"I am mad as hell and I and not going to take it any more." It's odd the way lines from some films strike a chord. That one was delivered by that accomplished, and underrated English actor, Peter Finch, in a role as a TV newscaster suffering a nervous breakdown.
In the film he, more or less, hijacks the network and shares his angst with the viewing audience. The ratings soar and of course he is encouraged to sound off nightly. In the process he encourages the public to, "Get mad; stick their heads out of the window and yell the phrase into the city night... And thousands do. Well I am mad as hell, and it"s all about being processed by airports, aircrew and civil aviation in general.
I am mad as hell and I am not going to take it any more. Haven't you ever wondered why when you enter an airport you have to hand over all responsibility for your life. The moment you walk through those doors they do what they like to you.
Delays seem to be increasing. They take your luggage and then tell you how long the delay will be this time. Never mind that you are checking in two hours before departure presumably for their convenience. To be told that you must sit around for and extra five hours would try the patience of a saint and the pocket of a merchant banker - except that he and all the other exec's are sitting in a comfortable business-class lounge with free drinks and all the extras which we, their customers, are unwittingly funding.
Yes, the international airport is a strange, confusing place - at least for the first 90 minutes. It has its own global life - places to eat, places to buy clothes in case the delay is more than two months, sports shops in case you forgot to pack your pitons or mountain bike, and the compulsory display of naff ties, tartan covered dolls in cryogenic packaging and indestructible Kendal Mint Cake. You see, you are being encouraged in a galactically stupid way to believe your holiday, if in fact you are on holiday, has begun the moment you entered the airport Twilight Zone.
Airports make vast mounts of revenue, thousands of pounds for every 10 minutes a flight is delayed. There is no power on Earth which would force them to fly on time in the face of lucre accrued by the delay. Trains can't leave when they want to - well perhaps that's not such a great example...
In fact, now I come to think of it, it is difficult to recall anything that happens when it is supposed to; but at least you are free to leave the railway station and go to the pub or home or anywhere else for that matter.
It might not be quite so intolerable if you were made comfortable. Airport seating is designed to keep you circulating from Tie Rack to Duty Free, and on to the eatery decorated with something like plastic replicas of the leftovers from the rebuild of a Sopwith Camel.
And talking of Sopwith Camels - why are there never any spare planes to cope with the delays? My memories of the steam era and the Great Western Railway remind me that they could at a pinch always hook up the Gobowen Flyer, a 2,4,0 tank engine, to haul stranded passengers on to their destination or even one of the worthy Castle-class engines.
There are strong arguments for bringing an old Comet out of the hanger (but not the lethal model with the square windows) with couchette and full silver service.
It used to be exciting stepping on to the asphalt and striding, bag in hand towards the great, silver aircraft. You felt like someone important - in a movie. We now seem to board like rats down a drainpipe, strap ourselves in ludicrously small seats and wait hopefully for the food parcels to arrive.
And don't be fooled if the airline offers you a menu. By time they hand out your package you will have only one choice. It will include either sweetcorn, reconstituted egg omelette, something brown in gravy and a brightly coloured thing with Miracle Whip piped on top, or possibly all of the latter.
You will of course be supplied with plastic cutlery so you cannot attempt to disembowel yourself when reruns of Only Fools and Horses, One Foot in the Grave, or worse, The best of Terry and June are flashed on the screen before you.
You may of course sleep but this is only due to oxygen starvation when the air conditioning is turned down to save more money.
You know that no matter what time you started; no matter how long the flight is; no matter that your hotel is within a Sunday afternoon stroll of the airport, it is going to take a full day of your life and all your endurance to reach your destination.
You might as well sit back and enjoy the second bout of security questioning cunningly designed to trap you into confessing, "Yes, I am an international terrorist and my reason for visiting is to start a revolution and take control of the state." And, "I had a dark, swarthy stranger with a foreign accent pack my suitcase with the heavy metal sphere. The bottles with the skull and crossbones are for my personal use in case the flight is delayed and the only electrical goods I have are my Yamaha Melotone organ and some specialised detonating equipment which I need for my work. The Samurai sword is, of course, our picnic knife and I never go anywhere without it. I am of course much younger in the passport photo owing to the flight delays incurred on route."
There is, however, one thing worse than being an international terrorist, and that is being a smoker. My partner smokes and in sympathy I have an occasional cigar - well actually I am up to one a day now.
I read that the chances of contracting a serious illness from passive smoking is 30,000 to one. You might think those odds a little high until you comprehend that you are more likely to contract cancer from eating a carrot a day, eating a pork chop a week, drinking a glass of orange juice a fortnight or eating a head of lettuce every two years than, "Sitting routinely in a roomful of smokers." In fact the writer says that you are five times more likely to contact cancer from your budgie than from secondary smoke. Please address any queries on diet or pets to Mr Bill Bryson, New Hampshire, USA.
The galling thing that after being dehumanised by the airport machine, smokers are asked to declare themselves subhuman, place themselves in booths and designated areas and generally conduct themselves in a way reminiscent of pinning on a yellow star in wartime Germany.
Where will it end? Shouldn't people with offensive body odour be cordoned off or made to travel in the hold; tiny children medicated so that they do not disturb passengers who have paid full fares and the people who contrived this whole travel nightmare forced to be available, and accountable, when we tell them, "We are mad as hell, and we are not going to take it any more".
