LGW - EFL

[monchavo]

A pink dawn welcomes us as we pass through the cloud layer and reach our cruising altitude of 36,000ft, contrasting the grey and unwelcoming gnat-piss rain at ground level. We are travelling on a new plane today, an Airbus A321 neo – a “next generation” aircraft. The normal EasyJet garish orange is muted here, with unfamiliar black leather seats accented by just a single thin line of colour. They are stamped with a logo - “Recaro” – a vaguely remembered, slightly fancy Italian manufacturer, giving the impression that EasyJet is desperate for a whiff of class, despite the homely reality.

The elegance of the aircraft is in stark contrast to its umbilical home. Gatwick airport is ungainly. I would struggle to describe it as “architected”, rather, it is as if some child has flipped through a book of building styles of the last sixty years and randomly torn out pages, assembling them in a mass of sticky tape, spittle and vigour. The buildings are a mess of thinly disguised repurposed, re-clad spaces, grossly extended to meet the demand.

The owners of the airport through the years have “done what they must” (and little more) to keep Gatwick operational. Searching for our hotel we venture into the musty rear stairs and find ourselves cast back in time. As if transported into a town-hall or British municipal building in the thick of the 1960s, we run our hands over homely, enamelled rails in off white and teal, the staircases almost unchanged from when the airport was built. Still in their the narrow gauge with twee polished black marble, scuffed down to a dull dark grey - whereas the main concourse is spartan, minimalist and “accessible” – all smooth-floored, joint free and gleaming – like an overture to a great experience. How disappointing the whole place is.

My flight companions are, for the most part, sleeping. No doubt exhausted from long journeys originating in Barnet, Harwich, Liphook or Liss, wrenched - hood-lidded - from their beds at one or two the morning to drudge across London or the home-counties, filtering through one of the longest security queues I can remember. Often, the air on these flights is one of celebration -gaiety even- but today it is sombre, close, hushed. Thankfully there are no stag parties, groups of largered, gurning, hollering yobs or shrieking plastic tiara’d hens to pierce the morning blanket-calm.

The woman next to me wears painter’s trousers in a patchwork of green, blue, red and purple. Initially I fancy she is a fine artist, perhaps a sculptor or even a clay-mation wrangler, forming personalities from plasticine, but I am downcast as look to her manicure. It belies a life of working with tools. She’s probably just appropriated the “look” to her own ends. Her companion, lost within a Victoria’s Secret dressing gown has stuffed an enormous duffle-bag of black and white oversized houndstooth check under the seat in front of her, defying the laws of physics.
The woman in front of this pair is the most aesthetically interesting. Perhaps going through a transitional period, she wears a black velvet hoodie, pulled down over her head. Blonde whisps of hair peeking out, here and there. I estimate she is in her late twenties. Clad in a pair of brown, woollen pinstriped flares, black nail varnish, short black cotton socks and a pair of black plastic Crocs which appear several sizes too big for her feet, she clutches an enormous, fluffy, stuffed yellow chick, tightly about her chest. Crushing her avian snuggle-buddy against the armrest, the toy appears pinned, as if in some bizarre act of plushie judo. Turned on one side, a wing points upward, awkwardly erect. Its orange beak juts into the aisle and a single, black, beady eye stares at me, silently pleading.

We were the penultimate group to board, having threaded our way through a transportation hellscape of travelators, tattooed flesh and people seemingly incapable of following instructions. The muscle memory of travel, built up over decades of traipsing through terminals has waned slightly, the rhythmical navigation of the obstacle course of “passport-boarding pass-laptops out-of-bags-please” now ever so slightly unfamiliar. I manage, but it bamboozles some around me completely.
A middle-aged, auburn haired, white-trousered woman to my right, is clearly confused. From a shapeless tapestry-carpet hold-all she wrestles three clear plastic bags containing what I conservatively estimate to be 800ML of liquid foundation, makeup remover, toner, micellular water, moisturiser, night cream, body lotion and all the concealer a lady might need for a decade of travel. The containers are so numerous that they form little pyramids inside the bags, stacked on top of each other like bottles of acrylic paint bundled into an artist’s crate. As she fusses, the belt attendant holds up a stern, single digit.

“ONE PLASHTIC BAG!”

The woman blinks and breathes through her mouth as she processes the edict. I imagine her holiday flashing in front of her eyes and the horror of being forced to choose which bottles will be cast into the great, circular black bin next to her by the gloating, latex-gloved ogre with epaulettes. A cosmetics purgatory awaits. Her dreadful choice akin to deciding which of her errant children will face a medieval execution – the banal arbitrary liquid and paste restriction ruining her two weeks in Malaga.

“Ooze laptop is dis!?” rings out from behind the clattering plastic box-trays, full of white Nike trainers, greasy iPads and mangled coats. Instinctively I snap my neck around to find a thick-set woman in a saggy, nylon cardigan holding my device aloft. “It needs to gaw in its awn tray!” she brays, rhythmically emphasising the words as if a mantra, taught not in a golden temple but in a musty, fluorescent-lit classroom in Doncaster. My other laptop is nestling happily with other electronics, but inexplicably she decides to prey on this one. Perhaps she is being supervised? Perhaps she has a quota? Perhaps she just doesn’t like the colourful stickers adorning the top? Instead of placing it into a tray herself, she thrusts it officiously toward me, incapable of help or courtesy. I studiously and deliberately slide a fresh receptacle onto the conveyor, fixing her with a cool stare as I position it “in its own tray”.

Our flight lands fifteen minutes early, but not without a surprise. Sat two thirds of the way back in the plane, we are behind the landing gear – always the worst place to be in the event of a “pancake” landing. Perhaps caught by surprise by a gust or change in direction of the wind, a smooth approach, buffeted by just the mildest of Greek breezes rapidly turns ugly. As we hit the deck a woman behind me cries “Oh!” with a hint of alarm as if she were unexpectedly interrupted in the bathroom by an intruder, or discovered maggots in the gusset of her swimsuit. A murmur ripples through the cabin as my fellow passengers click and tut their disapproval to one-another.

At last, we have arrived.

[3WE]

Rambling…are you LHB-744?

But, it is intelligible.

Are you Gabriel?

But, it lacks pontification and advice for Dummy and flyboy.

I am confused (as is normal).

I gather you rode an aeroplanie and by extreme, sheer luck, didn’t did died.

[Not_Karl]

(...)
But, it lacks pontification, advice for Dummy and flyboy and mealphotos.
(...)
I gather you rode a cheap-composite crackerbox so you obviously did died and are writing from the afterlife.

Fixed.

[monchavo]

As I had never rode on a 320 neo before I was greatly amused to observe that the sink in the aft lavatory *is* miniscule. I estimate it to be about 25x15cm

Also, of interest are the multi purpose doors. The toilet doors double as attendant seats. Quite an interesting design choice.

[Sickbag]

#fuckyougatwick
follow my hashtag on twitter...

[3WE]

As I had never rode on a 737 Max before I was greatly amused to observe that the sink in the aft lavatory *is* miniscule. I estimate it to be about 25x15cm

Also, of interest are the multi purpose doors. The toilet doors double as attendant seats. Quite an interesting design choice.

Fixed?

Or are the US media a propaganda arm for the French?

I repeat: I HATE aeroengineers.

Also, did any of the women show interest in your manchavo, Macho?

[monchavo]

As I had never rode on a 737 Max before I was greatly amused to observe that the sink in the aft lavatory *is* miniscule. I estimate it to be about 25x15cm

Also, of interest are the multi purpose doors. The toilet doors double as attendant seats. Quite an interesting design choice.

Fixed?

Or are the US media a propaganda arm for the French?

I repeat: I HATE aeroengineers.

Also, did any of the women show interest in your manchavo, Macho?

The designers obviously have drunk from the same pool of koolaid, the size really is miniscule.

[Not_Karl]

The designers obviously have drunk from the same pool of koolaid, the size really is miniscule.

It's Not_the size what matters...

(Will Flyboyie's signature be updated/expanded? )

[monchavo]

The designers obviously have drunk from the same pool of koolaid, the size really is miniscule.

It's Not_the size what matters...

(Will Flyboyie's signature be updated/expanded? )

have you experienced one?

[Not_Karl]

have you experienced one?

No, my lav is huge (or at least I want to believe that), but that's what they say...

[monchavo]

have you experienced one?

No, my lav is huge (or at least I want to believe that), but that's what they say...

The sink is remarkably small and really not fit for purpose. If you get a chance to investigate on an A320neo, I recommend it for the giggle.

[Not_Karl]

The sink is remarkably small and really not fit for purpose. If you get a chance to investigate on an A320neo, I recommend it for the giggle.

I would really like to, the last aerosink I had the pleasure to investigate was this, probably in the year 2000 (pictures are from 1998). I'm sure I had also a picture of the toilet, with the grass below the aeroplanie visible through it (I hope it was Not_that way when it was in service ), but it appears to have been lost to time

1998 principios - Bristol Freighter TC-330 (320) NATURALEZA 014 287 40xx 1 N N N 082c.jpg (76.79 KiB) Viewed 666 times

1998 principios - Bristol Freighter TC-330 (320) NATURALEZA 015 287 40xx 1 N N N 042c.jpg (80.61 KiB) Viewed 666 times

[monchavo]

The sink is remarkably small and really not fit for purpose. If you get a chance to investigate on an A320neo, I recommend it for the giggle.

I would really like to, the last aerosink I had the pleasure to investigate was this, probably in the year 2000 (pictures are from 1998). I'm sure I had also a picture of the toilet, with the grass below the aeroplanie visible through it (I hope it was Not_that way when it was in service ), but it appears to have been lost to time

1998 principios - Bristol Freighter TC-330 (320) NATURALEZA 014 287 40xx 1 N N N 082c.jpg
1998 principios - Bristol Freighter TC-330 (320) NATURALEZA 015 287 40xx 1 N N N 042c.jpg

fascinating images

[monchavo]

.......i can almost smell them..........quite repulsive