COME FLY WITH ME... THOUGH PREFERABLY - DON'T BOTHER!
Now I have to own up to the fact that I do not possess a passport. I did, but it ran out sometime in the early naughties. My last flight to foreign climes was 1999 or 2000 when I flew to Canada for a trek by rail, taking the route from Toronto to Vancouver before flying back home from the west coast to London Heathrow Airport. My only flights since that time have been to the Isle of Man, the last of which must be ten years ago at least. All the aforementioned proves is that I am not a 'Frequent Flyer'!
With the above in mind it is somewhat comforting to know that I am not out of step with the average Brit, or for that matter the average overseas chap or chappess. It would appear that around one per cent of English residents are responsible for just under twenty per cent of all overseas flights. The term 'English resident' does not infer that the the bloatedly rich traveller is indeed English, merely that he or she is a resident. I do wish these surveys would reflect origin, race, colour, religion... oh and possibly if they are partial to Gala Pie, the latter statistic being only for personal interest.
Following on from the initial one per cent statistic, it appears that ten per cent of flyers took over fifty per cent of flights, twenty per cent took seventy per cent while all flights were taken by just fifty-two per cent.
I have long advocated against the expansion of not only Heathrow Airport but any airport. It is without doubt one of the most wasteful industries in the world. Oh what joy it was to witness the whinging, whining and wringing of hands of those involved in the aviation industry during the early days of the first lockdown. The demands for government handouts, the call for international flights to continue, and if they couldn't, resume with undue haste? And for what? To deliver more travellers around the world spreading covid faster than hospitals can play catch-up? Those in charge of airports and airlines think only of the bottom line of their balance sheet. It would have been seen as a much stronger government if we had stopped all flights in and out of Britain at the start of the pandemic and still not opened our borders to this day, and beyond.
For once I am agreement with the Green Party. I would introduce a tax on frequent flyers, they are contributing heavily towards the worlds pollution, they should pay accordingly. I also agree with stopping the air-miles incentives, they are akin to 'Buy two get one free' type promotions available in supermarkets throughout the land on a daily basis.
It's not as if air travel, be it to exotic destinations such as The Seychelles, The Bahamas or Leeds/Bradford fills you with any sense of longing. The very thought of spending three hours queuing at check-in some five hours before your flight is actually scheduled to depart, sipping undrinkable tea purchased from a licensed bandit who pays the airport's owners a fortune just to build his grubby little retail booth and then 'served' by some servile youth whose accent you can't understand fair blows the mind and no mistake!
You then look forward to your flight, hoping that take-off will be without incident, you know the sort of thing, a suicide bomber, they can generally be relied upon to disrupt any airborne journey, not to mention the in-flight entertainment film that you've just got into as you never saw 'The Remains of the Day' first time round. Then there's those who should never be allowed to fly, the under 16's. It gets worse as the age decreases, right down to babies - screeching, screaming screwed up faces with yet-to-be-formed social graces who constantly demand breast milk from mummy... well it used to be mummy, I suspect any nipple will do in our unrestrained world of rights and bent genders.
As if the above isn't enough, you spend the duration of the holiday hoping your wallet, phone and passport remain in your possession whilst you wander round the ancient streets of some dirty, decrepit, town masquerading as a tourist attraction, before the flight back to Blighty. If only you could feel some respite on touchdown, but no! You then queue to disembark after what seems an inordinately long time sitting within touching distance of home turf. Twenty minutes then passes before your luggage has been delivered by some uncaring set of oafs to the carousel. Another twenty minutes ensues until your own hoves into view, but your wait has been so long, through that now-glazed weariness you miss it and have to wait for it to come around again, yours being the last off the plane - naturally!
And finally, finally the end is in sight, if not the exit. This is where you push your trolley through customs hoping beyond hope that you are going to be let back into your country of birth by some bugger who doesn't originate from these shores and has the audacity to ask if you have anything to declare, other than your sanity, and that was doubtful once you'd made the decision to go abroad in the first place!
Given the option, a six mile queue on the M25 at Clacket Lane Services would still my preferred form of misery, at least there will be a Sainsbury's selling Gala Pie at the end of motorway rainbow be it Kent or Essex... aaaahhhhh... food heaven, and not a bazaar in thought or sight...
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