Ruinair

It’s a rough landing at Stansted in gale force winds but it’s not a bad landing. A good landing is one where the pilot plants the wheels onto the asphalt and comes to a stop. A bad landing is any other sort of landing. I don’t know how much these aircraft can take, but if it had been my motor car, it would now be scrap. I turn to a guy in the aisle seat. ‘Not a great landing?’ I suggest. All he can do is mumble and then show me the open palm of his hand, slam it down hard on his thigh and utter the single word ‘Splat.’ I am reminded of the note written by a girl to the captain on a Qantas flight. ‘Dear captain. My name is Nicola. I am 8 years old. This is my first flight but I’m not scared. I like to watch the clouds go by. My mum says the crew is nice. I think your plane is good. Thanks for a nice flight. Don’t fuck up the landing. Luv Nicola.’

Shortly after we land, a loud trumpet fanfare is broadcast through the cabin, followed by ‘Congratulations, you’ve arrived at your destination ahead of schedule.’ I look at the crew members in disbelief and they are evidently mortified at having to play such a tacky announcement but it’s company policy. It’s also odd because they are congratulating us for an early arrival but we didn’t make the aircraft go faster. As soon as we stop we all feel the need to instantly power up our mobile telephones. The cabin interior is suddenly a cacophony of harmonised Nokia tunes. One rough-looking older gentleman close to me immediately has to take an incoming telephone call. He swears loudly. ‘Jaysus, who the hell is this? This call will cost me a fucking fortune, what with their roaming charges when I’m away from me home.’

There is an air-bridge when we arrive at the pier but we don’t use it, in line with this airline’s stated policy. ‘When we used Jet-Way airbridges, we found that they were the fourth largest cause of delays. Either the Jet-Way wasn’t there when we arrived, or the buffoon who was driving it was out by a few inches, and had to take the whole thing back and forth again before landing up at our doors. If it’s raining, people will just walk a little faster.’ It is sometimes necessary to take the Skytrain from the arrival gate to the Arrivals hall. This can be confusing for some travellers. I once arrived here on a flight, got on the Skytrain and sat beside an elderly Irish lady. She turned to me in the tiny train without a driver and asked, ‘Is this the Piccadilly line?’ Needless to say, I told her it was and if she stayed on board for the next fifty minutes, she would be in the West End.

Today I join the long march from the gate to the Arrivals hall, largely reminiscent of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow in the winter of 1812, although fewer of us die from hypothermia, but some are picked off by snipers or succumb to the changing seasons, dysentery or the dreaded tetsi fly. My taxes and charges today include the arbitrary Wheelchair Levy, so next time I’m asking for one to take me to Arrivals.

If Ruinair didn’t exist, would Stansted airport shut down simply for lack of use? One in six flights out of Stansted is taken by some of the one million British people visiting second homes abroad, which they do on average six times a year. Ruinair flights here are like hailing a taxi. If you wait long enough, one will soon come along. Their aircraft are everywhere, like some bubonic plague. In the future, Boeing will manufacture all 737 aircraft with the Ruinair logo as the default livery. Boeing does not disclose production rates, but it is believed to build about twenty-eight 737s a month, or one every day. I read in the newspaper that a delay in the delivery of four new Boeing aircraft to Ruinair meant the airline was forced to cancel 1,200 flights, affecting an estimated 300,000 passengers. It is not untrue to conclude that the growth of this airline is only being impeded by Boeing’s failure to build new aircraft fast enough.

The UK aerospace industry’s trade surplus with the rest of the world shrank by a third one year, because of the huge volume of Boeing aircraft being brought into the UK by this single airline. Ruinair now have so many Boeing aircraft that they could easily lose one and then accidentally locate it again at some lesser-known airport.

Ruinair gave its flying angel logo bigger breasts. Mick ordered the change on all new Boeing 737-800 aircraft. The image boost was first spotted by Ruinair workers at Stansted airport. A spokesman said: ‘We decided to give our customers a more uplifting experience. We think she is rather aerodynamic.’ Ruinair’s spokeswoman for the Nordic region said: ‘We do not wish to milk the situation.’

Mick adores Boeing and he sometimes visits Seattle to collect new aircraft in person. ‘Boeing made a lot of bullshit promises in 1999 but uniquely in the history of aviation they have beaten them. This is the best bloody aircraft in the world for short-haul operations. You people build the best god-damn aircraft in the world. My three favourite words are ‘Made in Seattle’. I promise I won’t say anything like ‘Screw Airbus’. Bravo Boeing! Adios Airbus! Fuck the French. We are an oasis of Boeings in a sea of Airbuses in Europe. And I can’t fly the bloody things. I can’t even turn them on.’ Once he bought 9 billion US dollars worth of aircraft from Boeing at a significant discount, believed to be at $28 million each rather than the list price of $60 million: ‘We raped them. I wouldn’t even tell my priest what discount I got.’ Mick doesn’t like the wider Airbus A320. ‘I’ve heard a lot of horseshit about a wider fuselage. I’ve yet in fifteen years in this industry to meet one passenger who booked his ticket based on a wider fuselage.’

The terminal walls are plastered with advertisements for this airline. ‘This is the home of low fares.’ Here we live and breathe their Eurobrand. There is a route map but Western Europe has disappeared under a swathe of yellow arrows emanating from Stansted. This airline adds new routes at a rate only exceeded by the inflation rate in Zimbabwe. Along the way there’s a Ruinair aircraft outside with the words Arrividerci Alitalia. Stuff it to the Eyeties, but don’t get too xenophobic. Other aircraft announce Auf Wiedersehen Lufthansa. It must be great for a Lufthansa pilot to park at an airport stand and look at that jingoism out your cockpit window for 25 minutes (usual turnaround time). Other aircraft in the fleet have the slogans Say No to Lufthansa’s Fuel Tax, Say No to BA Fuel Levy, Bye Bye SkyEurope, Bye Bye EasyJet and Bye Bye Baby, the latter a reference to competitor BMI Baby rather than to a 1970s pop song. They might as well put on the side of every aircraft, To All Other European Airlines—Go Fuck Yourselves.

I walk the concourse. The newspaper headlines in W. H. Smith catch my eye. The Evening Standard has ‘Children Must Not Use Mobile Phones’. Unlikely. The Daily Sport has ‘TV Star’s Sex with Poodle Next Door’. Equally unlikely, I fear. The Sun has ‘One Hundred Thousand Holidays for a Fiver’. Is this news? Another Daily is asking its readers ‘What does it mean to be British?’ The best reply to date is from a man in Switzerland: ‘Being British is about driving in a German car to an Irish pub for a Belgian beer, then travelling home, grabbing an Indian curry or a Chinese on the way, to sit on Swedish furniture and watch American soap shows on a Japanese TV. And the most British thing of all? Suspicion of anything foreign.’

The Stansted Express to Liverpool Street is punctual, not cheap. It’s worth taking the train because the BAA tell us that last year there were 178 days of roadworks on the motorway to London and there are 571 sets of traffic lights between here and Central London. I gaze around. Airports, there’s nothing like them. The variety of people and cultures, excitement and expectation, arrival and escape, the last-minute crises, the personal dramas, the tearful partings and joyful reunions. I could live in an airport. Jesus, maybe I do.

I have always loved airlines and travel; eschewing a structured social order and a daily routine of life for a flight of fancy to a new world less familiar; cheating the four seasons. Mick is not such a fan. ‘The problem with the airline industry is it is so populated with people who grew up in the 1940s or 1950s who got their excitement looking at airplanes flying overhead. They wanted to be close to airplanes. Mercifully I was a child of the 1960s and a trained accountant, so aircraft don’t do anything for me. There’s a lot of big egos in this industry. That might be a better title for them, including myself rather than entrepreneurs. It’s a stupid business, which generally loses a lot of money. With the exception of Southwest and ourselves, and EzJet to a lesser extent, nobody makes a lot of money at it.’

But why go to Central London when I have shops, restaurants, cafés, a viewing gallery, ample seating and more tourists than I could ever encounter on Oxford Street or at Madame Tussauds? I decide to spend the remaining five hours of my allotted time in the UK here, and I engage in my continuing observation of my fellow users of this airport.

1. Italian Students. They reside permanently in Departures, sorted into large groups, surrounded by backpacks piled high on luggage trolleys. They are dressed by FCUK, Diesel and Quicksilver. They survive on communal bottles of mineral water and occasional trips to Prêt a Manger. They rarely venture into Central London. They keep in touch with the world via Dell laptops and Wifi G-mail. They grow goatee beards or shave only weekly. They fly home for significant events such as births, marriages or funerals but promptly return to their place of permanent residence, irresistibly drawn by fares of one euro and the absence of rent at Stansted. I don’t engage in voluntary conversation because the guys wear T-shirts which advise ‘Practice Safe Sex, Go Fuck Yourself’ or else ‘If You Don’t Like Oral Sex, Then Shut Your Mouth.’ Their spiky bohemian girlfriends wear T-shirts which advise ‘Your Son is in Good Hands’. These passengers are the key to success in the low fares airline business since they will happily take 6am flights to nowhere and catch two-hour-long bus excursions, whilst businessmen love Heathrow and BA. The difference is time. Businessmen are time poor. No one has more time to spare than an Italian student.

2. Old Dears. They sometimes gather around in a huddle, take out a sliced white loaf, add some Utterly Butterly spread, select ham and cheese from assorted baskets and self-assemble their own sandwiches in a manufacturing operation of such operational efficiency as to impress even Henry Ford.

3. Old Blokes. They cluster together in teams and are identifiable in sporting matching blazers and grey slacks, possibly either rightly proud veterans or members of a lawn bowling club. Often they break out into Welsh accents and talk about getting up at 4am to catch a mini-bus up the motorway to Stansted.

4. Foursomes. Two pairs of Old Dears and Old Blokes off on holidays. One Old Bloke is hyper-active and so refuses to sit, preferring to go for newspapers for all tastes and to search airport desks for luggage tags. His Old Dear recalls she left a cucumber in the fridge at home so she telephones her daughter to use it. The second Old Bloke is not budging and wonders aloud why anyone needs luggage tags since they advertise to all that your home is empty for two weeks. His Old Dear decides to re-lace her gleaming new sneakers. Eventually she gives up. ‘Good job I don’t work in a shoe shop. I’d be there for hours doing up laces.’

5. Check-in Ladies. These females of a certain age wear blue uniforms which are two sizes too small. The ladies are wide, rather than tall, and teeter about on precarious six-inch heels. They wander amidst the ever-lengthening queues of the Great Unwashed disappearing over the horizon, occasionally looking at impressive clipboards and lists of flight timings, scribbling notes with Bic biros. Their job is to never make eye contact or engage any passengers, and particularly not to intervene when any check-in delays arise. But beware. Cross these ladies once and you will never fly anywhere anytime ever again.

6. Check-in Gents. These thirty-ish males stand in the raised areas overlooking each check-in area. They are only visible from the waist upwards, unfortunately often much like Fiona Bruce on the BBC. They wear excessive assorted BAA security ID dog tags hung around their necks like Vietnam GIs and sport tight officialdom haircuts. The Check-in Gent’s job is to closely examine all the female talent below and to nod approvingly in small groups when a fit Italian brunette or a Nordic blonde with big tits leans over the desk below.

7. Trolley Dollies. Not flight attendants but guys in luminous jackets who gather the baggage trolleys from the concourse. Their job is to steal back the trolleys from sleeping Italian students, make the world’s longest snake of inter-connected trolleys, apply for an entry in the Guinness World Records and drive their trolley snake through the heart of the dormant student population, forcing them to rise from their slumber and scatter like the parting of the Red Sea by Moses. ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t see you down there.’

8. Dixon’s Homing Businessman. Guys in suits with an overnight bag, laptop PC, briefcase and duty free bag. They stand carrying all four items whilst on a mobile telephone, broadcast to the Departures lounge about sales forecasts and cash budgets, refuse to sit and lessen the load, instead irresistibly drawn to the threshold of Dixon’s electrical store, worried that the latest digital nano-gadget might pass them by.

9. The Well-Heeled Couple. He is tall with proud features and silver hair and wears chinos with a crease, open-neck Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and blue blazer with gold buttons. She wears make-up, a tan, jewels, and heels. Both are fifty-something. Their luggage matches, mostly it’s Louis Vuitton, and they lug golf bags or skis over to the oversize baggage. They ask for directions around Stansted since they are only used to the confines of Heathrow Terminal 1 or 5. ‘We usually fly BA Club Europe but this cheap little Irish airline flies to somewhere near our summer holiday home / winter ski chalet / golf course / friend’s yacht.’

10. Lost Elderly Irishman. He is alone and is bewildered by Stansted, having left his Cricklewood or Kilburn digs on a rarely taken journey back to his roots, usually to Knock Ireland West, maybe sadly to a funeral. Or I suspect some well-meaning relative bought him a ticket home for two pence so he feels obliged to use it. I doubt he is sitting at home Googling away all day looking for free seat sales. Personally I blame low fares airlines for upsetting his ordered life. He wears his Sunday best, an old navy suit, perhaps his only suit, and his passport shakes in his rough hands. I always offer him as much assistance as possible.

I am early for check-in. It’s two hours to departure. I sit opposite a screen showing my flight. The desk opens soon after and I amble over. I am overtaken by a woman with a walking stick who runs to the same check-in desk. She is using the established Old Woman with Fake Walking Stick ploy to get ahead in the queue.

In the security area we watch a statuesque six-foot-plus lady passenger. She sets off the X-ray machine so she stops by the BAA staff, holds her arms out and waits to be frisked. It’s a male staff member, about five foot five and his eyes are at the level of her breasts.

He smiles. ‘Darling, I’d love to search you but I’d lose my job.’ A female staff member rescues him.

The Metro Café in Departures is crammed with Ruinair staff; less passenger fare and more works canteen. It’s terrifying to sit near the departure gates at Stansted, with the constant stream of threats they unleash at us poor passengers over the tannoy. ‘Pre-boarding call. Come immediately to Gate 42. Last few remaining passengers. The gate is now closing. Your luggage will be offloaded. You will be denied boarding. Last and final boarding call.’ And there’s the public shaming of passengers by name.

If you wish to break a terrorist suspect, don’t play white noise. Make them spend a day at Stansted.

The Low Fares Airline (2)

THE LOO FARES AIRLINE

Picture the scene. The plane lifts off. Then only minutes into the flight the fasten-seat-belts signs throughout the cabin start to flash. You return to your seat, anxiously awaiting turbulence, perhaps worse. The next thing you see is your captain striding purposefully up the aisle to the cupboard-sized water closet. Pinned to your seat in terror, you wonder who is flying the plane in his absence. But a few minutes later the pilot saunters back down the gangway and the emergency lights are extinguished. Only then do you discover that the whole performance was just to ensure the pilot can visit the facilities without having to join a queue. And the airline where this is standard procedure? Well, it’s Ruinair. Mick O’Leery explains: ‘Look, even the captain has to take a leak occasionally. When such times arise, it is normal procedure to switch the seat-belt sign on to ensure all passengers are seated.’ One of our readers, who was interrupted while ensconced in the lavatory, isn’t reassured. ‘It was very alarming,’ says the flyer, who was 20 minutes into a two-hour journey to the south of France when the seatbelt lights lit up and the stewardess announced that the plane was beginning to land. ‘The passengers were confused, we were all looking at our watches. Then the stewardess came on again to say we weren’t landing and that the captain had just needed to relieve himself.’ But O’Leery remains unrepentant. ‘I agree it’s not ideal interrupting customers mid-pee for the captain, but it’s all part of ensuring a fast turnaround at the other end.’

DAILY TELEGRAPH

THE LOW IQ AIRLINE

Three Norwegian tourists who planned a holiday on the Greek island of Rhodes landed in the south-western French town of Rodez after misunderstanding their destination on a Ruinair internet booking, officials said. The three, identified as Bente, Marit and Knut, appear to have been surprised when their Ruinair flight landed in Rodez, which boasts a medieval town centre with a 13th century cathedral but none of the Greek island’s beach resorts. ‘We were told of the mistake when the three tourists arrived at the airport and we tried to make their stay as agreeable as possible before they decided to return to Norway,’ said Florence Taillefer, the head of the Rodez tourism office.

REUTERS

THE LOW FEES AIRLINE

Aware of the need to step up its promotional efforts in an increasingly uncertain market, Truro School in Cornwall has mounted a publicity campaign in Essex to capitalise on cheap Ruinair flights from Stansted to Newquay. Simon Price, the boarding school’s deputy head, said: ‘It would make perfect sense for someone from the Stansted area to board here. The flights are normally £10 if you book in advance, although we’ve got someone coming to visit this week who paid 79p.’ Bill Levene, 17, who is studying chemistry, physics and maths at A level, said: ‘The boys learn about co-operation and teamwork living in a boarding house. And I’ve learnt how to use the washing machine,’ he added.

TIMES ONLINE

THE LOW ESTEEM AIRLINE

A man who made bizarre attempts to kidnap female Ruinair staff had a toy gun and pieces of rope in his pocket when he was arrested. Gavin Plumb, 20, targeted women wearing the low-cost airline’s distinctive blue uniform as they travelled by train from Bishop’s Stortford to Stansted Airport. He sat in front of Ruinair employee Katazyna Pasek and handed her a note which read, ‘I will do anything’. She moved to another seat, but Plumb followed and showed her a piece of paper which read, ‘I will do anything, so keep quiet and get off with me at the next station. Otherwise I will shoot you and everyone on this train.’ He put his finger to his lip, indicating she should keep quiet, a prosecutor told Chelmsford Crown Court. Fearing she was going to be killed, Miss Pasek became upset and other passengers intervened. Plumb moved down the carriage and got off. Two days later, air stewardess Marlene Gaborit, also wearing her uniform, was in an almost empty carriage when Plumb sat beside her. He showed her a note which read, ‘I’m a police officer. You have to get off at the next station for a quick chat.’ He asked her if she wanted to see his ID and he produced a card. As Plumb got off he touched her leg and said: ‘No worries.’ He was still on the platform when transport police saw him later. He was asked if he had claimed to be a police officer, which he denied, but seemed agitated, said the prosecution. When asked if he had any police ID, he said: ‘My little brother uses my coat. He pretends to be a police officer. I’ve just remembered, there’s a gun in my pocket.’ He had a black toy handgun and three pieces of rope on him. When arrested, he said that he wanted to be a police community support officer. During questioning, he said that it had all been a silly prank because he was bored at home. Plumb, of Upper Stonyfields, Harlow, pleaded guilty to two charges of attempted kidnap. Defence counsel described the offences as very unusual with disturbing undertones and said Plumb, who was of previous good character, was a vulnerable young man who suffered from low self-esteem.

THE GUARDIAN

THE LOW AIRLINE

A Ruinair pilot was demoted following a serious incident on a flight carrying 128 passengers from Stansted to Cork, it has emerged. Poor communications between the pilot and co-pilot led to the incident, where the Boeing 737-800 aircraft flew too low over Bishopstown. The Air Accident Investigation Unit of the Department of Transport (AAIU) has published its investigation into the incident, which took place with 134 people on board. The AAIU report says the flight over Bishopstown was reported to the Cork Airport Authority by ‘at least 16 upset residents, whose independent and consistent complaints, submitted by telephone and in writing, referred to noise and how low the aircraft was being flown.’

THE IRISH TIMES

THE LOW VISIBILITY AIRLINE

A passenger jet which was destined for City of Derry Airport has landed at an Army base six miles away by mistake. The Liverpool to Derry service, operated by Eirjet on behalf of Ruinair, landed at Ballykelly airstrip. Ruinair said in a statement it was due to an ‘error by the pilot who mistakenly believed he was on a visual approach to City of Derry airport’. Ballykelly airfield, formerly RAF Ballykelly, has 2,000m of partially-paved strip, of which only around half is understood to be usable, not least since it is now intersected by a railway line. It has not been used for fixed wing aircraft since 1971. One of the passengers said ‘The pilot apologised and said, “We have arrived at the wrong airport. I ask you to be patient.”’ Another passenger said he knew the flight was landing at the wrong airport. ‘I tried to tell the crew that we were landing in the wrong place, but it was too late to do anything because the descent was almost over. It was hilarious.’ Brian Mather, a passenger, said the soldiers treated the passengers well. ‘They could see the funny side of it. Some of the soldiers came on board and laughingly welcomed us to their international airport.’ Captain Mervyn Granshaw, chairman of the British Airline Pilots’ Association, said there were several reasons why such an incident could occur. ‘Human beings are fallible—from simple things like putting teabags in a milk jug to the other end of the spectrum of landing at the wrong runway.’ Ruinair chief executive Mick O’Leery said, ‘The pilot seems to have made a stupid mistake.’