Samuel Fishwick
(Picture: Daniel Hambury/@stellapicsltd)I have never found big jets to be big entertainment, especially as EasyJet flight EZY8558 from Salzburg to Gatwick dipped a wing tentatively into Storm Eunice at midday on Friday and took the plunge. My fiancée inspected the inside of a sick bag. The calm before the storm was sunshine at 32,000 feet. Couldn’t we stay up here?
Our plane began to lurch like it was stumbling out of Fabric at 4am, trying to pick a fight with a cloud. The engines screamed. So did the passengers. A lady behind me muttered, “we’re going to die”, clutching her wire headphones like a string of pearls. The cars on the M23 grew from Hot Wheels toys to giant headlights barrelling towards us. Then the engines roared, we rocketed upwards and our pilot crackled over the Tannoy: “Sorry folks, too dicey. We’ll give it another go in 25 minutes, and if the winds don’t change, I’m afraid we’re off to France.”
Unlike the 6.7 million of you who tuned in to Big Jet TV to gawk at wobbly planes careening towards Heathrow on Friday, I have never liked flying. Or wind. Or discomfort. As a wise man once said, “if God had intended man to fly, he would never have given us the railways”. Granted, I’m also scared of everything else too: lightning, motorways, the dark, ghosts. But as we bounced into round two of our Gatwick descent like popcorn in a microwave, a funny thing happened. I smiled. Grinned. Chuckled. None of this was on me. Someone else was in charge. It was exhilarating. Entertaining. The ultimate immersion therapy. As we landed, the cabin burst into applause as if England had won the Euros on penalties. Two mini bottles of Bordeaux were hurled into the air somewhere in row D.
So thank you Big Jet TV for every “go on son!” and “fair play mate!”, your thoughts and prayers got us down. Thank you, pilot, who handled our plane like a Team GB curler nudging a giant kettle on to the runway. Is this friendship? Therapy? Can I set you up with my friends? Forget Hot Priests. All hail the Hot Pilots. My fear has gone. You have cured me. I stomp around Hampstead Heath like Heathcliff on Prozac. This flying lark? A breeze. Fear? Nothing to fear, so to your good health — 6.7 million Big Jet TV fans can’t be wrong.
