The Flying Game

Having made the return journey between London and Brisbane just shy of twenty times in fourteen years, my relationship with flying is by far my longest. Filled with hate and begrudgingly topped with a smattering of love, it mirrors more than its fair share of romantic unions. I say love but it's respect more than anything else. Primarily because despite it's shortcomings, it gets me to where I want to be. I respect the fact that no matter how bumpy the ride, it ultimately serves its purpose. Perhaps I'm not in a relationship with flying after all, but having a series of regular one-night-stands.

Regardless, my hatred is not so much directed at the flights themselves. Sure they're no picnic, but at least they're consistent. When you board a plane for a long haul flight, you know what to expect and most times you get it. As unfortunate as that is.

No, the primary focus of my wrath is my fellow travellers. The creatures known as people.

We fly together for up to sixteen hours at a time, sat side-by-side. It's unnatural. Is it any wonder I've developed anthropological abhorrence? Only Bar-Tailed Godwits fly together for longer, but at least they're clever enough to regularly change formation.

People are annoying. People are stupid. When travelling, I have no time for people. People are responsible for Billy Ray Cyrus being someone we've heard of. Billy begat Miley. And anyone who has a copy of Achy Breaky Heart in their possession has metaphorical blood on their hands in relation to the crime that is Hannah Montana. But I digress.

If you've concluded that perhaps I'm not the most sociable traveller, you'd be correct. Have a biscuit.

We all seem to cope with the stresses of an extended journey in different ways. Some pray, some withdraw and others chat incessantly. The latter rarely drawing breath, as if they believe any potential disaster will have the courtesy to wait until the completion of an anecdote before occurring.

I do none of the above - I hate. I hate everything associated with the experience. From the boarding pass to the overhead compartments. Hate, hate, hate.

If we're to believe Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People" (and why wouldn't we?), the key to making oneself appealing to others is to ask questions of the person you're addressing and allow them to speak at length about themselves. These rules of social discourse don't translate well to an airplane. The idle chit-chat, small talk and fleeting pleasantries that make up the menagerie of interactions every day have no place on anything designed by Boeing. Indeed if Mr Carnegie had ever had the misfortune of my experiences, he'd have been more likely to pen 'Snakes on a Plane' over anything designed to nurture interpersonal relationships.

If we're going to be conversing during a flight and you don't want me to hate you, you do the talking. I'm quite content pretending to listen. Nodding at the right moments, throwing in a well-timed "I see..." - these are the skills I've developed over a lifetime. Don't be fooled, however. This doesn't mean I like you and it most certainly doesn't mean I'm interested in anything you have to say. The entire time you're blabbing, I won't be listening. I'll be sitting there wishing you'd shut the fuck up. Or die. Or both. If you were aware of my true feelings, you'd probably be less blasé about leaving your cutlery unattended. Rest assured, if you turn your head, even for just a second, I'll put my headphones on. I'm always waiting for that opportunity.

While I'm being morbid - if you were to suffer the misfortune of dying, you'll have unwittingly presented me with a dilemma. I wouldn't know whether to alert the cabin crew or just enjoy the serenity. Even in death, people have the potential to piss me off.

Over the years, I've been assigned seats beside an eclectic mix of characters. Not one of them possessing the three combined attributes of my perfect travel companion: female, attractive and single. Not one. Are you reading this Singapore Airlines? Give me a break. Would it really kill you to sit me next to a nymph with no morals, rather than a Nan with no molars? I've served my time. I've served my fucking time.

Oh, and don't get me started on the food.  I probably get more agitated than I should if my meal isn't up to a certain standard. But I'm on a plane, for fucks sake. A metal behemoth that could hurtle to the ground and end my life at any given moment. My sustainence should be afforded the same consideration as that given to someone's last meal on death row. It just makes sense.

*Disclaimer/Warning: David Guinea will be flying on Singapore Airlines flight SQ321 from Heathrow on the 17th of November, 2011.*