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Having grown accustomed to the anti-climax that was our place of embarkation, we hung around waiting to be allowed into the departure lounge. Even the check-in had gone smoothly, our case weighing in at 15 kg, half our aggregate allowance. Knowing that Ryan Air's ticketless, seat-numberless airline made it a first-come first-served affair, we were eager to be in a prime location in said departure lounge for when it was time to board the plane. Security was straightforward enough - you got your picture taken by their computerised camera, and then you had your belongings scanned and, if you were lucky, you got frisked. I was lucky. I was quite impressed by their frisking technique too. In addition, a part of their security checks involve checking the soles of your shoes; clearly you're not allowed to tread dog-shite into the departure lounge carpet.
For the Darlingtonians, who were our company in the departure lounge, it's clear that smoking plays an important role in the activity of waiting for a plane. For me, though, smoke is the last thing I wish to inhale while preparing for a voyage. The majority of the departure lounge is non-smoking, but Teesside Airport's planners quite carefully placed the smoking area right next to the main departure gate, so you're guaranteed to be fumigated by the swathes of smoke, pouring from the highly concentrated cancer zone, while you are queuing to get a seat on the plane. Is this smoking area ventilated? Yes, of course it is! The rest of the departure lounge acts as a big draw on the smoke... if only they'd thought to stick a fan in one of the windows next to the smokers... but perhaps that would have required intelligence, and this was, after all, Teesside.
Waiting for the plane, I started reading the guide book for Dublin which I'd bought soon after booking the break. So far, I'd not taken in much of the book's details about the city. The only fact that had so far stuck in my head was the meaning of Dublin's name. Apparently, it comes from two words, describing the dark pool of water formed by the convergence of the rivers Poddle and Liffey in the wake of Dublin Castle. "Linn" means "pool" and "Dubh" means "black". Yes, we were going to Blackpool! That fact still has the facility to make me giggle like a schoolgirl!
Among those queuing for the departure gate, when it became apparent that a call was imminent, were a variety of colourful folks. At least two stag nights were in attendance. They called someone out of the crowd in order to give him priority boarding. He was clearly top of their list owing to his using crutches to walk. However, he was top of my list of complete frauds since he seemed to be walking firmly on both feet in between his cursory prods of the carpet with the sticks. Perhaps all of the alcohol he'd been drinking had miraculously cured his injuries.
Aboard the aircraft, we occupied a window and middle seat in a block of three. I was in the middle seat, which meant that I got to sit next to the random complete stranger. The chap in question was a stereotypical north-east-lad-on-stag-night. His hair was cropped by clippers - even grade all over. His sideburns were the usual length. His attire was entirely sportswear - including the obligatory jogging bottoms and trainers. This lad spent the entire journey fidgeting (a nuisance when you're pressed against the arm rest, as I was), chatting to his mates (behind him), who were incessantly giggling like brain-dead fools, and farting. I kept my head in my guide book and my mouth (and nose) shut.
11 April 2002
Ashley Frieze