I blame Ryanair and the management of Malaga Airport in equal measures, for the madness that prevails at the departure gates. Airport designs are generally hopeless, because they invariably fail completely in coping with the high numbers of passengers queuing. In the simplest terms, planes will typically carry 150 - 200 people per plane, so there could be 200 people queuing at Gate C33 - not an example but a fact, as I was one of those in the queue last week.
Six metres or so back from the Gate, the queue was forced to turn, and the 'L' shape then extended some considerable distance along the central walkway. I was stationed at the bend, and observed mayhem. The first level of difficulty was created by the Priority Boarding queue, which ran parallel. In the old days, Priority Boarders and Speedy Boarders would be in a minority, thus making the £5-£10 per head a worthwhile consideration for anyone wanting to waste money. However, these days there are too many people trying to be elitist. So was the case as I saw the Priority Boarding queue lengthen, and exceed the six or seven metres of space available. The queue could not turn in the same direction as the main queue, as at the rear of the walkway there was a one-metre passing section, taped off, so that passengers trying to get to the far end of the terminal could pass by Gate C33. The growing army of Priority Boarders had other ideas.
Yes, the rabble that gathered comprised all varieties of traveller, and there was an abundance of pushchairs. Their queue stretched back to a point where it ought to turn, and create its own 'L' shape, probably in the opposite direction to the main queue. However, the actions of those at the back end were not akin to a lead goose in a gaggle of geese. So, no one took a lead in arranging the queue appropriately. The end result was that it reached the back wall (in the one-metre passing section) and then turned to match the main queue, which had in fact turned without fucking up the passing section. No one could get past now, without asking someone in the queue to make way. I saw people clambering along the back edge, past pushchairs and baggage in the area where passing should have been a formality. I saw others walk to the middle of the queue and wait for an opening to emerge. It was getting silly.
Gate 32 was not in use, other than as a desk at which 'helpers' wearing yellow tops could gather, and where a small row of seats came in handy for some of those waiting for the flight from C33. Among those waiting was a woman with four small children - too much baggage, I'd say! The yellow-tops were employed to ferry the disabled around, and generally this meant pushing wheelchairs, and either persuading, ordering, or nudging people out of the way, so that their special assistance package could be deposited more quickly to wait for ages like everyone else. I saw eight of the yellow-tops, and they seemed to be chatting for ages. It would have been more appropriate for them to try organising the queue, more so as a new development was complicating things.
There was a delay. According to the screen, half an hour extra would be spent waiting to get on board the plane that was yet to land. We were now in an 'overlap' zone. The queue from Gate C35 had followed the exact same design, and so the forced 'L' shape meant that the tail end of that queue had by now reached back to meet the Priority Boarders waiting at my Gate. In effect, one queue was in real danger of being infiltrated/cluttered by people queuing through the line at 90 degrees. People trying to get past the blockade (who did not negotiate pushchairs and passengers along the back wall) would expect space to be made in the Priority Boarding line, but be flummoxed by finding themselves behind someone pointing the same way, but not moving. By default, these newcomers were joining the C35 queue for a few seconds, before realising, and forcing past.
Common sense didn't prevail, but a spoonful seemed to land somewhere around the middle of the Priority queue, as those continuing to join decided to snake back towards the back wall, matching the line for a metre or two, and then it completely went back on itself, up towards C35, making a 180 degree bend. If you are following all of this, I applaud you. It was still madness for people trying to get past, who had no need to join either queue. As I stood watching, and enduring the singing of the woman next to me, I realised there were a few people making unnecessary journeys. These were no doubt the sort of people who'd go fucking window shopping in severe snowy weather, after the Met Office predicted worse was to come, and the public was advised to stay at home. I clocked one woman make two pointless journeys back and forth, negotiating queues.
Brian Hill was annoying. I didn't know him, and still don't, but I saw the boarding card he was holding, showing his name. Perhaps if he'd held on to something more than a piece of paper, I might not have had cause to notice him. Basically, he fell over, and dragged his wife down with him. Despite the proximity of other travellers, there was no 'domino effect', as luckily, he was only one place forward from the bend in the 'L' of the queue. The singer and her husband formed the turning point, and I was next in line. I suspected Brian had tried to sit on his baggage and misjudged things; it was quite warm, and tiring. The singer was fanning herself with her passport, while squatting down (?) and initially I'd thought it was a pre-emptive strike by her so that she undertook a controlled fall rather than be hit and knocked over by Brian's wife.
Brian recovered, and chucked for the next few minutes. I didn't. I perhaps ought to explain about the singer, or the 'cunt in front' as I referred to her in my head (not out loud, for obvious reasons). She was for some strange reason dressed in white. White cotton trousers, white top, and an unfortunate nose. Her chest protruded in line with her nose, the latter having no support, but the former quite clearly underpinned by carbon fibre. It was at this point that she took a few paces towards a screen to check flight details, and then returned (with dubious efforts of musical accompaniment, akin to a drunk nun's warbling) and decided to share a joke with her husband, and a 'jostle' of some sort. The ritual involved her giving a half-hearted kick. She was not as good as the Karate Kid, and clearly got carried away what with the white attire. She very slightly lost her balance (probably as a result of the boobs and nose, and the laws of 'moments' which I recall featuring in A-Level Physics lessons) which resulted in her stepping backwards and on to my foot. Twat. I heard her apology but managed to remain as impassive as a statue.
Soon, the Priority Boarders started shuffling forwards and then the riff-raff was allowed to join in as well. Natural order was being restored to the area, as queues disappeared, and walkways became unblocked. The progress was temporary, though, as the passengers were doing little more than populating the ramp down towards the tunnel for boarding. Soon we would all come to a halt. As I got to the gate, with boarding card and passport ready, I was massively amused to see the singer's bag attracting the attention of the Ryanair employee in charge. The reason? It was too fucking big. Now, to my mind, using a bag that is larger than the designated 55x40x20cm is asking for trouble. With such specific limitations, and the threat of fines, you'd think people would be a bit more careful. Her husband did the honours and picked up her bag to put it into the metal frame standing to one side. I reckon that the frame is actually a bit larger than the dimensions, but the tolerance was not as sufficient as that required for the singer's husband to slide the bag into the available space. The problem was the thickness. The trolley bag was certainly more than 25cm, hence the reason for the check on it being requested by the Ryanair woman who was rather sweet, and not at all officious. I watched as the bag was forced between the tubular metal edges, and it was like the proverbial square peg in a round hole. Oh, how he forced it, pushing and pushing; I could hear plastic cracking. Somehow he managed to get the bag into the frame, which now acted as might a boa constrictor squeezing the fuck out of its victim. It was truly wedged and the Ryanair woman contributed with "Perfect". I almost burst out laughing - 'perfect' indeed. Getting the bag out again was an endeavour and a half, with two people standing on the frame as the bag was extracted with more internal damage, no doubt.
I had come to a halt and had watched this going on a few feet behind me. The singer was immediately in front of me, looking back at her struggling husband. He rejoined her, pleased to have avoided any penalty, and we all waited because the ramp downwards was gridlocked. I was thus the last person through, standing four feet past the gate, while the rest of the queue waited in the main walkway. I was able to keep watch on the goings on, and one thing that happened was baffling.
I man walked up to the front of the queue, carrying a bag. He walked up to the Ryanair baggage-measuring frame, and tried to put the bag in it. His determination did not match that of the singer's wife, and so when the bag would not go in, he did not force the fuck out of it. He had a mate with him, and together they established there was no way this bag was going in. What did they do? They turned around, walked five paces over to an Easyjet frame, and tried it in that one! Who the fuck were they flying with? Were they going to decide what plane to catch on the basis of which one would take the bag? Unbe-fucking-lievable.
Progress eventually came, and we all moved down the ramp and into the tunnel towards the aircraft door. I was able to clock a celebrity amongst us; one of the passengers was none other than Hulk Hogan. He seemed a bit shorter than I expected. Then I realised that the person in leopard print was actually a woman with Hulk Hogan's head. Just as I was about to step on to the plane, I noticed a significant dent in the bag being carried by the singer, with a sense of satisfaction.
On the plane I was lucky enough to see and commandeer a spare seat right next to the emergency exit, with leg room enough for Peter Crouch on stilts. The drawback, as I later discovered, was that the Irishwoman in the middle seat (ie. next to me) was forever sticking her little finger in her ear, and then wiggling it about at 37mph. The flight back was actually uneventful; nothing out of the ordinary. The pilot told us where we'd be going (I was relieved I'd got on the right fucking plane and we were heading to the East Midlands, especially after all that ticket checking and queuing) and he then invited us all to sit back, relax and enjoy the flight. I considered that I was not (nor was anyone else) on the edge of my seat, so sitting back was a pointless suggestion, and the relaxation part was compromised when five minutes later the tannoy blared again with news that the servers of food and drink would be serving food and drink.
After I got off the bus taking me back to the car park, and was walking over to row 'E', I was sure I spotted Hulk Hogan in the gloom . . . . .or was it a leopard with a big chin?
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