I arrived back from Porto last weekend deciding that it had been so successful, that I needed another trip this weekend. Oh what a fucking mistake that was.
This is the tale of everything going wrong all at once.
I booked myself on the cheapest route possible, which involved a Manchester-Madrid-Bordeaux-Manchester route, with a total cost of the flights being around £43. It was dirt cheap and while the hotel in Madrid wasn’t very cheap, I knew this was going to be good ol’ chaotic fun. It did however mean travelling there straight from work at 11pm.
Hence, when I finished my shift at 11pm on Friday night, my colleague gave me a lift to the station and I stood freezing my tits off awaiting the 23:27 service to Manchester Piccadilly, the last train west of the night. It was a few minutes late as it came straight from Nottingham and immediately went onto Manchester, but I was in good spirits as I cracked open a bottle of beer and watched us make up a couple of those minutes.
We then proceeded to lose all of them again for…seemingly no reason. We sat at a red signal for a while before wheezing into Piccadilly in time for me to watch the Airport train sail out shortly before 1am. Still, I could just powerwalk it for the 43 which was going to leave at approx. 01:01 from Piccadilly Gardens. I look into Slug and Lettuce, envious of those in the warmth sipping cocktails as I crossed over and stood in the shelter that provided absolutely no shelter.
FOUR buses going to Didsbury came and went before my bus sauntered in 20 minutes late, being covered in vomit and taking absolutely forever to get out of town due to apparently everyone needing to run for a bus right about the second that mine wanted to leave every single stop. My eyes were heavy by this point, as I’d been awake since 8am and was thinking about the wonderful nap that I was going to have on that plane.
I was dumped at the Airport for 2am and made my way to Terminal 1, only to find that security was closed and so I ended up using my backpack as a pillow and napping by the check-in desks until 3:45. For the next 90 minutes or so, everything actually seemed rather normal as boarding was called nice and early and I was on board my rather battered Boeing 737-800 to Madrid. It was a nice lightly loaded flight and I thought to myself how nice this would be for getting some sleep.
We absolutely pelted it down the runway but something felt amiss as I was violently jolted up and down as we gained speed, only to be flung forwards as the brakes came in and smoke appeared outside, with there being an apparent peasouper descending on Manchester. Either that or we were on fire.
It was established that we had “technical issue” and eventually we had to deplane and get on a bus to switch to another one. I was, shall we say, a bit pissed, but these things happen and I figured out that if we got underway quickly enough I’d be in Madrid before Midday. I ended up falling asleep as we started the taxi, only to be rudely awoken by “we need to return to the gate again, I’m not happy with this plane either”. I was now, really pissed.
I considered my options, as we were by now three hours behind schedule and the daylight I’d have in Madrid was ever-dwindling. The captain announced that “some of you want to be offloaded and that’s okay” which prompted me to look at my hotel booking. I could cancel it without penalty, so that was my decision made.
Other passengers started yelling at the crew in Spanish, which was really just uncalled for considering that Ryanair crew are not paid a penny while they’re on the tarmac, so they were dealing with people’s shit for no money at all. When Matteo, one of the cabin crew, had stopped being screamed at, I flagged him down and told him “I’ve had enough”.
He started off on his speech about how safety was paramount but I stopped him and said “no it’s fine, I just want to get off now and go home. It isn’t worth it anymore.”
Some discussions later, he took my details and was practically hugging me as he couldn’t apologise enough for the delay, which by now was getting on for four hours. It wasn’t his fault that we’d been given dud planes.
I was asked to go and sit up front before being escorted onto a bus with four other passengers. One of them took a particular liking to me and we had a good chat while he told me I had a “comedic voice” (tired me reverted to sarcastic Geordie). Turns out that we both like to travel though while he spends his time in the Ritz, I spend mine in the Ibis drinking 2,99eur Vinho Verde.
Once I was back into arrivals, I looked at the wall of cancellations on the trains, thought deeply about how many complaints we were going to have on Monday morning, then legged it for the 43 and retraced my steps. Instead of walking around Madrid, I was looking at the arse-end of Wythenshawe next to a man with several missing teeth who smelled vaguely of weed.
Where did it all go so wrong?
The Lone Bon Voyager 