Never trust large black men
Anyone who has ever done the loooooonghaul flight from NZ to LAX to Heathrow will tell you it's not a pleasant experience. Mine was made even less enjoyable by a large black man.

After 12 hours in the air, I disembarked at LAX and made my way (eventually) to the BA checkin for the connecting flight to Heathrow. Half way there, aforementioned LBM stopped me in my tracks and offered to 'take your bag, Sir'? Initially I resisted, but being a not large Kiwi (and noting he had a gun) I handed my wordly possessions over.

Five days later my backpack turned up in London. I'd spent the previous four days with nothing to my name bar a free T shirt from BA (extremely generous of them I thought), a travel toothbrush and a London A-Z.

Best of all, I'd stuffed a load of damp washing in to the backpack before leaving NZ (crappy hotel washer/dryer), thinking I'd be in the UK within 24 hours.

I was. Backpack wasn't. Shall remember the stench for the rest of my days.
(charles mingus, Wed 8 Mar 2006, 5:16, Reply)

Careful where u put ur legs
Whilst waiting for a flight from Spain I decided to wedge my leg in between some railings. All was well until we had to move and I could not remove my now swollen knee cap from between the iron railings. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, decided the best course of action would be to attempt to yank me backwards (for want of a better phrase). My screams (of pain) attracted the airport security and the spanish police, as my plight became a spectacle to the entire airport. After some kindly airport official brought an ice pack to reduce the swelling I was finally freed, to a round of applause from the crowd of giggling onlookers. Safe to say we missed our flight and it was the most embarrassing day of my life.

I was 16 and have not been to an airport since
( porndog rich shameless plug: www.sureradio.com, Wed 8 Mar 2006, 3:48, Reply)

Mussels from Brussels
I had a business trip to Brussels which involved an overnight stop and flying back to Heathrow for a meeting early the next morning. So I went out on the town and made a new friend with whom I got seriously drunk and seriously laid.

Next morning I woke late and took the taxi ride of death to the airport and somehow managed to check-in, where I was told to rush to the gate as the plane was ready go.

Moving quickly had a deteriorating effect on my stomach but I managed to keep it together until I walked along the ramp to the plane, when I felt one of my infamous projectile vomit moments coming on. I spotted the door leading to the tarmac near the end of the ramp but it was locked, so I decorated the door handle with Belgian mussels and beer and then walked onto the plane - to be greeted by the cheery smile of the hostess and the disgruntled faces of the delayed passengers - which was nothing compared to the look of horror from the ground staff who was opening the door behind me.

When I got to Heathrow I felt so terrible I called in sick and went to the cafe to recover before going into work 3 hours late.

Conclusions:
- Mussels smell really bad when mixed with beer and stomach acid for 8 hours.
- Got my own back on the ground staff who piss about with the ramp for 20 minutes when you're trying to get off the place, twats.
- Belgian beer gets you laid.

Apologies for length and putting you off your breakfast.
(Pewit does things down under, Wed 8 Mar 2006, 3:44, Reply)

Stag Night In Nice
plan was to stay up all night drinking and catch the Easyjet flight back home the next morning. Sadly, the groom wasn't setting a good enough pace, so it was up to me to lead the charge.

Woken up by a security dog (and his very unimpressed French handler) in a hotel Plaza. Phone rings a couple of minutes later, my 'mates' are boarding the plane and are wondering where I am. Start walking, thinking I may stumble across the airport in the next five minutes (not all pistons are firing yet).

An hour later I catch a cab. 15 Euros lighter I wander to the Easyjet help desk where I am put on the next flight for no extra charge. Awesome! Whilst in the queue for check-in I realise I don't have my passport. No idea where it is. Bugger! An Easyjet manager tells me to visit the airport police who helpfully hand me the number of the British consulate in Nice (written on a the back of a scrap of paper). It's Sunday, the line is an answering machine. Back to the 'help' desk and after a few minutes on the phone with a guy from Luton airport immigration they agree to let me travel on my drivers licence (the French authorities cannot get rid of me quick enough). Arrive home a mere six hours later than planned.

Prologue 1: I have to hand it to Easyjet, I was expecting to get royally screwed for loads of extra cash, but instead didn't have to pay anything extra whatsoever. W/Y.

Prologue 2: My mates later tell me that I was with them at the airport at 7:00am. Between then and 9:00 I had managed to get a 15 Euro cab ride away and have a kip.

Prologue 3: Passport was later found in Nice airport. Lost & found refused to post it to me and I had to pay for it to be couriered to the UK.
(Griffit, Wed 8 Mar 2006, 1:08, Reply)

goose livers
Being the ripe old age of 12 gives your parents every right to exploit you. Coming back from Hong Kong to NZ, I got tracked down by an adorable yet satantically evil sniffer dog, the customs officer woman comes on over to see what her dog had busted, and when she looked in my bag she found dried goose livers, why my mother wanted to bring those with her remains a mystery to us all. Since my mother spoke no english I was left with the explaining, she starts examining the package and asks me what they are, and me being 12 and confused told her they were sweets (and to all those that have had the pleasure of being in the same room as dried goose livers, they DO NOT smell like sweets) she sniffs them and recoils in digust, flashing me a look of pity then lets me off. Thank god she didn't ask me to eat one in front of her, or I would have puked Fear Factor style. To anyone who knows how strict New Zealand customs are, I am still surprised to this day that they let goose livers slip through the borders...hah! my finger to the man!

Apologies for length and lack of paragraphing...blimey
(spike spiegel, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 23:50, Reply)

Knob-ring fun
Set the Metal detector off, on the way to Miami.
My Daughter started laughing out loud as the Security guy started running the hand held doobry around me.
'My Daddys got a ring in his willy.' came the extra loud, 5-year old voice.
The guy just waved me past.
So, try smuggling your nail clippers in your Japs-eye.
(BigAndyBee, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 23:49, Reply)

Watching telly with UN peace keepers
A few years ago i was working in West Africa, Guinea to be precise and had just managed to get my 2 weeks leave sorted...i had a pal who had procured a house boat on Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe - i was very keen to sit around a do nothing on said boat for a week or so...off i went.

On arrival in airports in West Africa it's usually a survival thing (you run to the desk and try and climb over the top of the other people trying to also get to the desk..a bit like an Olympic event...only the fittest survive) but today was different...the Sierra Leonean war had escalated, the UK had sent a battleship (yay) and generally things were ill tempered....long story short...there was about 10,000 people at the airport...ALL trying to get to the airline desk to get on the plane...in the end the plane was cancelled and we went home and drank beer...nice way to spend 5 hours!.

3 days later i turn up, get on a replacement plane on a totally different airline that wasnt even supposed to be flying (we heard a rumour off someone else that it was flying) and hopped on....i was handed a dry bun and a pickle for lunch...nice!

We had to refuel and drop off passengers in Sierra Leone....we got a flat tire on landing and had to stay there for 2 hours whilst it was repaired...anyways, the UN peacekeepers were there all living at the airport with the british army all armed to the teeth living there...great!..Anyways, there i am watching CNN on telly, with about 200 UN guys all watching a newscast about how tough it is in Sierra Leone.

So...the journey continues....i fly to Ghana 2 hours later...check into the airline for my connection to Johannesburg..."Sorry sir you aren't booked"...I had a ticket (Business class too....nooch!) but that doesnt always mean you have a seat in africa....this happens all the time, being used to this and knowing it would get me nowhere arguing i left to go to a hotel..."when's the next plane" i said"...."Monday" they said...3 days later.

3 days later i show up, get on the plane (which was late) and get to Johannesburg (ticket also invalid because i was a week late...purchased new ticket at great expense) and FINALLY almost 1 week after i was supposed to leave i arrived in Harare and sat on a houseboat in gorgeous Lake Kariba....even had a beer or two and saw a hippo in the carpark.

Good thing too...i would have murdered someone if it wasnt that good. Ooh, i also caught a fish that was smaller than my bait...yay!.

Apologies for length
(Dogzilla, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 22:02, Reply)

Got to love customs
Just over a year ago, I was in Albania, (it's where Mr Helpermonkey is from) as we'd been sorting out the neccessary red tape at the British Embassy for us to get married back home in Blighty. As soon as the word got out that we were off to the UK, up turn all the people wanting gifts taken over to obscure friends and relatives in the UK. Quite clearly our bags are over the weight limit.

Having finally convinced the security guard at the door of Mother Teresa airport that we were indeed travelling, and that we did have tickets and passports, we made our way to the Alitalia check-in, where the bloke confirmed our bags were over the limit, and went off to get his supervisor. I hissed at Mr Helpermonkey: "Just slip yer man some Euros, this is Albania, land of the bent and corrupt, he's bound to let us off." No, we get the only ethically sound worker in the whole bloody airport, and we have to pay full whack.

We had to change at Rome, and because we'd come in from Albania, we had to enter the terminal round the back through a secret door and were subjected to an extra security check and almost missed our connection, as we got to main security just after a flight from Tokyo.

When we finally landed at Heathrow, I managed to bite my tongue as the immigration bitch tried to trick Mr H over the terms and conditions of his visa.

Muttering under my breath, I led the way through the green channel at customs, only to hear: "Excuse me sir, step over here please" Fucksocks, Mr Helpermonkey has been pulled over. I dash back and get: "Are you travelling together, madam?" Jobsworth starts looking through our stuff and asks where we've come from. "Albania via Rome" I fume, and then he asks me: "Did you buy any electrical items while you were over there?" WTF?!? I finally lost my rag.

"This is Albania we're talking about mate, would you buy anything electrical over there?" Twunt zipped our suitcases back up and wished us a pleasant onward journey!!

Apologies for length/girth. You've had better anyway.
(helpermonkey, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 21:51, Reply)

dont get fucked in kefalonia the night before returning home
not so much an airport story as much as it is a coach to the airport story. last year went on last proper holiday with my brothers and my mum and dad me and my 16 year old brother joe decided as it was our last night we would get completely munted so we did this drank excessivly till about 4 in the morning thats what time the bar closed. we had to get up at about 6 so that we would have time to get ready for our departure from the hotel by coach. coah time came and we said goodbye to our parents and our youngest brother as they were staying another week. the coach had no air con and as far as i can tell no suspension. the whole journey from the hotel was a mixture of hairpin bends, bumps, and temperatures hotter than the sun whilst more hungover than a jewish hangover machine. we both got off the coach holding back the sick. got in the freezing cold airport and nearly ejaculated.
(fwack bang on it, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 20:37, Reply)

"He's having a bad day..."
After a couple weeks in florida, i was in the airport departure lounge waiting fo my flight back home. Needed a slash, so trotted off to the nearest 'restroom'. I walked in, and somewhat to my surprise, the entire floor was covered in vomit, with a guy standing in the middle of it while i could hear God-knows-what flying out of someone in the first cubicle.

"Yea my mate's having a bit of a bad day" said the guy in front of me.

I found another restroom pretty quickly.
(ihatethehackers, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 20:36, Reply)

fashionably late
a friend of mine was coming back from hols in spain. His flight was at 10:00am far too early for him to haul his hungover frame from the bed. So he did what every good englishman would, turn up late and expect to be taken home. Which he was, the plane had been delayed by 4hrs and he wallked straight on much to the dusgust of everyone that had been slumming it during the delay
(ghetto soldier, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 19:43, Reply)

Happy Easter
During the foot and mouth outbreak of 1999 i'd visited germany at easter, at this time there was a ban on import and export of dairy and meat products, disinfectant troughs to walk through and quite a few hungry looking sniffer dogs! It's traditional to give out varnished hard boiled eggs and some time during the trip i'd been given one of the said eggs, pocketed it and promptly forgotten about it (there may have been copious amounts of weissbier involved!) Fast forward to the homeward journey, security control at Frankfurt Hahn airport. Metal detector goes off, i begin to get frisked by fearsome german security (wo)man suddenly she lets out a seriously not happy 'urgh as she goes through my pocket! In a brief moment of clarity i remember the now crushed 'eggy gift! Fear grips me, and i mutter repeatdly in broken german that i was so sorry and i'd forgotten that i'd been given it and how i wasn't trying to smuggle contraband dairy products to the UK. Thankfully, i just had to hand over the egg remains, got a stern look and sent on my way. All this time the rest of the people in my group (about 30 of us) had gone through security control and were now congregated, watching me, pissing themselves. Still haven't lived it down, wouldn't mind but i really hate bolied aggs anyway!
(DangerFlange Chamone Mother Hubbard, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 18:38, Reply)

Deadly weapons
My toe nail clippers got confiscated in Dubai airport. I can imagine the scene, "Hand over control of the plane so I can fly it into a famous yankee landmark or I'll pinch your earlobe really hard with these clippers".

This pissed me off; I can say now that it is pretty much impossible to procure nail clippers in Sri Lanka. I had to master a type of Aruverdic Yoga in order to become flexible enough to trim my toenails with my teeth.
(donksta, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 17:27, Reply)

Getting off the plane at O'Hare airport in Chicago...
Security guy was standing in the walkway with a sniffer dog.

"Ok everyone, move along... please don't pet the dog... the dog is working... at least I hope it is."

Ok, he's probably said that a thousand times, but it made me laugh.
( Beastie is doing science with his arse, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 17:24, Reply)

German efficiency
On the way back from Frankfurt on Saturday, me and my other half had to go through security. As I went through, they checked my bags and asked me to remove my keys. There are about 20 of them, on a huge ring, with one of those long promotional stringy things attatched. A more offensive weapon I cannot immagine, however being my keys, they have to let them through. My boyfriend is next up. From his bag, they remove an allen key. After a lot of faff about putting it in his hand luggage, he leaves it with them after a few words of abuse. So while I retain my numchucks of death, he loses his small pokey stick.
The logic is immpeccable.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 17:13, Reply)

Nice day for it
Mr weebear has never been a happy flier. It was two years into our blissful union before I could persuade him to do anything more than a brief hop over to Dublin. Late summer 2001, however, we went to Malta. A few scrumpies in Gatwick South and a short 3 hour flight later, it was happy days. The ensuing seven days passed in a blissful haze of cheap German beer and sunburn, and on the final day we took a slow lollop down the coastal road in Bugibba to purchase fags and soak up the last of the sun before our flight. It was siesta time so the streets were burning hot and deserted.

To shelter from the heat, we wandered into an empty cafe. The waitress was pootling away behind the counter and a portable TV flashed silent images in the corner. Drawn by the red banner at the bottom of the screen (these were the days before News 24 where breaking news WAS really breaking AND newsworthy), we edged up to the television and squinted. In time to see the South Tower of the World Trade Centre collapse live on CNN.

It was a good fifteen minutes of viewing in slightly disbelieving, slack-jawed horror before we realised that planes had been used for the terrorist attacks. As an audible creak popped from the back of Mr Weebear's cacks it dawned that this probably wasn't the best day to be going to the airport.

Flights were still running, and confident as I was that budget rustbucket Excel Airways wouldn't be an al-Qaeda target that day Mr Weebear wasn't convinced. Not even several litres of Cisk could detract from the constant footage of the planes crashing merrily into famous landmarks on screens throughout the airport. The mood was sombre, shocked and silent for us and most of our fellow passengers.

I managed to get Mr Weebear on the plane, whereupon he sat silently sweating and gripping the seat arms for the duration of the flight. On takeoff, a Croydon-scrapeback haired old shitter in the row in front with half a dozen snot-dribbling children screeched "Well, if this un gets fuckin' crashed into summat, that'll be the 'ole fuckin' famileee wiped out. My 'ole famileee!". Momentarily, I am ashamed to confess, I felt it would be almost worth the fiery demise of myself and my fellow innocent passengers.

Mr Weebear actually kissed the tarmac at Gatwick. Well, not the tarmac, that slopey tunnel between the plane and the terminal. But I know what he meant.

As a postscript, the following year I was travelling back from Monte Carlo when I first became aware of the Bali bombing in 2002 - I watched the news reports coming in on the screens in Nice airport. It took me a wee while to stop associating waiting in airports with watching terrorism unfold. Still tend to opt for a book and an iPod rather than watching the airport TV screens though. Just in case...

Never mind the length, feel the quality.
( weebear1974 discovering the joy of cat rape since, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 16:50, Reply)

Wintonslick
Pan Am 103 flew from Heathrow not Gatwick. Unless that's what you meant to say of course.
(SJH, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 16:45, Reply)

Passport Control humour?
When I was a student I lived in the South of France for 9 months as part of my degree. Although all I really did was get drunk and work off hangovers sitting in sunny pavement cafes I retained my English pallor.

On the way back to Blighty for the final time I was queuing quietly to go through passport control when I noticed the man in front of me giving me funny looks.
Thinking nothing much of it I just ignored him, until I noticed that when he went to passport control he spoke intently to the man in the booth and they both started to give me funny looks. At this point I started to become a little concerned.

When I arrived at the passport control booth I gave the guard my sweetest smile - he remained entirely stony faced and proceeded to ask me a number of questions about when I arrived in France, how long I had been here and what had I been doing.

Now I *knew* all my paperwork was in order (and I won't even begin to describe the kafkaesque nightmare I had to go through to get it that way) but when at the end of these questions he said that he could not possibly let me leave the country my jaw hit the floor and all I could think to say was "why?" (in french, obviously!)

At which point he explained that I was too pale and what would people think if I left after 9 months with no suntan? I had hideous visions of being forced to lie in the sun until I began to look like one of the leathery permatanned denizens, but thankfully he accepted my explanation that English skin just doesn't tan and let me on the plane. bastard.
(I_AM_MY_EVIL_TWIN_SELF, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:58, Reply)

Skeletor
When my sister was a medical student she had to learn the bone structures of the body so was renting a real human skeleton from her medical school as you had to do. She rather brilliantly decided to go on holiday but had a lot of work still to do so thought "no problem bung the skeleton in my hand luggage and off I go to Portugal !!" . Imagine the scene, Heathrow airport , xray queue , up comes my sister pops her bag on the conveyor and tells the chap by the machine "By the way just so you know theres a skeleton in there" and walks off through the metal detector. There then ensues quite a scene where the operator calls over all his colleagues to check out the human bones on the display, they all have a laugh and let her go through after a quick explanation. The funnier part was when she was heading back from Portugal, she didnt tell the Portuguese anything about the unusual contents of her hand luggage and they spent several minutes checking out the xray screen and then just waved her through smiling nervously, probably happy she was leaving the country rather than arriving !!!
(LL220, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:52, Reply)

What me - paranoid?
So there I was, earning a crust as an actor working for a Vienna-based English speaking theatre company. Not the happiest of fliers at the best of times, but travelling in a tin tube at 30,000 feet comes with the territory of working abroad (unless you like spending 30 hours on a train - meh.)
So on the way back for the Xmas break in 1988, chatting with the cabin crew of Austrian Airlines; as we were interesting passengers (for some reason, actors are assumed to be 'interesting') the stewardess wangles a trip to the cockpit for us. (Remember back in the innocent days before 9/11, when cockpit security was a bit of an afterthought?) Not only that, but on the approach to London, the pilot invites me to stay there for the landing, pulling a little slot-away seat out from behind the co-pilot's seat. We thunder into Gatwick, (half an hour late but what the hey...) and lo! My fear of flying is nigh-on cured - what an experience!

Then the pilot makes the announcement: "Would all passengers remain seated until those transferring to Pan Am 103 have disembarked - the flight has been held for you." The passengers concerned happily pile off the plane and head off to make their connection...

2 hours later, I get home, turn on the tv to see the first reports of Lockerbie, which only blew up over Scotland because it had been delayed half an hour - it was 'meant' to explode over the Atlantic. I am convinced that the people on my flight making their delayed connection ended up on Pan Am 103.

To top it all, the day I flew back, January 8th 1989, there was the M1 Motorway crash - just because I'm not paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me.

Can't bear flying anymore, unsurprisingly...
(WintonSlick, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:46, Reply)

Menorca; The Guantanamo of the Med
A few years back, I and a group of my peers decamped to Menorca in order to visit some friends who were living out there.

In order to do this without having to put up with hordes of Kevins and Kylies, we went off season. The only other people with us on the flight were a large number of golf-loving men in their 50's and 60's, together with their wives who doubtless dreamed of daily adultery with teenaged Menorcan boys.

As we made our way through the rigorous security employed by the Menorcan airport, I allowed my friend Christina to go ahead of me. My ample chested, scantily clad friend Christina.

Due to her being the only woman to clock in at under half a century, the chap checking the passports was entranced by her. To the extent that I, and the 4 or 5 people after me, essentially had to wave their passports in the air whilst a tit-obsessed jobsworth ignored us and stared longingly at Christina's charms.

I've often wondered since then whether the 9/11 hijackers got through airport security by taking the precaution of allowing a plump chested young lovely to go just ahead of them at the queue.



As a postscript to that trip, on the return journey I was tired and emotional, and complained noisily at a stewardess who ordered me to sit down after we'd landed. I apologised to her as I left the plane, realising I'd been an unforgiveable boorish prick.

As we disembarked onto the tarmac, one of the aforementioned golf seniors, presumably full of frustrated testosterone after watching his wife's sagging flesh undulating back and forth whilst getting skewered by a muscular latino named Jose for 2 weeks, started having a pop at me for my rudeness.

Now, although I'd admitted I was at fault, the stewardess had accepted my apology, and as far as I was concerned, the matter was at a close. So to have this turkey knecked, pig-titted old fuck yelling at me was a bit much.

So it was that I swallowed my lifetime's habit of respect for my elders, brought my face close to his (I stood about a foot taller than the sour faced bag of tramps piss) and bellowed "What the FUCK business of yours is it, you STUPID OLD CUNT!!" in an uncontrolled burst of drunken, self-righteous fury.

His face was a joy to behold as he blanched and scampered off to the carousel and from thence, presumably, to his stinking little prole hole. His wife's was less so, in that she laughed, then offered me what she imagined to be a coqettish smile. ~shudder~
(Light, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:46, Reply)

Schipol airport happy birthday number 2
Schipol airport, my birthday

passport control bloke - happy birthday

me: dank u well !

same fella as the one in boukha's answer ? we'll never know but it's quite a conicidence, no ?
(sham-il-eer-tak-tak noes better but still can't give a fuck at, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:24, Reply)

Shoes
On the way to Israel via Frankfurt the german police stole my shoes in case they were dangerous.

That is all.

Edit: They were fluffy boots with pom-poms on. Just thought that should be shared.
:o/
(The Apeface Cherub is not a cunty-uber-cunt, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:07, Reply)

6 months wait for a VISA application and for what...???!!!
This isn't about flying per-say, more about the bits around the outside like passports, VISAs, etc. But whatever.

Roll back about 6-7 months to mid-2005, England. It was during this time my Aussie Girlfriend was beginning to sort out my VISA application so I could go live in Oz with her. We were aiming to fly back to Oz around January 2006, because of her various commitments to university, etc. Anyway, during the next 6-7 months I was nearly driven insane by the sheer mound of red-tape that you have to fight through to obtain a VISA. My girlfriend was a mite panicky because of her Uni work, and I was pissed because I had to quit my job early (and struggle financially the next month or so) because of the stupid amount of tests and medicals I had to do. I wasn't even given a time frame in which to expect my VISA to be completed by, therefore I couldn't seriously plan more than two weeks ahead for anything.

Anyway, fast forward to 3 weeks ago. I get off the plane passport in hand with my VISA stamp proudly showing, acutely aware of the pains I had to go through trying to get it.
I hand it to the airport guard who looks at my picture briefly, and doesn't even have a fleeting glance at my VISA. They didn't even inspect the freaking luggage for imported goods. I could be carrying a herd of rabid welsh morris dancing sheep in there for all they knew.
I was so incredibly tempted to cram my hard-fought VISA application to a painful place downunder.

The actual flight over was a complete bore mind you. Even Dubai was boring, it was pouring with rain and the airport was a building site, so it pretty much looked like my home town of Birmingham. And 23-25 hours of basically nothing to do on the plane except watch old reruns of Little Britain. Urrggghhhhhhhh....


EDIT: Oh, I forgot to mention. The night before we were to fly off, they showed the film "Final Destination". Everybody in the house was watching it, dispite knowing I have a massive phobia of flying. Gee, thanks everybody!
(AdamJ Just another pom, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:00, Reply)

How to worry my wife
We went to Amsterdam for my wife's birthday a few years ago.
At passport control at Schipol, Mrs boukha hands over her passport, smiling at the man.
He looks at her, then at the passport, furrows his brow looking at her and the passport again. So there's a few seconds where my wife is beginning to think 'Shit, is my passport out of date? Doesn't he recognise me?' etc. etc. He looks round and scrutinises the passport again.
She was just beginning to lose control of her bowels when he smiles sweetly, hands her back her passport and says 'Happy Birthday!'.
(boukha, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 12:55, Reply)

"Nobody's" Perfect
I was on a business trip to Townsville (North Queensland, Australia) and had a few hours stop over in Brisbane airport. Seeing as though I was greatly important to the airline I was allowed into business lounge.

I am a huuuuuuggggeee rugby fan, and so I was reading the autobiography of a one John Eales (ex-Wallabies Captain).

I was totally imersed in the book when I felt a tap on the shoulder.
"Good book?" the bloke asks.

I look up only to see the great man himself. Composing myself I reply.
"Nah shit - seems to drag on with no purpose."
(But really its a good read).

He laughed heartily. Got me a beer and we talked for an hour before he had to catch his flight to Sydney.

Nice fella. He even signed my copy.
(Slatts If you cant remember it didnt happen, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 12:42, Reply)

Istanbul Airport
a couple of summers ago I was returning home from Turkey via Istanbul Airport, I got through the metal detector and was waiting for my hand luggage which they decided to look through, the guard was confused with the site of my Lynx deoderant can which has a funny nozzle, rather than asking me to spray it to check it's not an WMD he tried to work it out himself leading him to spray Lynx into his eyes! classic, he then found my camera and asked me to take a photo to again prove I'm not a terrorist so I've now got a lovely photo of a Turkish security bloke rubbing his eyes!

how he didn't get angry with all this I don't know!

size, I'm suprised he didn't check there!
(Starzy had a headache on, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 11:27, Reply)

It was Christmas, 1992...
I was around 11 at the time and rather than the traditional festivities spent at home, my family decided that we should spend it sunning ourselves in Florida. Now, call me old fashioned but I love cold weather (particularly snow) around Christmas time and I was naturally unhappy about the unfairness of this decision.

So, on the day of the flight itself my parent's alarm clock didn't go off and it's absolute panic in my house with my all my uncles, aunts and cousins running around trying to get ready, utter mayhem.

We arrive at the airport and I'm running behind my Dad, but the batteries on my tape recorder run out, so there I am trying to change them as well as trying to keep up with Pop. He runs on to the plane but I crash into the air hotess at the desk sending tickets flying everywhere. "It's alright," I tell her, "I just saw my Dad run on." As the plane's ready to leave she lets me on, making sure I can see my Dad first. I put my headphones on, sit back and relax, not hearing the captain's announcement that the plane is bound for NEW YORK!

Yours sincerely,

Mr K McCallister
(Maker of Dreams, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 11:16, Reply)

Never fill in the immigration forms like I did...
You'll end up wearing women's clothes!

I lived in California for 6 months, and I actually got married there. My girlfriend (now wife) did not fly with me to San Francisco immediately, but would fly over a couple of weeks later. However, as she wanted to bring some extra stuff with her, she asked me if I could bring some of her clothes with me in my suitcase already.

Flight was fine, I was waiting in line at customs/immigration. At the counter I handed over my form, which I filled in in the airplane. Being the honest guy that I am, I had written down that I was bringing stuff with me that was worth more than USD 750 (or something like that). That was not because of the clothes, but the wedding rings.

Because I had written that down, the customs officer told me to step aside and open my suitcase. I explained to him that it was the wedding rings, but I still had to open my suitcase.

There he saw my girlfriend's clothes. So I explained to him that she would arrive later.

He than said: "Sir, if this is not yours, and if the total value is more than xxx USD, you'll have to pay import duties".

I ended up signing a statement that the clothes were indeed mine, and that usually would wear them. Luckily I didn't have to put them on right there and then, although I had to put on both mine and my girlfriend's wedding ring so that they would be exempt from import duties (being used and all...).

The customs guy very friendly told me when I was leaving: "You shouldn't have filled in that form like that..."
(nassie999, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 11:13, Reply)

Ginger Delinquent Airplane Hell
May 2001, I was boarding a 767 with the soon to be Mrs PJM (who also was soon to be ex-Mrs PJM) en route to St Lucia filled with pre-wedding jitters.

I'd taken my seat and noticed a young family boarding the plane. He was six five in his socks, she was petite and cute and they brought on board their two boys, one aged about four with bright ginger hair and the other still in nappies and mercifully not ginger.

Once the plane was in the air and flying level, the ginger kid unbuckled his seat and unleashed a reign of terror on the passengers, single handledly ensuring that no-one was allowed to sleep at any point during the ten hour flight. He'd run up and down the aisles, knocking elbows and screaming, making enough noise to drown out a Led Zep concert while his parents looked on with adoration. "Oh Oliver, he's a one!" I heard the father exclaim lovingly.

Eight hours in, I was drifting off to sleep. WWWWAAAAHHHHH-ahhhhhhhhh-WWAAAAAHHHHH! Oliver ran up and down the aisles making aeroplane noises. I turned on my lamp to call the stewardess over

"Can you put that little mutant in the overhead locker please?"

She had a word with the parents who immediately did fuck all to discipline their disgusting offspring.

A fortnight later and newly (if briefly) married, I'm lugging my suitcase through the courtyard at Hewanorra Airport waiting to check in. It's 40 degrees and I'm miserable. I've lasted a fortnight without sex as the air conditioning in my room was broke and the missus was "too hot" to perform and I know I've a huge pile of paperwork to return home to. As the queue moves forward I try and drag my suitcase but there's some resistance. I turn around to see "Oliver" busily attempting to yank the baggage ticket off my bag.

"Stop that please" I ask him politely.

He just carries on... Staring up at me the whole time. I look at the parents to intervene when his father rolls his eyes and says "Oh Oliver, he's a one!".

I ask the girl at check in to ensure that the family behind are put at the other end of the plane to me.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 7 Mar 2006, 10:55, Reply)