I am gigging in Edinburgh and have to take a flight. This presents a bit of a problem. I just don’t like flying. Most people will say it is just the taking off and landing that is the problem. Nope, it is being in the air. It isn’t a fear of heights it is a fear of Flying. Even as a child when most kids would be excited about the thought of getting on a plane I would be petrified. It might be because I never got on one until I was twenty one. Whilst kids at school went off to Spain and Greece every year we only went to one place. We always went to Ireland on the Boat from Holyhead or Liverpool. My schoolmates thought it was because we were poor, but it was more sinister than that. We were sent back to Ireland to find a partner to breed with. It was every Irish parents dream that they would have little Irish grand children running around in Celtic football shirts. Like Salmon facing a perilous journey to the breeding grounds, we too had to have an arduous experience on the journey to make it worth while. The boat was the civilised way to travel. On the news there were never stories of ships sinking, only planes crashing and we feared flight! My dad used to wind us up by threatening us with the airport. He would then relent and say “ok you been good we’ll take the boat”.
At school we had the story of Icarus the Greek bloke who flew too close to the sun and melted his wings. He died and that was all the proof I needed that flight was wrong. It was the start of my phobia. Even years later when I read that it gets colder the higher up you go so he couldn’t have melted anything. It merely reconfirmed my belief that the sky is for the birds and lunatics.
So why then am I yet again sitting on an aircraft headed for Scotland with cabin crew looking at me? Do they know I don’t want to be there? Are they like cats that just know I don’t like cats yet still want to stare at me?
How can any sane person work in a job in the air? Why? I couldn’t do it. It is hard enough sitting on the thing. If I am lucky enough to fly with Chambers and Nettleton they will let me hold their hands, Rudi Lickwood isn’t quite as keen on the idea. I go through a ritual starting by staring at the pilot and flight crew to see if they appear happy. I am not getting on a plane driven by someone who appears hungover, depressed or looks like they have debts that a hefty life insurance policy would eradicate. Ours today look okay although the pilot grins manically which means he is either very happy or a big eejit.
At a party a Pilot told me that the crew look for signs in all the passengers to see who might flip mid air. I said I had seen that on every flight I have ever been on. No one else in the room had. Okay so I must be drawing attention to myself and need to appear calmer. I try to be logical and not worry about death, disfigurement or diarrhoea.
Today’s flight is from London City airport and that has my worst combination of variables. The Air Hostess had seen me standing still on the runway “Come on sir you are holding up the passengers”. The Propellers transfixed me. “Where is the real plane with the jet engines?” She laughed. I was being serious. Propellers are for ships. I don’t want to be 10,000 feet up in the air and one of the propellers sees the water and decides he wants to go hang out with his mates. I want jet engines. I want the latest technology not the height of 1930’s innovation. Propellers? It is the 21st century. I don’t want leeches in hospital, horses pulling carts or coal to heat the house. And I don’t want propellers.
Rudi Lickwood grabbed my elbow. “Stop clowning around and get on the plane”. I took a deep breath and walked. The flight is only an hour long. Last month I flew to Barbados. Eight hours. I was petrified. Only one way to get through it, get drunk. So I had some whiskey at the airport. Okay three. The first problem was that I am not a drinking man and so I get pickled very easily. The combination of being tipsy and a having to pass a gadget shop on the way to the departure gate is a lethal combination. I sat on the plane clutching my newly bought toothbrush with MP3 player and compass whilst wearing my torch on a headband. Two great bargains may I add.
The Plane took off late and I prepared to die. I became a small child and after the third “Are we nearly there yet” the Airhostess suggested I find something to do and have a drink. I relaxed slightly after a couple of small glasses of wine, although I do like a bit of a singsong when I have been drinking. I fought the urge and started reading about Geoff Norcott’s Edinburgh show. Half way through reading it I realised that the wine had killed the fear and the flight wasn’t bad. But then I did something daft and looked out the window. My brain realised that we had tricked it with alcohol and that we were in the air and panic set in. I looked around realising where I was and must have looked distressed as the woman sitting next to me said. “Must be a great writer to get you that emotional”. “No” says I “it is comedy” she looked at me like I had escaped from a clinic. The flight to Edinburgh went okay. I only used the toilet a dozen times so at least I had clean hands.
We landed and I hugged the crew as we got off. “Thank you for not letting me die” says I to bewildered looking stewards.. As soon as we were clear of the terminal I switched my phone on to ring home and tell them I had survived. I instantly received a text from the management here at The Comedy Club “Do you want to go to Hong Kong for a gig”
Hong Kong is 18 hours in the air, my liver couldn’t take the alcohol. Maybe I could take a Slow boat?
Tonight the gig goes well and I am happy, but tomorrow I have to get on a plane home…..
Tags: comedians, Comedy Club, Comic Voice Management, funny, John Ryan, story
