Social icons

Ryanair - The boyfriend you just can't ditch

Friday, 9 November 2012
The first time I flew Ryanair, I was 18 years old and heading for a girly holiday in Dinan, France. My friend Pam (pictured above) had a family holiday home there, a sweet little riverside cottage in a pretty rural village.

That's the kind of holiday I took when I was 18. No week in Magaluf for me, oh no. I was a middle aged man by the age of 17.

We flew from Stansted to Dinard. After we checked in, we heard Pam's name booming around the terminal from the tannoy, calling her to the Ryanair desk.

We all looked at each other, terror in our eyes (we may not have been the coolest 18 year olds)
Something must have been wrong! They weren't letting us fly, or our bags had been tampered with, but SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

It turns out, Pam was the millionth customer to fly with Ryanair out of Stansted.

Well, roughly the millionth. After some questioning, the PR did admit that it was all a bit rough, numbers wise, but she had thought that Pam would look good in the pictures.

What followed is an experience which may not have been an authentic Ryanair experience. We were given champagne, a £100 voucher for duty free and were fast tracked through security and onto the plane, where Pam also posed with the pilot.

"This is Ryanair?" I said, incredulous. "Everyone said you were treated like shit! I feel like a queen!"

It's been pretty much downhill after that. We peaked too early, I fear.

But it gave me a scrap of affection for the airline. I have a love/hate relationship with Ryanair. As, I suspect, quite a lot of people do.

I see the airline as that douche of a boyfriend you had when you were 20. And this is why...

He takes you places you've never been...
Like a shitty backwater town, hours from the destination he promised.

He ogles naked girls...
But claims it's for charity (I cannot TELL you how much I despise those calendars)

He ends up costing you
You know, he'll take you out for dinner but forget his wallet. The equivalent of a baggage fee.

He calls you names
You're an idiot, idiot.

You slag him all the time...
But you just keep going back.

And then you lean back against the wall, sigh, and twirl your ponytail.


At the airport, post WIN
 


Post a comment

Powered by Blogger.