Contents
Title Page
Brits in the air? Fine, so long as they’re called Stephanie…
Guess what, Son – I’m a chair!
How Mogadishu taught me to stop worrying and love my dentist
I don’t hate cyclists, I just want to protect their knackers
The rise and rise of Billy No Mates
Why I make foxes laugh and Wayne Rooney stare
Why should I love my bum? Nobody else does…
Myrtle the Fresian: pin-up for the discerning heavy metal fan?
Goat dung: the new black
Why the Royal Family really should be a laughing matter…
Technology? I’d rather go down the Dog and Duck
Why I feel like Kate Moss in the flyovers…
Porridge all round, and pass the apple sauce
Make poverty history? I’d rather make Bono history…
Witchdoctors: alive and well and living in Chancery Lane
In defence of Christmas
Why I’ll take Clacton-on-Sea over St Tropez any time
Europe: nul points!
Vote Nick Ferrari for Archbishop if you want the F word in church
Prince Philip in suspenders? Now that’s entertainment!
The laughing policemen
Requiem to a flying blackboard rubber
Having it all, and why you can’t – even if you’re Germaine Greer
A night out in London
America? China? Nah … it’s all happening in Tescoland
Giving Auntie a kick up the jacksie
Help! Is there an aromatherapist in the house?
How do we put up with Ken? And how does he put up with me?
If in doubt, ask Sid
Gordon Ramsay: prick with a fork
London 2012? Let’s have a Whopper and curly fries instead
The Spanish Inquisition: alive and well and living in Holmes Place
That’s enough touchy-feely – let’s bring back the nasty party
Dead cows and white elephants
Order, order! Why some honourable members need some real whipping into shape
Did you hear the one about The Pope and The Most Holy Carmelite Order of Prestatyn?
Nick Ferrari’s Manifesto for London
Scent of a woman
Copyright
Brits in the air? Fine, so long as they’re called Stephanie…
Remember the days when air travel was the preserve of the glamorous, the jet set and the elite? Well, if you do, you just won’t believe what it’s like now. In the course of being a reporter for a series of national newspapers and shuttling across the Atlantic fairly regularly when I was working for Fox TV in the United States as part of Rupert Murdoch’s organisation, I was exposed to just about every variety of air travel you can imagine.
One image will never leave me. To explain it fully, I need to put it in context. Whenever I crossed the Atlantic I always chose, whenever possible, Virgin Atlantic. Sir Richard Branson’s airline is nothing short of genius. They consistently have the best facilities, the smartest crew and the most enjoyable flights (there – that should secure the next upgrade or three…). Because of the number of air miles I chalked up with Virgin Atlantic, I found myself upgraded to a gold-card holder and therefore able to enjoy lounge access at all airports. I was flying from Gatwick to Newark and, as I was a member of the Executive Club, I was able to wait until almost the last minute to board the aircraft – not only was a special announcement made in the first-class lounge, but a stunningly stylish young woman, complete with the Virgin Atlantic uniform hugging her in all the right places, arrived to escort me to the departure gate. We walked through and I was in the blissful mental state of being a mix between being James Bond and a leading captain of industry. Then, as I neared the boarding gates, I looked to my right and saw the last few members of economy class being boarded for the flight.
And there it was: Atlantic traveller, British style.
Dad had the body mass of a Sumo wrestler but the height of a National Hunt jockey. He was red-faced, sweating and wearing a T-shirt that strained at every seam. At first glance it appeared to have the Ford logo on the front of it; closer inspection revealed that it was not Ford that was spelled out on his ample chest but FCUK! Why would a grown man want to walk around with a slogan like that on his bosom?
Behind was his wife wearing a hideous white shell suit that immediately made you give thanks that smoking on all aircraft has now been banned – if anyone had dropped a match or anything slightly combustible near her, she would have gone up in flames in a second thanks to all the chemicals involved in the production of her hideous outfit. But the crowning lump of pooh in the overflow pipe was the teenage daughter dragging herself along sulkily some five yards behind her parents. This was a girl who had her hair pulled so tightly behind her face she was almost striking an oriental grimace; she had rings in both her ears, her nose and on most of her fingers, and one through her naval – I was only grateful that she was wearing faded tracksuit trousers on her bottom half to show that there wasn’t one anywhere else. But the item that set off this ensemble to the best was her T-shirt. It was green with the following slogan in vivid letters: LAST NIGHT I F***ED THE DRUMMER! It made me wonder if there was anything people would not wear as a slogan on a T-shirt. What about a picture of a pile of steaming horse crap, or the slogan I’M A MORON, or a picture of two rats fighting over the remnants of a dead fox that’s been mangled by the side of a motorway. Trouble is, I’ve probably given a few fashion designers some ideas there!
It just made me long for the glamorous days of air travel. It used to have an air of refinement and style – we’re talking Sean Connery as James Bond touching down in Jamaica in Dr No, not 20,000 people stuck at Gatwick airport on a sweltering bank holiday waiting to get their flights to Spain or Greece but who have been stuck because of the latest dispute with French air traffic control. If you were to fetch back some of the frequent flyers from the fifties and walk them through today’s departure lounges in Stansted, Birmingham and Gatwick, they would freeze with horror. They would see people feeding themselves with their hands, guzzling fizzy drinks, screaming at loutish children and then queuing – sometimes for hours – to be boarded on to planes and be seated in conditions similar to those that a sardine experiences in a tin. It is surely close to immoral the way some airlines treat their economy class passengers.
I am more than happy to pass on to you some of the pointers I have learned from the amount of air travel I enjoyed years ago. The first one echoes the words of Shakespeare: what’s in a name? As you sit there, you need to hear a captain with the correct name introduce himself to your flight. You hear the bing bing of the in-flight announcement system and then, ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking. My name is Captain Charles Smyth and welcome aboard this non-stop flight from London Heathrow to New York Kennedy Airport. We will be taxiing out to runway two in about