freddy Laker’s Skytrain to New York and off I went. I flew out of the Big Apple and down to DC.

Me, yes really

My Yank got a shock when I called. It seemed his invitation hadn’t been entirely genuine but he was good enough to let me stay for a few weeks in return for occasional sexual favours. Springtime in Washington is very agreeable and a riot of cherry blossom. The federal heart of the city is laid out in imperial style and built in monumental neo-classical majesty as befits the capital of the most powerful nation in history. The grand design is best appreciated from the top of the Monument, the world’s tallest true obelisk. Rameses the Great must have turned in his tomb. I did the obligatory tour of the White House and the Capitol and strolled along the Mall popping in and out of the various museums along the way. It struck me how everything was described in the definite article – The White House, The Monument, The Capitol as if no others exist. It’s a sign of a confident young nation with a touch of teenage arrogance.

Gay life in Washington was a world away from recession-ravaged buttoned up Britain with its grubby backstreet gay bars. It’s taken London 30 years to catch up. I loved it and it loved me. I was young and handsome with cheekbones that could slice cheese. My hosts lapped me up and I let them. I wowed the randy scamps in Rascals, a popular watering hole and pick up joint for federal employees near Dupont Circle. They just loved my accent, along with my uncut assets.

Is it still there I wonder?

Alas, I sensed I was overstaying  my welcome and my reluctant landlord feared I would claim squatters rights. My low-key patriotism also annoyed him. He rather expected me to be enamoured with all things American. I really liked what I saw but I had learned patriotism from my soldier father’s knee and have never been able to shake it off. After a few weeks living the American dream I pined for the old country and flew home on BA.

To this day I remain quietly patriotic, though not nationalistic. To be proud of where you are from is fine but to think you’re a cut above is not. This is a message some emigreys hereabouts would do well to hear. I wonder though, if I had settled Stateside, what would have become of me?

Fecking Fantastic Fares

I bored the drawers off Clive with my whinge-fest about our below par business class flight with Turkish Airlines. He was indifferent to my scandalised account of our barely above economy service and reminded me how much worse it can be. I’m sure we all know about the too good to be true rock-bottom fares of the bargain bucket brigands. Who hasn’t been badly stung by hidden extras and dumped in the middle of the night at an airstrip with no transport connections?

I can’t think of anyone wittier to tell the sorry tale of modern budget aviation than Fascinating Aida, a veteran satirical cabaret act that has been treading the boards on and off since 1983. Thank you to Clive for bringing this to my attention and hammering home his point. People who object to minor expletives should go no further.

Vile Coffee and Nobody Famous

When Liam and I got hitched we asked for Thomas Cook vouchers as wedding gifts. We had already made the fateful (or was it fatal?) decision to migrate to Asia Minor and didn’t need a brown Kenwood toaster with a cornflower motif. Nor did we want his and his John Lewis bath robes. Since then we’ve slowly used up most of the vouchers for our Blighty flights but the process was becoming a bit of a drag. Vouchers can only be exchanged in Thomas Cook travel shops and these are as rare as ethnic minorities on Midsomer Murders. We decided on a final spree and used what we had left on business class tickets to London via Istanbul with Turkish Airlines.

We could hardly contain our anticipation when we arrived at the domestic terminal at Bodrum Airport. We breezed past the hoi polloi like minor celebs to the business class check-in and onwards to the business class lounge – vile coffee, limitless booze, dry croissants, nobody famous. The flight to Istanbul was pleasant enough with a welcome glass of bubbly and a hot breakfast from a fixed-smile waitress wearing too much tarty slap. Istanbul’s Atatürk Airport was a frenetic potpourri of the exotic and the mundane. The bazaar medley included a mysterious sect of elderly men in Persil-white towelling togas. We fled the bedlam to the utter indulgence and serenity of the business class lounge – vile coffee, limitless booze, dry croissants, nobody famous.

We boarded our Heathrow-bound plane expecting to turn left into unashamed comfy luxury and regal pampering. Our excited smiles crumbled as we were directed right towards our hard standard size seats. There was no more extra leg room than ordinary emergency exit seats and the food was only distinguishable from economy fare by the china crockery. The much vaunted entertainment selection consisted of an obscure disaster movie about a runaway train and an hour of adverts from the flickering mini screen that descended from the bottom of the overhead lockers. I’ve been better diverted on charter. Booze was provided only on request. Worse still, just a thin curtain divided us from the plebs back in coach. The experience left us disenchanted with a wasted wedding gift and lamenting our decision to reject the brown Kenwood toaster with cornflower motif. What an expensive flop.

Nine days later we returned to Heathrow with heavy hearts. We breezed past the hoi polloi like minor celebs to the business class check-in and onwards to the business class lounge – delicious coffee, limitless booze, butter-moist croissants, nobody famous. We boarded our Istanbul-bound plane expecting to turn right into our barely above economy cabin. Our resigned expressions were transformed into crazy grins as we were directed left into unashamed comfy luxury and regal pampering. We sank into our soft capacious seats with sixteen button-operated positions and in-chair massage. The individual screens provided entertainment of boundless possibilities. Spoilt for choice, Liam couldn’t decide so flattened his seat and took a cat-nap instead. The three course supper was haute cuisine and our camp thin-wristed attendant silently filled my glass without prompting as he swished down the aisle. Just the ticket.

Back in Istanbul, we headed to the business class lounge – vile coffee, no croissants, no booze, nobody famous. We boarded a dedicated business class mini-bus to our return flight to Bodrum – glass of bubbly, cold supper, proper crockery. All our flights provided stainless steel mini cutlery. I assume terrorists can’t afford business class.

My Family Jewels

London calls again. As we waited for our taxi to take us to Bodrum airport, Tariq our newly dentured caretaker playfully tweaked my nipples and tried to push me into a flower bed. He has also taken to pointing to my lower furniture and snapping his fingers in a scissor-like action. I’m not sure if he is referring to my intact prepuce (which would be amusing enough to anyone who’s never seen one) or his desire to rid me of my family jewels altogether and keep me as his personal eunuch. Maybe there was some truth in that old Ottoman adage that women are for procreation and men are for recreation.

The Homecoming

Liam is back from Londra safe and sound but knackered after a six hour delay at Istanbul. Atatürk Airport is up there with the most tedious and expensive airports on the planet; rip off duty free and eight Euros for a cup of insipid burnt coffee. I warmed the house with a roaring fire framed by IKEA candles, decanted the red and cooked a hearty supper. When Liam crossed the threshold I held him for an age.  He’d only been away for a few short days, yet I couldn’t help myself. I am a forty something, worldly wise old cynic behaving like a silly school boy with an adolescent crush.

A Star is Born

Burger-star, Clive, landed after sundown at a wind-chilled, sodden Bodrum Airport, jetting in via Istanbul. We waited outside the domestic terminal without realising that internal Pegasus passengers disembark from the International terminal.

Plonk

As my first-born friend of 38 years, it is fitting and proper that he is our maiden caller. I am truly gladdened that he made the effort to join us, exhausting his air miles to do so. We hurried him home, hit the sauce to rejoice and chatted into the wee small hours. Over-drinking is fine for a couple of old reprobates like us but poor Clive suffers terribly from hurricane-force hangovers. The next day he scrambled out of his pit in time for afternoon tea, mumble-mouthed, fuzzy-eyed and ashen-faced fumbling for the paracetamol.  It took him another hour or so to string together a few coherent words which were “What’s for dinner?”

The Emigrey Express

We flew home on the emigrey express. To our fore was a banquet of bleached, bottle-blonds whose tinted tresses disguised a sea of solar haggard, sour facades. Obviously a peroxide barnet is a VOMIT prerequisite.

To the aft lay a sallow, loud-mouthed, drunken imitation of Archie Moon cuddling an empty bottle of Bells. He’d spent his time in the departure lounge downing the duty free and popping frequently to the tuvalet for an illicit fag. He dozed through most of the flight but awoke ten minutes before touchdown and casually lit a cigarette which was rapidly dispatched by the horrified staff. Meanwhile, Liam munched his way through two packets of chewy caramel, soft nougat and crispy chocolate balls that cost more than the airfare. We landed just before Gatwick was closed for the winter.

Blighty life pal, Karen, is housing us during our trip to the mother country, storing us in her delux en-suite loft. She is blessed with a wonderful home – chic and bohemian at the same time. She is a classy, off the wall lady of taste, charm and substance and fancies herself as a Mrs Madrigal type. The cap really fits. Karen’s husband, Peter, died of cancer a couple of years ago. His decline had been indecently swift, and she is slowly emerging from the disabling pain of grief: a hard slog that I know only too well.

How Very Dare You!

We received word that our cargo has arrived from England. We are thrilled. A gay boy just can’t survive for long without the little essentials of life like decent cookware, ethnic knick-knacks and gallons of scent. We paid quite a bit extra to have our precious accessories air freighted and were assured by Pickfords that the crates would be flown direct to Bodrum; a naïve notion. A rude little man from the Pickfords nominated Turkish agents told us to get down to the Customs House at Izmir Airport and to get there pronto otherwise we’d be charged warehousing fees. Off we go on our second Izmir junket at the crack of dawn.