Though I am an Englishman, and very obviously too, I dress like my dad already, though not quite fifty (just yet), I was educated at Oxford and you know it the moment I open my mouth, sorry it stuck and no matter what life throws at me, I just can’t remove the plum from my upper nasal passage. I truly try to not travel like an Englishman and feel we should all try to adjust our ways to have a better and easier life.
To start with I get to the airport early, I smile at my waiter, I take my time eating breakfast and never at a fast food restaurant. I do not drink a pint at 6am and I do not purchase anything from the duty free on the way out. Why would you unless for some reason you are leaving it to the last minute to hopefully get those sunglasses you want. Just buy some that last.
After my leisurely breakfast, I arrive promptly at the gate with no rushing, no matter how far it is from the terminal. I then sit down and wait, whilst the hundreds of other travellers are queuing the second someone arrives as part of the team that will soon open the gate for the flight, which we all know has pre-booked seats and then wait for about an hour so they can get on first.
When all is calm, I get up and walk over, head straight through, enter the plane, move the guy in the aisle seat and his other half who were at the front of the queue and watch them bristle as I shuffle to the window and start sorting out my on-flight requirements before finally taking a seat. My pre-removed items are ear plugs (to repel screaming kids and incessant moaning of other passengers), reading glasses, phone, headphones, book and water. I put on my seatbelt, insert earplugs, pull out my book and I’m set. Even if I'm delayed on the tarmac, I am in the right place and I haven’t broken a sweat. Unlike the people around me. I am also still smiling, at the stewards as I get on, with a ‘good morning’ thrown in for good measure, along with other passengers who look like they have just run a marathon.
When it comes to the stewards, remember these men and women are tired. They may have just landed and have been on or have many round trips ahead of them, they are also there for your safety not your convenience, so be nice. The last thing they need is you being an arse because you rushed your 6am pint due to getting stuck on the M25 as you left it too late to leave the house and you have the aroma of someone who has just slammed three bacon and egg McMuffins in quick succession and you have been on the plane for about half an hour and already annoyed you’re not in the air. They do not need or deserve your grief.
Then the flight begins. There I am, relaxed, reading, drinking water and enjoying my time with the muffled sounds of the aircraft soothing my journey. Then the bing of the seatbelt sign goes off and the cacophony of clicks as the seatbelts are unlocked for no reason. The initial toilet queue begins and the sound of the attention buttons being pushed. I can answer your questions if you like, food and drink will be around in about twenty minutes, just wait. The flight goes on, the smell of the inevitable ham and cheese toastie, which, I can tell you will be horrible, so stop ordering it, and the general aroma of wine and beer getting in the way of my decaf tea or earl grey. There is usually some arguing occurring by this point, whether with children, between parents and couples, stopping one from getting any sleep, no matter the length of the flight. No matter how much I make a point of yawning.
Finally we land, the ordeal of my fellow passengers is over, or is it. The wheels hit the tarmac and the clicks come back, safety doesn’t concern the Englishman at this stage, he is on holiday and nothing will get in his way. We stop, the seatbelt signs turn off and they stand, nearly all of them. Overhead lockers are opened, bags grabbed and poised ready for sudden removal. When I say that the other passengers are standing, they look like the missing link of man, hunched, barely comprehending the lack of space and looking side to side, to see what door will open first, to free them from this craft of current back torture. Smugly I sit in my cushioned seat, as comfortable as one can be on an aircraft seat.
As I continue to read, happy in my thoughts, inwardly laughing at the person next to me, neck mangled up in the bulkhead above them, the doors open, the warm air rushes in and my fellow passengers disembark and ram themselves on the first bus. Like the London tube at rush hour, this vehicle of false desire is a haven for arm pits grinding into faces, the smell of stale beer and sweat and toes being hit by suitcase wheels. A joy I am sure.
When most fellow cattle have removed themselves from the aircraft, I pack up, disembark, wait a few minutes to get on a bus, take a seat, because this bus is always nearly empty and the aircon is noticeable. I arrive at the terminal, patiently wait in the lines of passport control and by the time I get to the baggage reclaim, I instantly grab my bag and I’m out picking up my uber. Surrounded by angry faces and comments of “about time” and “what coach did she say” echoing through the warm haze of a foreign land. What a wonder to behold the Englishman travelling on holiday, just do not be one, no matter your nationality.