Rejecting once again the living hell that is the West Coast Main line on a Friday evening, I chose to return home to Southport for Christmas by plane, just like I did last year. Rather predictably, it took me longer to get from work to Heathrow than it did to get from Heathrow to Manchester, but that wasn’t my favourite example of the ludicrousness of modern cheap air travel: On arriving at the airport, I paid almost £5 for a packet of sandwiches and a small bottle of water, and it occurred to me later on, as I was accepting the free sandwich and beer on the plane, that, at airport prices, I’d almost recouped the cost of my £11 plane ticket in food alone.

The only other aspect of my journey home worth a mention is the fact that the crew on that particular flight might just have been the campest flight crew I’ve ever been attended to by. Then again, maybe that’s just what happens when you spent the previous evening watching the Christmas special of the utterly fabulous Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

1 thought on “”

  1. If you ask me, the fact that cowboys like Stelios et al are allowed to set up airlines and pay virtually no tax at all is to deflect passenger numbers from the trains, so they can be allowed quietly to deteriorate while we all merrily zoom around at 37,000 feet burning hundreds of thousands of tonnes of fossil fuels. Hooray!


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