A Merry Prankster

I am flying Virgin Atlantic to Chicago this summer. 

Yesterday, rather pleasingly, somebody told me there was a tiny amount of anarchy about what I choose to do on stage...

Please wait patiently while I connect these events for you.

Back when it was cool to have asymmetric hair, wear dayglo, and be impressed by Bros, Richard Branson was a humble record label honcho.  Then, deciding it wasn't quite enough rubbing shoulders with the Human League and winding magnetic tape back into cassettes, he launched a fleet of aircraft.

Now, thinking objectively, it was a pretty left field move.  A little like if Louis Walsh woke up and decided to create a clutch of commercial catamarans or Simon Cowell bought a Hang Gliding franchise ('honestly Simon, the harness is totally safe...')

So you can imagine if aviation business bigwigs we're slightly dubious.  The Chairman of BA even suggested if tanned Bran had, 'worn steel rimmed glasses, a double breasted suit and shaved off his beard, I might have taken him seriously - as it was, I couldn't.'

It didn't matter much though as Branson didn't take BA seriously either...

So while I don't have a huge inclination to be like Richard Branson, I'm certainly no bidniz man, I do appreciate his mildly anarchic attitude.  Especially toward his high altitude venture, of which I will be partaking this July.  If BA were the trusty chinos of air flight, Virgin were the naughty drainpipes.  Not least because Richard made provocative statements with his livery when it suited him.  He stamped No way BA/AA on his craft in opposition to a BA and American Airlines super-merger (hello 600,000 lb placard). He also daubed his planes with a Union Jack design, at exactly the same time BA ditched them favour of the 'ethnic' images that so irritated Margaret Thatcher  (remember HankyGate? When old Madge popped a snotty rag over a model tail fin of said 'ethnic images' and it made the six o'clock news?  Cringe. O. Clock.) And another, rather enjoyable move, was giving the proceeds of his court win to his staff, after Virgin sued their rival for libel.  Party on.

Of all the big carriers, Virgin has one of the coolest, creative and cheeky pieces of livery. A retro stamp of fun and frivolity; pin-up girl 'The Scarlet Lady' has been lazily draped about the craft's nose right from the start. Beautiful and not even remotely affected by high speed 500mph wind burn, she looks as good today as she did in the 80s (and she KNOWS it.)

I sort of feel like I shouldn't be championing such brazen thigh bearing (is she PC?) but from a simple aesthetic point of view I find her to be a Total Dude. And pretty cheerful. And it wouldn't really be quite as picturesque if she was lolling on the fuselage in a Muumuu and wellies.

Created by Ken White, Scarlet is actually a take on the images that tickled the noses of WWII aircraft, which in turn were drawn by wartime pin up artist, Alberto Vargas.  Vargas, a Peruvian artist, had a great time drawing ladies in the buff in the 30s and 40s for Esquire magazine, Hollywood posters and more but abruptly stopped in the 70s after the death of his wife.  Grief and nudey drawing obviously don't mix. Despite this, he still created thousands of images some of which sell for princely six figure sums.  That's a lot of dollar for a wink and some bum cheek.  But fair play to the man.  He was a pretty mean life drawer.


So, Sir Branson: staunch music lover, grappler of bronzed models for photo opportunities, impudent, forward thinking rebel and billionaire.

...Punk...?

He signed the sex pistols to Virgin Records in '77 and if it wasn't for that God Save The Queen wouldn't have been allowed out on day release in a straitjacket, let alone crash land in the charts like a great dollop of angry sputum.  However journalist Peter York probably got it more accurate when he called Bran a 'merry prankster,' with an eye on anything money making.

So although he's woolly and a little cheesy, the fair sized splash of disobedience in his ventures pleases me.  I will muse this as I cruise across the Atlantic upon the wings of mild misrule on a small tail wind of rebellion this summer.

So, hold the chinos.  Me, Scarlet and the naughty drainpipe are coming to get you ...

See Bali!

TWA made some awesome posters. Unlike today's concept, canny or '1000 hours in the boardroom publicity-plus, soul-molesty' ad jobs, these were just simply bloody beautiful to look at.

I also like early TWA ads as they were clearly proud of their Lockheed Constellations*, which almost always feature in every poster, no matter how small. Additionally, some of the generic destinations outlined in the posters were very pleasing too:

The Orient!

Europe!

A Creature!**

* In 1986 they rescued a Connie from the US desert, cleaned it up, got it working and then, calling on the very few Lockheed pilots left, specially trained a bunch of young aviators the 'obsolete' skill in prop magic. How wonderful is that?

**Curious untruths.

The attention to detail - the need for people to see it and want it, was right there. Don't pretend every single poster doesn't make you not only want to go to 'Los Angeles!' but also to put on a smart heel or a spat, iron your cocktail dress, wedge on a hat and step aboard a prop for some decent turbulence and a gin & orange.

No? Well then I urge you to find your pulse. Immediately.

Also, please enjoy this a wonderfully twee narrative of the 'average' 1950s Connie journey I found idling in a Youtube crevice. It's a crooked-toothed, dolphin-shaped fuselage marvel of yesteryear; a beguiling, brilliant and lovely ode to post-war air travel. Here, the pilots talk through the safety checks before take-off. As an amateur translator, I will endeavour to relay to you a loose transcript as to what I think they are saying in the cockpit. However, much like the average Magic FM listener singing along to their favourite song, I'll be getting at least 80% of the words completely wrong.

Enjoy.

'Fluteski Compass? Corrected.'

'Vaccum? Checked due to war-ness.'

'Directional Giros?' 'He, one day!'

'Trim Tabs?' 'Slim.'

'Take -off Flap?' 'Take off Flaps!!'

'Hero heaters?' 'Tank Ears.'

'Control Services?' 'Bean Told Travels!'

'Engine Instruments?' 'Normal!'

'Generators?' 'On.'

'Carburetor Air?' 'Cold!'

'Propellors?' 'Full Increase.'

'Mixtures?' 'Rich...'

'Fuel Props?' 'On high!'

'Airplane?' 'Ready!'

'Kansas City Tower, TWA Flight 2...Ready for take off.'

Chug, chug, chug, grumbly, chug...

You Are My Sunshine

Christmas List: Sundance Yellow dress, hooded cape, Princess Line coat with Universe Blue trim and Go-go boots. Pilot's licence, fictional back story, fake passport, a bright sunny day in '77, Aviators and some plot...

Top banana.

Yes.

Girl Flight

Attention girls! In the sixties, Aspiration Pie was served hot in the form of Air Stewardess, Shirley Flight. The book series by Edward Reginald Home-Gall (gender bending pen name, Judith Dale) were a Brit alternative to the US Vicki Barr books, which ahem, Barr the name were pretty much identical in premiss: a 'career oriented' bunch of yarns for girls, about life as cabin crew. And there ain't nothing more high achieving than handing a hot towel to some dude in a tube of decreased air pressure, right?

Shirley actually seemed to have more fun than is plausible for one lifetime. She worked for Trans Continental Airways and almost always wore a pillbox hat on the cover art, no matter what adventures she encountered, be these scrapes with snakes in the Congo Reserve or finding bullion in a flying doctor's turban. I think it's fair to say I am now deeply obsessed with this bizarrely action packed portrayal of air hostess-dom and especially mad for the book jacket art. To the point where I'd definitely try bashing my face against a good few of the more exciting selection, just to see whether I can dive into the colourful canvas, Mary Poppins style, and join Shirls in a Pacific Castaway excursion or three. Only the Flying Jet adventure cover holds less appeal, as she appears to have injected her countenance with Margaret Thatcher, fifteen years too early. Boo. See what you think.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the land of Ten Years Previous, alternative fictional herione, Kitty Hawke, was a pilot. With her girl air crew, she gazed cooly from the pages of Hulton Press's 50s comic 'Girl,' in her sheepskin aviator jacket and fly hat. But little girls in nighties up and down the UK remained unimpressed. Publisher Marcus Morris (founder of both Eagle and Girl) reasoned it was due to the lack of personal stuff in the plots. Apparently girls only liked action if there was a long lost uncle or a romance at the end of the runway. Bah. Damn that genetic propensity for human interest.

Interestingly Marcus Morris was a priest as well as a publisher (that old combo). So his main aim was to create a wholesome 'alternative' to American strips which he thought, 'brought horror into the nursery.' His first ever idea was a comic strip following the adventures of an inner city parson called Lex Christian to appear in Eagle, but it never came to pass (much like my ideas for Hades Boy, Professor Exodus, Scooby Dumali and John the BapMan). Instead, Lex swiftly morphed into 'Chaplain Dan Dare', the first parson to be launched into space (closer to God?) and then again into the secular Dan Dare (clearly prayer and orbit didn't gel) where the dog collar was dropped in favour of a captain's badge, and the Chief of the Interplanet Space Fleet was born.

Kitty lasted a bit longer than Lex, but not much. Which made her effectively as unpopular as the defunct space parson. It's odd as equally cool Flight Officer Joan Worralson, pilot in the Woman's Auxhilery Airforce and fictional star of the Worral's book series, was a female avio protagonist hit despite the lack of fwuffy dogs, missing relatives or time travel. Worrals just flew around on ordinary missions (within the earth's atmosphere) busting spy rings, with all relatives safely stored away at home.

Later, Girl tried again with a new heroine of the skies: Angela Air Hostess. But Angela wasn't cool. She didn't fly her own plane, head up a crew or punch spies. Nope, she just looked for lost toddlers in a nice skirt and squabbled with a 'beautiful selfish cousin' who also fancied the handsome, vigorously chinned Captain Ian Lewis: he of the 'puzzling' yet important manner and impressive array of off-duty, jazzy cravats. If she'd also been a secret ballet dancer who sewed buttons on cakes for sick donkeys, and kept a basket of kittens in her overhead locker, it wouldn't have been too off the mark. She gave good hat though.

Angela was born at the pen nib of artist Edward Dudley Pout, and although she may have been a little prim compared to Kitty and tiger-torn stockinged thrill-seeker Shirley, she did have a bunch of fictional yet very covetable dresses. Does this make Pout an unlikely fashion designer? Either way, Pout's drawings were/are ace, stuffed with big chins (men), long necks (girls) and now-vintage charm (mostly the cars). Outside of comic land he was a versatile artist, designing billboards and posters for the film industry. A life bookended with quaintly named residences, he started his existence on Frog Island Farm, and ended it at Gribble Bridge. Like a comic strip story-sandwich, he clearly knew a good beginning, middle and end.

If Dudley Pout were still alive, my perfect proposal for him would involve this: Kitty and co-pilot Worrals rocking the helm of a Lockheed Constellation with Angela and Shirley in the back selling muffins, tea and gin to Lex Christian, en route to The Siberias to fight tiger-bears in turbans. On the way they all solve at least four Chinese Puzzles each and everyone has a quiff. By the end, Lex is drunk and fighting diamond smugglers, Shirley has five members of a Venus spy ring safely detained in her hat and after a day trading barrel roll tips, Kitty has secured a date with Captain Dan Dare aboard the Tempus Frangit.

Now that's what I call an adventure.

Amen.

Sonic Clanger: Like a monkey at a zebra party

Tupolev-144 was Russia's entry into the Miss Concorde-a-like Pageant.

So like England v Germany in the 1990 World Cup and Oasis versus Blur in the Britpop glory days of 199smemething, the gloves were off.

And then back on. So keen was the USSR to rush the sonic Tupolev out the same year (they actually trumped Conc by three months) they forgot to make it any good. It looked fairly similar in silhouette to Concorde and retro magnifique within (fruity oranges and brown swirls baby) but it was a liability from start to end. It's nose dive crash at the Paris air show in 1973 was pretty much a PR apocalypse.

Tupolev kept getting parts added onto it. Much like the popular 80s Rotastak hamster accommodation (which FYI is totally pimped these days - galactic space stations and castles - who knew? Check out the high end rodent real estate selection here. Palatial digs or what. Give me five, Snuffle-Crunch.)

Except in this instance it was less about Cricetinae interior design and more about off setting outrageous safety issues.

Shortly after it's birth, the TU-144 sprouted canards (puppy like ear flaps) at the front as it was unstable. It's breaks weren't as good as Concorde so it had a 'breaking parachute' added (essentially a massive pair of bloomers which burst out of it's ass). It also had to have replacement engines and it's structure was a crack's delight. It was basically like a fleet of flying split ends.

Blooming hell.

Major Clanger and Tupolev were often swapped without passengers noticing a thing...

The result was a quirky looking thing. Both delightfully cute and creepy. But the crux was, it was mostly crap. Serious failures were more common than coughs. On one flight in 1978, the plane suffered 22 failures out of a possible 24. But took off anyway to 'avoid embarrassment.' What? Exactly. That's like me going to work despite having a face fracture and a highly contagious medieval fever.

According first hand accounts, the Shit-Something's-Wrong siren blared on board that craft for the whole 75 minute flight. The captain responded by attempting to mute it with a passenger pillow (he then used forks from first class as evacuation slides, strong coffee as wing glue, and a window blind as a surfboard). Luckily (not as predicted) all the landing gear extended and the plane landed without killing anyone. Happy holidays!

The Tupolev was such a worry, even national carrier Aeroflot gave it a wide berth, choosing not to incorporate it into their future planning. Ever.

That's like disappointing your parents.

Most passengers hated it too because it was ridiculously noisy. When the engines, air con and cooling system cranked into life, they combined to make a noise so obstreperous, passengers just two seats apart had to pass written notes to one another.

Sample:

'Yo, this is noisy, Sergei, isn't it?'

'Sorry, I can't hear you. Hahaha. Aah...'

An entire redesign would have taken too much time for the TU-144. Tweaks were made but essentially the whole infrastructure was busted from the beginning. If only they'd ironed out problems at the top, the end product could have been okay. It's much like attempting a good nights sleep on a full bladder. By 4am you're fucked, tired and wish you'd peed at midnight. But now it's far too late to get that glorious eight hours...

Tupolev's inaugural flight was like a D-list celebrity trying to put a shoe on. Or monkey turning up at a zebra party. It was basically blighted from all angles. It had structural cracks, dysfunctional blinds and broken bogs. And those were just the minor issues. It took it's last cranky flight ten years later and was officially obsolete in 1984.

Who knows. If only they'd called it the Maxi Tunnel of Fun or the Cosmo Pod and added some parts from the Curvy Tubes Kit, perhaps things could have been different.

But we can't all be as successful as a Nottingham based hamster cage company, can we?

Snuffle-Crunch approves.

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.)