Virgin’s seat pitch is 31′ – pretty sucky for a long-haul flight. The standard is 31-34′ for Coach. Next time you fly, check out http://www.airlinequality.com/Product/seats_global.htm It’s a summary of airline seat pitches, and there are traveler reviews up there too.

Airlines aren’t permitted to break the seals on food intended for in-flight service while on the ground. It’s a Customs thing. Eh, I don’t know. Ten pounds is a pittance at an airport though…

A question, if I may: couldn’t you while away the waiting time by creating a new Brian or two? I miss the little guy…

– Julie

KG

Best. Delay. Ever.

Malaga was having a heatwave, and it was about 40C. We arrived at the airport at about 1pm, and boarded our plane at 3pm. Waited for take off for an hour, as we were delayed by missing passengers. When the plane actually started, there was a huge squealing noise and the whole thing shook. The Captain then announced that the steering had broken slightly and the brakes were completely gone. And we were still going to attempt to fly back to Heathrow. Everyone was protesting and trying to leave, so the Captain decided to take us back to the airport, as apparently,” it wouldn’t be such a good idea to fly”.

So we got chaparoned back to the airport by spanish armed police who kept waving their guns around in an attempt to look cool or something. We were told that it would take about an hour to be fixed, so we waited for another two hours and still nothing happened, so they decided to make us sleep in the hot, cramped airport floor, not even offering us blankets, hotel rooms or any food/drink.

The next morning about 10am we were finally given 12 euros each to buy breakfast, which by this time had been eaten, so there was basically no food for us to have.

We were told at 2pm that our plane was coming into the airport. We all gathered at the windows to watch our plane arrive and then head off again. They had no explanation for this and had to get another plane to get us.

Finally, at 4pm we boarded our flight.

25 hours at the airport! And no decent shops!

If you really want hell at the airport though, wait til they lose a passenger. Been there, done that, delayed our flight by at least 3 hours. After sitting on the plane for about half an hour with nothing seeming to happen we were finally informed that we were “waiting for one more passenger”. As time passed everyone regressed to their childhood and began manufacturing spitballs and paper airplanes to assault the offending individual when they arrived. One man started to sharpen his shoe. About 45 minutes later, we were finally told that the passenger who clearly wasn’t keen on flying through the air today still could not be located, and they had in fact given up the search for them. Hooray! If the first 10 rows would like to return to the Terminal now, we can begin identifying the baggage. What? Boo! 20 minutes later, our plane is empty and everyone is milling around not really knowing where they are meant to be. After another half an hour we finally get directed to some strange room full of tables that assumedly is part of the baggage haulers mysterious Fortress of Hammers and find roughly 200 suitcases around and about. About 20 minutes into the search for all our bags, we realised why the carousels are there, because otherwise finding your own bag is a fucking nightmare (especially the last one.. “Have you checked over in this corner? What about this pile over here?”). Finally it seems everyone has managed to identify their things, the last couple of offending suitcases are executed by firing squad, and all the passengers reseated themselves. Wait for the bags to arrive, be reloaded, and us to get a takeoff spot and then we’re finaly good to go. At the time no-one was sure who to be more annoyed at, the passenger who never turned up or the airline company for messing us around. I certainly knew who I felt like blaming after a conversation that roughly follows the belwo with the cabin crew:

“So why did we have to take the missing passengers bag off the plane?”
“Security Reasons”
“What? In case there was a bomb in it? Don’t all the cases get checked anyway?”
“Well yes….”
“But not to a degree where you’re certain? So there could be someone on this plane right now with a suitcase full of TNT and a fuse in their hand?”
“No that couldn’t happen sir…”
“Then why the hell did we need to offload those cases and delay the flight, you could have just put them on the next one back”
“Security Reasons”

You’d think, perhaps, that when you have departed with over a thousand British pounds for a return flight to a far-off country (for a five month period, no less), that said company might try to keep you abreast of developments. Such as, for example, the cancellation of one of the flights supposed to be getting you back home after your five months of toil are done. Of course this isn’t the case, as they assume that you, working in the middle of the outback, will have plenty of opportunities to check in with a friendly QANTAS office to check on your flights.

That it would be a trifling matter for them to perhaps email you with these details is of no concern, regardless of the fact that you have paid for a service from them, QANTAS will lift no finger to try and ensure you get home.

Fortunately, I was never so naive as to leave my wellbeing entirely in their hands, and thought to check my flights (through the medium of the village hall near my workplace, which happened to be blessed with two internet-capable PC’s) a month before I was due to return. I was intrigued to discover that my flight no longer existed. Prompted by this to, on my next weekend, travel the four hour car journey back to a town with a QANTAS shop, so I could discuss my options.

This was a little over two years ago, so the conversation that happened within is heavily paraphrased, but it stays true to actual events:

“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me, as you can see I have a pre-booked flight to London -” handing over tickets “-only the first flight no longer seems to exist”
“Ah, yes, that can happen.”
…
I wait for further advice, but none is proferred.
“Um, so how can I get home?”
“Hmm. I’ll have to see if we can move you onto another flight.” Plays with their PC for a bit. “Ah, here we go, there’s an earlier flight you can catch which’ll make your connection”
“Oh good, that’s a relief, what time’s it at?”
“It leaves Adelaide at 6a.m.”
Ah. “Oh… um, I’m going to have quite a bit of a wait at Perth aren’t I.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“No chance of moving me onto another flight at Perth to cut down on waiting?”
“Well, it’s possible, but we’d have to charge you for it”
“Hmm… how much?”
“[some cruel number comfortably equivalent to over a hundred pounds]”
“Ah. Oh well, I guess I’ll pass on that. Can I get my first flight sorted now? That’s free, right?”
“Of course, just let me make some changes and you’ll be sorted”

And so I ended up, a month later, getting up at three a.m. to make a four a.m. coach to catch the six a.m. plane, getting to Perth, waiting six hours – entirely alone for the first four apart from the occasional cleaner (even getting quizzed by security as to what I was doing in that particular departure lounge as there were no planes for so long), and finally catching my (hour late) plane to Singapore.

Whereupon problems befell my final flight, the one to take me to Heathrow. Having all been rushed off the plane by staff to make our various connections, we were shoed onto a nice 747 with the intention of leaving immediately. Of course, this wasn’t to happen. The plane taxied for a short distance, before rolling to a halt. We sat in silence for 10 minutes before the captain announced that one of the engines wasn’t working properly, and would need maintenence.

So we waited for maintenence. And waited. In Singapore. During the night/morning, but still comfortably above 30 degrees. I was used to temperatures in this range by now, so wasn’t too bothered – at first. Unfortunately, without the engines on, there was no air conditioning, and held in a large tin filled with other hot and sweaty passengers, things gradually got hotter, and more humid. Fortunately the maintenence only ended up taking an hour and a half, and we were finally on our way, and more importantly were able to bask in the breeze of overworked air conditioning.

I eventually arrived back in Heathrow, got on a train, got home, greeted my parents, and was forced to sit down at a pub with them, near-catatonic as I was from having been awake and travelling for nearly two days. Another two hours crawled by and I was finally allowed to slouch home and collapse.

In summation: I look forward to the day when the oil runs out, as it will ensure I never fly again, and will presumably be far enough into the future that my parents won’t be around to keep me awake any more. Yippee!