Conc-Awe-d

'Once you get hooked on the airline business, its worse than dope.'

- Ed Acker, former chief of Air Florida.

So today: a fat Concorde shaped doobie. And by fat, I mean thin. Thin, light, and white hot...

Turbojet Supersonic Concorde. Just that sentence, those three words together sound like three kings. In fact, forget the original three kings. These chaps got to baby Jesus first, with their gifts of speed, exhilaration and collectable cutlery.

Concorde was certainly the crowning glory of the aviation world. It took a decade of research to get it airborne, and it underwent a rigorous 5000 hours of flight development time. I wish more things were measured in hours. In particular, height. Or food. 'Cedric. I've had 300 hours of Kiwi fruit today. I feel 30 hours taller...'

The sleek, first-rate design was even more remarkable given there was no computer software sophisticated enough to help a great deal. The computing machines of the sixties were huge mainframes that mostly did sums and looked not unlike washing machines. See one at work, right here.

I feel both sad and relieved I will never go on a Concorde. Take off already does strange things to my face and soul. I can't imagine what might have happened to my mind as a passenger on a supersonic, ozone scratching firework, shooting into the abyss at the speed of sci-fi.

However, I do regret (and even my flight-disinclined mum does too) that even with a lottery win, there's no choice anymore.

Progress...regress? The only other thing on the horizon (away from the window, it's not there yet) is the European Space Agency's goal to create hypersonic flight, which would more or less shoot passengers like guided missiles in the direction of Australia. Look, its a massive flying cartridge pen! And it would fling you London to Sydney in just four hours. But it all comes down to cash. And the fact it has to climb through Zeus' arsehole to get enough altitude to go hypersonic, meaning the relatively 'short' London to New York hop, would be redundant. Estimated time of arrival in our lives? 2040.

The other option would be this: ZEHST, a sort of eco-rocket being prepped by Japan which will run on seaweed (and mermaids) and do London to Japan in less than three hours. The prototype will have rocket engines apparently. Mental. It's hard not to think you're reading fiction, sometimes.

In the sixties, Concorde had enough government investment and backers to take it from prototype to real life. Both British and French bigwigs ploughed money into it. Initial excitement over the soft furnished lightning bolt, was fervent. In a joyful throwback, both TWA and Pan Am ordered the pointy nosed sonic swans along with Boac and Air France, but only the latter two took them up due to some economic plot. And the fact the Soviet competitor and almost-twin, the Tupelov TU-144, crashed at the '73 Paris airshow, making investors nervous. But more on my favourite robo air-spaniel later.

Heel. Heeeel...

Drop it!

Good boy.

Concorde was a time bandit. You could get from New York to Paris in 3.5 hours (the same time it takes to charge a Tesla Roadster, undergo haemodialysis or cook an average sized turkey). The record held, London to NY, was even less than that - a mere 2 hours 52 (a time that this man dislikes very much). It travelled twice as fast as the speed of sound and a seat on it, cost between four and eight grand.

The menu was even more ridiculous. The website, airlinemeals.net details mile high meals, past and present (geek out on that vacuum packed moist wipe) and Concorde's spread is there in all it's glory. Check it out, it's pretty impressive: truffles, foie gras, lobster, bloody mary relish, a decorative lemon wedge, American Express Centurion Card wafers, a champagne bed bath... all the top treats.*

Millions of bottles of champers were quaffed in Concorde's lifetime**, making it the most light headed, serious piece of technology ever to be flung over the heads of mortals. Passengers included, Joan Collins, Victoria Beckham, Elizabeth Taylor and assorted royals, making it effectively a celebrity catapult. Often the celebs would pop in and see the pilot. The late Barbara Harmer (the first female to fly Concorde) was joined by Tom Cruise at the control decks as she descended into JFK. He just wanted the truth.

* Partly lies.

** Massively true.

The day of Concorde's test flight to RAF Fairford in 1969, my dad was busy being a student. This meant listening to John Peel. So luckily, he remembers Peel's response to the interruption of his broadcast, as newscasters described Concorde's maiden flight in the UK over the airwaves: pure, unadulterated... indifference. Ace. Unfortunately my dad can't remember what Peel was playing on the radio (or I would've embedded it here), but let's imagine it was something suitably cool. In fact, he jovially told me to 'make it up.' So I'm going to pretend it was The Velvet Underground. Boo, who would interrupt the Velvet Underground? 75% of them had sensitive eyes, for goodness sake.

Twenty years later, my dad was lucky enough to get a peep around a grounded Concorde, thanks to a friend. The pilot described how flying at 60,000 avoided all crap weather and turbulence, which meant while the jumbo crew at 35,000 feet were being flung about like socks in a washer dryer, the Concorde was up above, smoothly cutting the air like a Yanagi bocho through raw tuna.

Apparently the lack of tail fin made it handle like a fighter jet and it went into barrel-roles and dives easily (what willpower then, not to surprise ticket holders with arial tumbling). Indeed the Concorde cockpit looked like a cross between a weird, nerdy arcade game and robot's guts; the coolest collage of abstract looking widgets and analogue gauges. It was like a complex, physical dialect that only these specialist pilots got. A bit like French.

One of the best things about flying 60,000 feet above earth must have been the fact passengers could see the curvature of the earth. That's not a view. That's an astro dream. One passenger calls it 'a view from the edge of space,' where the sky glows a 'deep indigo blue.' Check out his earth snaps.

A couple of other things about supersonic flight: the plane BENDS. Not just a bit. Enough for the naked eye to take in (put some clothes on, rude eyes). The plane's fuselage used to extend by a whole foot, meaning back passengers saw the floor flexing. Not only did their plane go boomerang, it also heated up so much at supersonic speed, that the inside of the windows became warm to the touch. Great for passengers with Raynauds.

Livery design was restricted because of this heat. So Concordes were painted a reflective white and only that, to avoid them boiling the sky. Titanium white, snow white, white blossom...quite the palate. The upside of course, was that this aerodynamic streak of toothpaste never suffered any bad taste 'commemorative' paint-jobs. Except for once, when Pepsi shat all over it in 1996 with an expensive ad campaign to celebrate their rebrand (luckily the wings had to stay white). Look at it. It looks abused.

16 flights were made in its incarnation as an blue ode to the sugary fizz-cum-cheap-brass cleaner, before it was sprayed back. So some lucky folk, can actually say they've travelled in a flying Pepsi can. Consumers to the end...

With a 100% safety record, Concorde's life was ultimately buggered up by a lesser plane. In 2003 a piece of loose part plopped off the previous take-off - a Continental Airlines DC10 - which popped Concorde's tyre and caused its crash. Continental Airlines were fined and the mechanic who had a Kitkat instead of a cog-check (cautious guess) got 15 months in jail and a 2000 Euro fine. But Concorde's days were numbered. One bit of lousy workmanship. And a whole fleet extinct.

For the final flight in 2003, there were more celebrity bums on seats than ever before including David Frost who summed up Concorde's awesomeness, with this ode to time travel:

'You can be in london at 10am and New york at 10am. I have never found another way of being in two places at once.'

Except when you look in the mirror, right?

One thing they haven't addressed over the last eight years though, is where the elite get their swanky, sonic food fix now. Perhaps instead of eating on Concorde they'll have to make do with eating a Concorde. Made of salmon. Eat that, scientists.

Or maybe just bring back Concorde. It could be relaunched and painted like a banana. And wouldn't that endorsement please the Velvet Underground...

Fly Me To The Fear

Pteromerhanophobia. A deluxe name for what essentially means, 'I hate flying more than is socially acceptable.' Pteron is Greek for wing. Not to be confused with Pteronophobia - which is a fear of being tickled with feathers. Perhaps the latter (of which I don't have, luckily) cancels out the former. If so, feel free to tickle me at high altitude. Anyway I share my Pteromerhanophobia with some cool people: David Bowie. And also some not so cool people: Kim Jong-Il. Britney Spears.

Given that there are so many ritzy sounding labels for phobias, my recent challenge has been to find a professional name (one with a wage, briefcase and a blow-dry) for fearing flight, yet being an aviation and plane loving geek. I have been temporarily unsuccessful. However, the wings of the web forum has proved I am definitely not alone in this particular quarter of the bonkersverse.

AA777, says: 'I love airplanes. But if we have windshear when we are landing, I'm shitting my pants! I also can't do air pockets.' Adding, 'A shrink friend of mine said that to overcome the fear of flying I should go parachuting. YEAH RIGHT.'

Flashmeister replies: 'I love watching, reading and learning about planes. But I can't do take offs. I try to just breathe and put one (NOT two) hands on the seat in front.'

Out of context, air pockets sound like trendy Shoreditch trainers. And what would happen if I put my second hand on the seat in front? (Perhaps Otto Pilot might appear). Anyway, the general conclusion, is to fly more.

I took nine flights in 2001. None of them got easier. The final one was made mildly more interesting by sitting beside Mr Asbestos Bladder, who by some miracle of medical science failed to make a toilet trip in 13 hours (yes, I checked the rise and fall of his chest). But I wouldn't say the eight previous flights had somehow infused the final experience with a festive sparkle. The opposite in fact when I consider the choppy landing, during which we circled Heathrow so many times we practically boiled a cloud. I've never found statistics helpful either. Knowing I'm more likely to catch the Monkeypox off my kitchen or glue my face to the sun just doesn't resonate.

Thus I've spent a large proportion of my life avoiding films like Alive and Final Destination (that documentary Airplane is ace though). And wherever possible, avoiding flight. I once got a train to Paris, a taxi and a connecting train to Bordeaux, simply to avoid a short haul. It was an expensive journey which tested my near dead linguistic skills to the max. And took a whole day. I got to take in a lot of French countryside and watch a lady consume two impressively large bars of Milka though.

And yet, I love planes. And airports. I feel it's only right to acknowledge the contradictory nature of my blog. Do I like aviation because I'm scared of flying? Is it that compelling euphoria that comes after the weak-legged, chunk-surpressing main event is over and you're thrilled to discover you not only made it, but enjoyed a dry croissant along the way? A 'fight or flight' reflex, as old as mankind, which leaves you feeling both emotionally bankrupt yet triumphant...

I always go for a window seat. I don't want to pretend I am somewhere I'm not. It seems rather patronising (if you can patronise yourself.) And it's the only way I can get the movement to make sense. I won't close my blind for night nor blazing sunshine. Sorry sleepers. But another reason for remaining window-side, is that in spite of myself, I'm captivated. Mid-air, I'm obsessed with the lay of the land below us. The way it looks like it's been cut from a stencil and coloured in.

I am an incessant gazer. I select my music tracks* (oh, you know it!) to best represent the vista I see, be that outlines of rivers and roads, ferry specks in giant seas, glowing conurbations at night, a lucent horizon made from acres of sun-soaked clouds - or simply wind over wings. When the whole plane is asleep, and subjected to 'lights out' like a flying dormitory because somewhere in the world it's bed time, I'll be at the back; peering through the emergency exit window, wondering who is staring up at my contrails. How remarkable, that while my feet are on hard ground, the hard ground is slicing through soupy air at a speed I'll never understand.

Forget films. The flight tracker channel is my narrative. I get engrossed in where we are, how high we are, how fast we're going, and all of that over again, in whichever languages are available for me not to understand. I'm peculiar enough to have taken screen grabs along the way too.

I've mentioned Captain Stacy Chance. He is probably the reason I can appreciate parts of flying now instead of chewing a flight sock. His tutorial acknowledges every sensation from take off to landing and explains them all in detail - far more effective in cutting through the grease of my fear stain than anything else. So, consider Captain Chance the Flash to my dirty hob. Hm.

Often fearful flyers end up at the helm, taking lessons. I can see that. It's like squaring up to a monster and instead of passing out, getting it on side and working for you in accounts. And who doesn't want a tame behemoth type, bashing out some top drawer arithmetic on the company abacus?

I will leave the final words to AA777:

'This might sound kinda weird. But my sister has gotten over her fear of turbulence by just pretendings [sic] she is on a magic carpet...'

AA777...

Am I your sister?

*Fleet Foxes, Simon & Garfunkel, Ryan Adams, Rilo Kiley, Cashier No. 9, Walker Brothers (Blue Ridge Mountains, Only Living Boy in New York/America/Old Friends, Easy Tiger album, So Long, Lost At Sea, No Regrets.)

Piston Power

Retrospective Breaking News: Father Christmas shuns sleigh for TWA! But his ale choice still remains unexplained...

If you're feeling somewhat despondent about Pan Am's sugary debut on BBC2 the other eve (I foolishly expected to see Christina Ricci play a snarly hostess version of Wednesday Addams or at the very least channel some gum-chewing give-a-shit Val from 200 Cigarettes) I suggest you turn your flying-eye to their Santa-approved rival, Trans World Airlines. What an endorsement.

And while the Christian/mythological/pagan present-giving patriarch might have his own airborne transportation, I can understand the need to let the reindeer lie fallow for a bit. And sleigh parking in Roma? Conspicuous at best.

TWA was Pan Am's competitor until the late seventies and was considered the American number two - until it also went bankrupt. As I have a prop compulsion this week, I've been digesting the twin joy of the Douglas and Lockheed planes, both pieces of 40s and 50s magic that began life in TWA's fleet. The two prop-liners were just as good as one another, but the Lockheed was miles better looking. Lockheed Constellations ('Connies') had three fabulous tail fins like precisely arranged wafer biscuits, a fat waspy body, a midnight daubed snout - and a name like a jazz band.

In actuality, all the fifties fleet had that inky-nosed cuteness as part of the livery. I don't know why it fell out of fashion, as I think it's a lovely visual. It's like a full-stop, signifying the end of the plane. Anything you see beyond that is something else. Like a horizon. A control tower. Or a bacon sandwich.

Here's the deal: TWA got the Lockheeds before anyone else thanks to their wealthy obsessive compulsive investor and aviation nut, Howard Hughes. The Lockheed was part designed by him as a plane to out-do the Boeing 307 Stratoliners and everyone said yes, because you don't say no to money, power and weirdness. It worked.

I should mention the DC 6 and 7 too, not my favourites, but the planes that sparked an unequivocal urge in John Travolta to get his fly-on. As they grumbled, moth-like over 1950s New York, he found them inspiring enough to pitch up at flying lessons and ultimately own a passenger jet (it's less clear what could have inspired him to make Look Who's Talking Too or adopt a religion created by a mediocre fantasy fiction writer, but that's for another blog.)

Blazing a (con)trail, TWA were the first liner to show an in-flight movie, proffering John Sturges' 'By Love Possessed,' to captive first class passengers in 1961. Sadly, everyone in economy missed out on Lana Turner being 'the year's most provocative woman,' and had to make do with reading the book or looking at their own hands.

I have the film on order. I have low expectations. It looks terrible. But I plan to endure it like a good passenger, while a patient friend re-creates TWA first class for me: intermittent settee rocking (turbulence) and scotch. I'll return the experience.

After a while, maligned like a knackered old greyhound, every prop plane has to bite the dust. By 1967 TWA was Totally Jet. On the seats of the fancy new planes, passengers found the awesome propaganda booklet, 'Props Are For Boats.' Given that most companies were going jet one by one anyway I can't see what purpose this would have served, aside from some self-congratulatory puff and a curious read for aviation geeks.

So to properly celebrate the winsome piston-engine age, I'm going to show you this engine failure clip. Stay with me. Active pilot and 1950s TV presenter Arthur Godfrey, was something of a David Letterman in his day. That is until he went shitty and fired loads of his colleagues (he also remarkably ended up with one lung. But the two are not connected.) Best known for variety and chat shows, he also happened to host a lesser known and diabolically clunky, advertorial-esque documentary promoting Eastern Air Lines. After knocking off the engines in a Lockheed Constellation one by one to show us safety, he then refers to his craft as a purring kitten. Cheesier than a wotsit and hammy as shit - it's completely wonderful.

If you're a total geek, check out the entire docu here. It's worth it alone for the weird 'hello' Arthur dispenses in the first 40 seconds, while creepily stroking some trophies. And if you're wondering who the chap is at the end of this clip, it's the commendably named Captain Stacy Chance, whose website tutorial helps countless flying-phobes.

So here's what I've learned:

Prop planes are beautiful.

Commercial flight won't turn you to the church of Scientology.

Arthur Godfrey was a bronchially-challenged diva.

And Wednesday Addams should definitely be an air steward...

Jarvis, Russia and The Bins: A Side Dish

An aside. Imagine we're on the hard shoulder of my blog now. The periphery. We're making a quick tangential trip into the woods. The air is cold. Quick! Keep close behind, and don't look left nor right...

Why am I almost incurably ill with the want to visit Russia?

I am homesick for a place I've never been. Is that real? I am hooked. Perhaps because it still seems impermeable. Yet to thaw in more ways than one. And there's something intrinsically attractive about a closed book.

But then there are a lot of countries that are far more stand-offish (Dom Joly's accounts of North Korea are fascinating for one - he's been to Pripyat too, but that's got nothing to do with this, apart from the fact I want to go there). But for me, Russia (and it's former republics) just has something. It's like a real-life gothic fable I want to tumble head-first into, taking the lead role in a wool overcoat or something hooded (Fable Whore). There's something about the culture, the folkloric overtones, the architecture, the art and the elegance that I find bewitching. I like the cold, the darkness, the secrets, the superstition, the mythology. And at the other end, the grit and determination of a nation which endured years of censorship and repression.

I'm enthralled with the beautiful yet steely-faced gymnastics teams of the 60s and 70s (punctuated by the delightful and in some ways quite un-Russian Olga Korbut, when she dissolved in tears after a disasterous bars routine at the 1972 Olympics - left). It's no secret - I want to be them. And I love the beautiful form and athleticism of the mighty Bolshoi Ballet Company. I want to be them, too. 

I like the attitude to dress. People have a want to look sharp. And you can't argue with that. According to a cool Russian blogger I found, it's not weird to look as fabulous as possible just to take the bins out. I get this. It also reminds me of a quote from my teen hero, Jarvis Cocker, who declared to Smash Hits around '95 that he always wore a smart jacket as, 'you never know who you're going to meet.' The only folk likely to see me take the bins out in my South London Panstick-Refuse-Finery, would be 'Coolio' the Dwarf Tramp and his sometime aggressive friend, Bad Reggae Guitar Crazo (Stockwell's answer to celebrity.) But I love that that's not the point. Myself, Jarvis and the Russians - we need to dine.

Proving the jacket theory further (albeit a jacket for the face) is Ukrainian and former Soviet gymnast Tatiana Gutsu (left). At the height of her short career, she always made a plan to look as colourful as possible. In fact, so fierce was her love of liberal frosting and kohl (and poise of course) she was nicknamed by journalists at the '92 Olympics, 'The painted bird of Odessa.'

So I basically need to go to Russia. A bit like I need to eat, or I need the loo. It's not really a choice. I need to see the pomp. The hats. The military Ushanka with it's ear-flaps and turned up front - wolf-like. The People's Palaces...

I want to taste the history. A soup of revolutions, uncertainty, triumph over adversity, angst and relief, bribery, corruption, agents and spies. In GCSE history I half listened to nuggets on the Russian Empire, the last Tsar, Rasputin and the Bolsheviks - but never quite appreciated it at the time. Instead my friend and I spent lessons designing comedy Trotsky merchandise (bedspreads and lampshades). What a bonehead (me. She's still cool.)

If I fall in love with a country, I want to see the suburbs. I want to see where I would live, if I'd been born there. What local shops I'd go to. What adverts I'd be susceptible to and what toothpaste and washing powder I'd use.

I want to go to Belarus and see the apartment Korbut grew up in, and see inside the specialist sports school she attended (one of many, designed solely to produce Olympic champs.) I want to go to Siberia and see the world's oldest and deepest lake. I want to discover the old abandoned homes deep inside the Russian forest, laden with charm and woodworm, which look like eerie dolls houses (above), and the centuries old traditional wooden orthodox churches found in the North (top).

On the flip side I want to see with my own eyes, some of the brutalist monuments, palaces and buildings to come out of the 70s, 80s and 90s, where the architects sensed the loosening of reins and went mildly bonkers, yes and-ing parts of their imaginations long-repressed to create inconceivable and imposing buildings like the Palace of Weddings in Tbilisi, the polytechnic university in Minsk and the House of the Soviets in Kalinigrad (all featured in architect Frederic Chaubin's Cosmic Communist Constructions Photographed).

For me, this giant place is like an insurmountable treasure trove. A place of past oppression and endless once-upon-a-times. A rich and detailed painting, layered with meanings and riddles I can't hope to understand.

And maybe it's also an under-dog thing. This is massively general, but I am definitely drawn towards countries or communities that haven't had it easy. Because when life is difficult, often what springs forth is determination and creativity. When times are hard, it's inevitable that people access their heart and soul more; they sing louder, they feel more keenly, they live with more verve, they are the cognoscenti of camaraderie... because who knows what's going to happen tomorrow. Feeling marginalised seems to go hand in hand with a strong sense of justice. The need to be the best version of you possible, to offset the circumstances...

So, who is game for a holiday?

After I've taken the bins out in my ball gown of course...

Babyflot

'Where else in world do passengers start disembarking from either end of the plane, because it's structured such, that if you don't, the plane will fall over? Where else in the world do they not wake you up when you are about to land and you wake up in this froth, because you think the plane's going to crash? Where else in the world, does the captain get off the plane before you do? Where else in the world are there plastic cups that have got teeth marks on them? It's only Russia. It's got to be Russia.'

- Airplaneski

Once upon a time in early-90s land where satin low-rise flares flourished in the West and the Soviet Union broke up for good under more easterly skies, a national carrier called Aeroflot was going through some pretty insane changes. Like aluminium puberty, it grew from one organisation and blossomed into hundreds of different domestic airliners, dubbed Babyflots.

1. The word Baby does not sit well with my puberty metaphor.
2. Don't let the implied cuteness of the baby word distract you.
The safety record for many of these new airlines were so appalling, that the International Air Transport Association recommended train travel in the former Soviet Union as a preferable and less death-y option (closely followed by unicycling head first into an Amur Tiger's mouth and riding a Snow Sheep back to front through the Siberian Alps*)

Essentially, the amount of planes needed for such a huge Baby(Flot) Boom, just couldn't be met. So the crafts often used were geriatric, rickety and poorly maintained. Parts for broken planes often couldn't be located for weeks. Sometimes not at all. Documentary, Airplaneski delves into the murkiness, poverty and pilot frustration of 20-years-ago-Russia, with some incredible first hand accounts of flights that were at best bonkers, and at worst, foggy (inside the plane) white knuckle rides culminating in multiple and unscheduled pit-stops, often decided by bribe or passenger vote ('Can we drop our eldest and naughtiest off at Rostov-On-Don, please? He's being a dick. Yes, without the comfort blanket.')

In 1998, the Moscow Times announced the 'end of the Babyflot era.' But the safety debate inside Russia still persists. I appear to have found some like minded geeks on the Wings of the Web. According to one, the only carriers to fly with inside Russia these days are, Aeroflot, Rossiyer Airlines, Vladivostock, Transaero, S7 and Ural. All the rest are potentially a full-panted nightmare. In particular the regional jet liner, Yakovlev. I can't help but wonder how 'bad' it all is. Or if it's over sensationalised. A recent article in Forbes seemed to compound rotten safety issues up to the present day, but it received a complete belting on the Wings forum. However, according to the Aviation Safety Network, it's not that wrong. Inside Russia is apparently the most dangerous place in the world to fly (their international fleet of Boeings have a near perfect safety record). But so much for the 'end of the Babyflot era'...

Why is it all going so wrong? I learned today that Aviacor is the largest manufacturer of Russian planes. It makes the gloriously named Antonovs, Tupolevs, and Yaks - but it only makes one new plane a year. The government says, 'buy Russian.' But how, if there's nothing to buy? It's like saying, 'go to the soap shop and buy some soap. There's no soap in there. Just some rank old stuff. But make sure you buy it, yeah?' Most of Aviacor's time is spent servicing ancient planes, which clearly doesn't work as there have been six fatal crashes this year. Now I love a splendid retro plane, inside and out. But not one that's still in active service and being run into the ground. It's like making Grandma work a 50-hour week and then poking her with a stick if she sits down.

I sort of want to see the whole situation for myself. Aviacor has been described as a 'chilly hangar' not unlike a 'museum' (left). That's already a geek-win. I do wonder if there is a market for some sort of eccentric, tailor-made holiday encompassing a trip to Aviacor, a tour of a Tupolev-144 (my all time favourite looking creature inside - orange lozenge-seat o'clock) and a TU-95 (not a passenger plane, but my all time favourite on the outside - the most festive looking prop plane ever made, so definitely an alternative for Father Christmas, should the sleigh malfunction) and a stay somewhere remote. With lots of vodka. The proceeds of every trip could be used to make planes which aren't complete death traps.

The final Act
Shock. In the wake (turbulence) of far too much furrow-browed information-overload, now for something lighter. One thing I noticed on my tour of Babyflots, is the array of (sometimes endless) generally quite poetic sounding company names. Just for kicks, I have plucked my favourite sounding ones and listed them below. I base my choices and ponderings purely on the arrangement of letters and sounds my eyes and ears enjoy...

Flylal. Sounds like something you might say on waking from an anaesthetic. Pretty punky hot pink livery. Still exists.

Nikolaevsk-Na-Amure Air Enterprise. Well, it just rolls off the tongue, like a bag on a conveyor belt destined for Murmansk but labelled Scunthorpe International...

Novosibirsk. Twice bankrupt. The most juicily Russian sounding. Almost all their fabulous cargo lifters were Antonov 'giants.' One of which - the An-22 Antheus - was nicknamed the 'cock' and most of which were like rotund, obese airborne walruses. The others in this blatant trio of power- in- size, were named the Condor and the Cossack: which both sound like plausible, meat-head lead roles in an 80s action flick. And definitely starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. In both parts.

Polar Airlines. Because I wonder how much vodka you'd have to imbibe to think you've seen a bear in a cockpit.

KrasAir - because I'm a child and it sounds like crass. And Crass in turn, happens to be a defunct 70s punk band.

Rock on.

*lies.

Aircraft Geekery Part 3 - The Flot Factor

Underneath this insane seventies promo video for Aeroflot on youtube, is the wry comment questioning why the airline with the monopoly over the Soviet Union at the time, felt the need to advertise. This incomprehensible advertising decision (one of many) just deepens my love affair with Aeroflot. I find retro Russian aviation culture baffling and fascinating beyond belief. There's something of the Grimm fairytale about it all. It's both glamourous and dark. And I frikkin love those outfits. This isn't the only promo vid I found. But all of them seem to feature the same subservient faux-aryan (check the gloriously dark bushy brows) all-singing, all-dancing stews, who like putting their hands on their hips and kicking their legs, ever so slightly off the beat. Wonderful. It's like the underground silver-screen. 50s Hollywood as Tim Burton would have had it.

I am still enthralled (though less so. But only like 5%. Or say, three chocolate fingers fewer) with post-Soviet era 'Flot ('92 onwards). In order to try and pick apart some of the hear'say regarding the airline's safety (so I don't find myself fibbing in later posts - and also sate my un-ending appetite for all things Slavic) I recently read through 26 customer reviews of recent flights. They oscillated from very good to dreadful to an 'experience.' The biggest gripe is the food, but isn't it always vapid slop with crusty blob-munch, whatever the wing-brand?

On the whole, Flotbags is a pretty good standard these days. It sort of has to be internationally, as there are rules and regs to adhere to if you want to land in foreign airports. The major thing that got most folk down, were the endless and often unexplained delays. And the fact customer service is a recent phenomenon and is deployed much like say, my rusty GCSE French when in Rome. In other words, it's not always spot on. And not always even there at all. But it's not for want of trying. I recently read that Russians have a 'different attitude to smile.' In other words, they don't. Smiling at strangers in Russian culture, is just not done. You don't do it. Stop. Put the smirk away. Fold those corners down. But looking serious is apparently a sign of intelligence. So, perhaps be thrilled when flying Aeroflot, that the stewards may glare at you on arrival. They probably do CPR better.

What I am most intrigued by though are Russia's internal flights. Deliciously, they don't have to conform to international standards. Some are still wobbly Tupelovs, with history for wings, bobbly curtains and a highly skilled Beluga-infused pilot at the helm. This is likely wildly incorrect, but it's what the romantic, dark and tundra-filled wilderness that is my imagination hopes for regardless.

I am going to bore you about this a lot. But for now, Scastlivovo puti. And feast your eyes on this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c88f3Q32hJ8 - Airplaneski, one of the best documentaries on fabulous Russian flying machines I've ever watched. I tried to embed it here, but it failed. It's possible I might have been smiling too much...

A Tangent. Or a Tangerine?

In Hidden Treasure: Boac Friday, I referenced a 70s satsuma coloured Sindy bathroom suite, which met an untimely end in a fairly necessary loft cleanse. What delight and surprise then, when I stumbled upon the sink portion of said suite in the Cavendish Arms Pub ladies toilets. I laid it within the real sink for a better photo. And also because I've never put a sink in a sink before.

It went well.

It baffled me to the point where I wondered if Cavendish employed junk-foxes had been lying in wait in the woods outside my parent's old house two July's ago. Surely no one else would have owned and actively kept such a useless item.

But the bizarre co-incidence of blogging about, then discovering this obsolete home furnishing from Barbie's arch rival, further proves why The Cavendish pub in Stockwell, is such a magical den of nonsense.

Last count, there were two analogue TV's carefully arranged in the window, old books on everything from puberty to aeroplanes on the shelves, a pram, many pleasing fifties references and some banana cake. All clean, tidily arranged and carefully considered I must add. If something is next to something else, there's definitely a reason for it. I think...

It is a unique looking drinking establishment which I wouldn't be surprised to find had been made entirely by sentient bric-a-brac and candle wax which one day agreed to arrange themselves into four walls and a bar. Its grotto-like brilliance is unrivalled. It's like if Big Trak got drunk and mated with all your favourite board games at Christmas, then birthed a Happy Shrine. I fully expect to find Wee Willie Winkie drinking here. I see him as a Port man.

And because this has accidentally turned into a review, I might as well tell you to go there. Go there. Drink their good red, fail to play Risk properly, listen to what you keep mistaking for as your own i-pod and make sure you eat some Disco Chips. They're what paprika was made for. A light sprinkling of which is almost the same colour as Sindy's legendary wash bowl... Soap, anyone?

Braniff - A Meaty Appendix

On my short Braniff journey, I neglected to mention this: The Branwich (left).

In their heyday, Braniff were so successful in pretty much anything, they created their own glazed meaty branded sandwich, the Branwich. Yes, way.

If you flew Braniff, you got real food. Seventies real, anyway, which meant chunky hunks of moo, four miles of pastry, a clutch of sweaty onions and minimal greens. They prided themselves on having great chefs and had a specific ad campaign devoted solely to spreading the word about, 'the finest food you could ever get in the air.' Apparently the passengers totally dug it.

I'd love to have been in the marketing meeting which preceded the creation of the Branwich:

'Everything is branded, sir. The forks. The pilot's face. He even smiles in the shape of a dove. There's no room for anything else.'

'What about the disposable produce, Chuck? The goddam food? Let's have them taste Braniff. Let's imprint our logo on their frikkin' intestines. They'll be digesting our brand. It'll be in the very fibres of their being. Their fingertips, heart and soul. They will shit Braniff, Chuck. They will be shitting the best airline in existence. They'll be shitting 30,000 feet of success, Chuck. They won't even want to flush. I'll tell you what I want, Chuck. I want a branded sandwich. Something greasy that slides down nicely like a sexy stew on a popped evacuation chute. I hereby announce the creation of the Branwich.'

'...'

'Don't you "..." me.'

A Diversion: Sketch the Future

I was checking out Retronaut the other day for some exciting abandoned boats, and I came across these awesome sketches:

Check out more of them here. They are basically a collection of sketches from 1910 envisioning what life might be like in 2000, with particular reference to machines, transport and gizmos. They are ridiculously quaint, and made me think perhaps you can only conceive the future within the constraints of your current knowledge and surroundings. Everyone is still dressed like it's 1910 (how could they possibly fathom jeans, lycra, zips...pah) and a lot of the adorably daft contraptions have something of the Willy Wonka about them. Maybe, without a crystal ball, you really can't predict future design.

My mum disagrees. She said we already have conceived futuristic design concepts. We may have chosen jet planes over those firemen with foxy dragon-style flight packs as a more commercially viable option, but the wings are there on both. True. On closer inspection the sketch where the architect's vision is built by machines as he designs it from a booth, reminds me of our current ability to scan dimensions and get the computer to build 3D models. Some of the design is there in embryonic form, even if for the most part the depictions are fancy, ornate and hilariously tin-pot. But you've got to start somewhere, right?

My mum's trump card was Italian Renaissance visionary and all-round Big Beard, Leonardo Da Vinci. A very forward thinking engineer, inventor and designer for his time, Da Vinci was responsible for the first known helicopter design in 1495. Flying was the absolute summit of people's conception and Leonardo was obsessed with cracking it. He produced and tested countless designs long before anyone successfully took to the skies. And the 'helicopter' model, though designed within the constraints of the raw materials and knowledge available then had all the makings of a machine built for vertical flight - 500 years before it actually happened.

I'm a massive fan of L'Dav's handwriting. Possibly inspired by the long flowing strokes of his beard...

So hats off to my mum, for blowing my narrow mind. And really, in the light of Apple man Steve Jobs' death, we need more visionaries. However wacky-looking any blueprint might initially be; honed and modified, it might just turn out to be an invention that changes the world.

Whatever happens though, I'm definitely getting me one of these:

Sky Creatures

I said to my flatmate: 'What to write about next? There's too much. I'm categorising...

But how to categorise this?

'Being drawn to old fashioned planes, photographed in either a slightly oppressive black and white or

faded sepia tinted colour, that look occasionally eerie, sometimes wistful, sporadically monstrous, sometimes elegant, the design of which I will only ever see through the lens of someone else I'll never meet and the appeal of which, is that they were all probably a chancier ride back then, with laxer safety procedures, and the crew and passengers were undoubtedly embalmed in an overwhelming fug of tobacco smoke, excitement and hope.'

He said, 'that sounds perfect.'

So I bestow you my favourites. A bogie hued Braniff, two BOACs and two Aeroflots (one of which looks like it's powered by Christmas decorations). Enjoy.

Pan-Am TV

Next month, BBC2 is going to do the best thing it has ever done for me. Bring the TV series, Pan Am to into my life.

Have they bugged my brain or something?

I am going to be watching this ABC drama with excitement (the past in the sky- hoorah!) jealousy (the past in the sky - hoorah, but where's my part?) and geekery (the past in the sky -hoorah! But what was printed on that napkin? What's the font? Can I write my blog in it? How did Edward Larabee Barnes come up with such an enduring logo? Why is 'transcontinental' such an enticing word? Where are my peanuts?)

It's ridiculous serendipity that it exists. Not only does it star one of my heroes - the dark and hilarious indie comic-legend Christina Ricci (The Adams Family, Buffalo 66 and the Ice Storm - all insanely good films) it's makers are as obsessed with oldfangled airline splendour as I am. Am I wrong in wanting one of those blue antiquated uniforms to wear day to day? Oh gawd, this is already getting out of hand...

'Drinks anyone? Sir, stop chewing your life-jacket and blocking the emergency exit with your ego...'

And if you think it's 'chick lit' TV, please don't. Well, I suppose your guess is as good as mine currently. Some critics have noted that it has 'too many' (hm?!) beautiful cast members, which equals a sort of banal, good-looking soup where you can't tell one person from another. For what it's worth, I'm sure they'll chuck in a few croutons. At the very least, there'll be some amazing old school design to gawp at.

I really hope it's got more depth than just beautiful people wearing crisp uniforms in decreased air pressure. There's hope. For starters, there is a spy hook. And for main, the director is The West Wing's Thomas Schlamme and the writer is ER scribe Jack Orman.

See? Politics + accidents & stitches = classy sixties aviation drama. Equations are rarely wrong, my friend.

Well, not initially. Eh, Einstein...

Hidden Treasure: BOAC Friday

Apparently airline memorabilia is scarce. So imagine my delight when, after a chat about my blog on a Friday night, my mum said these magical words: 'We have a BOAC ashtray.' Not what I was expecting. And so, with a little digging around the kitchen, she produced this wondrous item (yes, I did a jig, clasped my hands together and squealed like a normal female in a handbag shop). The 70s collectable used to belong to a university friend of hers and it survived my parents' ruthless downsize: a house move which spelled the end for many less lucky items, such as a satsuma coloured Sindy bathroom suite and a Dot Matrix printer (RIP). She says she had an inkling of it's potential value. It totally surpassed my expectations. A deep navy/green-blue think it's one of the most beautiful things ever.

BOAC's life-span was 1939-1974, and this is a piece of in-flight furniture made by English potters Copeland Spode. I've found an exact replica on a collectables website which recently sold for a not exactly earth shattering £35.70. Very specific. But hey, why would you sell something so cool? I can just imagine a bristle-faced smoothie flipping a Piccadilly De Luxe into it, while ordering a gin and orange and eyeing up the flight attendant's knee.

Since this discovery, I've found this delightful website where you can buy yet more curious accessories from bygone airlines, from an Air Panama Knife and a Concorde spoon, to assorted 'barf bags' (Rune from Sicksack - take note) of which my favourite by far is Pan Am (are the stripes representing a particularly geometric hurl?)

Just an aside: I would not be disappointed to receive anything from this site for say Christmas or a birthday...

Travolt-Air

Props (ahem) to John Travolta for buying and running this Boeing 707-138B jet, the only one in active service. Daubed in its original 60s livery, it started life as a Qantas jet before Braniff bought it in 1969. It was then converted into a private VIP craft and has been around the block in terms of owners (Frank Sinatra, everybody!) and pretty, swirly liveries, until John snaffled it up in 1998.

Qantas does John's maintenance in return for him being all ambassador-y about their flying kangaroo. It does the trick. Even a Hollywood billionaire can't afford to keep such a beast running alone. Good to know. It's above our heads after all.

Most excitingly, it also mean't Johnny painting it faithful to yesteryear. Look at the lovely Qantas font(as). And I really enjoy the aesthetic of a black nose which makes it almost anthropomorphic. An airborne puppy sniffing out turbulence. As Travolta preceptively says: 'Owning a big plane like this without it looking like an airline seems odd to me.'

He even has his own uniform for him and his six crew: An efficient navy, wavy and white get up with tasty epaulettes, that shout competence. Not white and flared, unfortunately. But then I'm pretty sure he didn't contemplate calling his liner Night Fev-Air either, but it's fun to ponder. And really, Tony Manero in the cockpit? He'd be too busy showing the laydee's his throttle. What a yoke. Fnrr.

I once I spent an entire afternoon talking about all the things your could paint planes to look like: sausages, toothpaste tubes, pencils, an accusatory finger...

Basically anything long and pointy (stop it). But let's face it, none of those are as good as a plane looking like a ruddy good plane.

Having said that, I'd still love to see a giant hotdog careering across the horizon...

(left, below: the beauteous original 707 interior)