The Trials and Tribulations of Getting on and off the Isle of Man

Never, in the history of airlines, has there been a more ironic name than EasyJet.

During Christmas, my partner and I sat in the Ronaldsway departure lounge with one gin and tonic (between us) and an ant-sized tube of salt and vinegar Pringles in hand, £78 poorer, looking sympathetically at the holiday hopefuls off to Tenerife who’d just had their flight delayed overnight.

‘Would you rather have your flight delayed on your way out on holiday or your way back?’ My partner asked me quietly, as we watched people pick up their bags and march stoically back out the way they’d come.

‘The way back,’ I replied, inwardly thinking thank GOODNESS that isn’t us.

And just like that, unbeknownst to me, my wish was granted.

The journey out was very smooth, besides flying to Chambery via England on a weekend where the airport was running some form of child labour initiative – petrified-looking high school students between the ages of 15 and embryonic took over the check-in desks while their supervisors laughed at them when they needed help – and the way back also started relatively uneventful.

I should have been suspicious at how smooth these journeys were and realised a price would have to be repaid for that at some point. Alas. I was a naïve fool. It all fell apart, as it so often does, at the final hurdle before home. Manchester Airport.

Check In

At the check-in desk I get asked the usual question on whether I’ve packed anything dangerous and am shown the list of illegal things I should definitely not have in my bag. I nod, pretending to look at the sign with a sombre expression to show I’m taking the question seriously, until I hit a point where I begin to gaslight myself, questioning whether I actually did pack my bandsaw by accident.

Security

I wait, attentively, for staff to direct me to the trays, ready to show off my security prowess. Grabbing two trays swiftly, I put my electricals and liquids in one and my shoes and coat.

‘Why have you got all this stuff out?’ The staff member asked me, with a tone suggesting I’m the stupidest person he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting.

‘Is… is that not the rule anymore?’ I ask, feebly.

‘THAT HASN’T BEEN THE RULE SINCE LAST WEEK. EVERYTHING GOES THROUGH IN YOUR BAG NOW, YOU IMBECILE,’ is how he replied, or words to that effect.

I hastily shove everything back in my bag and re-clothe myself.

‘NOT YOUR BELT OR COAT!! THEY HAVE TO GO IN THE TRAY, FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ I de-clothe again, trying not to let him see me cry, and head over to scanning where I’m made to stand like I’m about to start a brawl outside The Heron.

I should be able to salvage a shred of dignity collecting my bag at baggage claim. Before the new rules, I would pride myself on my efficiency. No doubt employees around the world have likely swapped stories about my security fluidity on special occasions like birthdays, Christmas, probably funerals as well to lighten the mood. They’d speak about ‘that one girl who was the best damn traveller I ever did see. Straight in, straight out. She made my job the easiest I’ve ever known it to be that day. Bless you, wherever you are. It’s people like you that show us the human race is not doomed and stop us from committing arson.’

Like clockwork, the person in front of me has their bag taken to one side. I watch as a bottle of water is taken out of their backpack. Locking eyes with the employee doing the search, I roll my eyes and give them a sympathetic shake of the head that tells them ‘I see you. And I understand your pain with these IDIOTS.’ Only to watch, horrified as my bag is also pulled over for searching and a litre bottle of water (full), is pulled out.

Departure Lounge

Gate 5. My flight is at 4:20pm. It’s currently 4:25 pm and I’m noticeably not sat on an airplane. It seems everyone is simply choosing to ignore the fact that we’re delayed.

An announcement finally rings out.

‘Can people in rows 1-8 please come forward for boarding.’

I look at my boarding card.

‘Last row on the plane’ it reads.

Twenty minutes later my row is announced. There is no queue.

‘Excellent’ I think to myself once again. ‘Looks like I should be straight through in no time.’

She scans my boarding pass, I walk through the entrance leading to a set of stairs, only to find I had been duped AGAIN. A huge queue of people stood, shivering on the three-tier metal staircase. Eventually, we make it down to the departure lounge where it’s a free-f0r-all. Everyone puts on a low-key Parish Walk pace to get themself one of the few seats in the room. Order is lost, making calling people through by seat number totally irrelevant.

Getting on and off the plane

A coach takes us to the plane. I tactfully place myself by the back door. Stood with someone’s elbow in my cheek and knee in my uterus, I take solace in the fact that I’m in prime position for a swift exit. I watch, feeling my soul slowly die, as only the front door opens to let us off.

On the plane, I stand in the line of people shuffling, prisoner-like to find their seat. Each one taking roughly 30 minutes to put their bags in the overhead compartment, clocking the person behind them in the temple with an elbow in the process, and sit down before remembering they’ve forgotten their Mark Grisham novel and getting back up again to get it. Adding another 20 minutes to proceedings.

I get to my row to find someone sat in the aisle seat and put on the classic apologetic ‘I’m so sorry, that’s my seat so you’re going to have to get up’ face. The person sat down sighs, the weight of the world now more heavily on his shoulders because of my existence, and stands. I’m going to have to relinquish the arm rest as repayment. I sidle in awkwardly and take my seat, realising too late I forgot to put my bag in the compartment. I couldn’t possibly ask the chap next to me to stand up again without risking death by in-flight magazine down the throat. Instead, I squish it under the seat in front of me and rest my chin on my knees due to the lack of leg room.

Safety

I’m sure to make eye contact with the flight attendant during the safety presentation to show I’m an excellent person, not taking in a shred of information.

Landing

As we touch down, I hear the click of 90% of passengers trying to subtly undo their belts as the Tanoy tells us to keep them fastened. The second the belt light flicks off; everyone jumps up in a way I thought the person next to me was incapable of after his laboured upheaval to let me into my seat.

When the doors eventually open, I stand awkwardly, backpack on in, hunched like Quasimodo with my neck at a 90-degree angle against the luggage compartment. I wait for a gap in the slow-moving stampede in front of me. Seeing one, I step out, apologetically, ruining yet another person’s day by the look of their reaction to being put out a single centimetre.

Luggage

Despite people jumping up to get off the plane first, we all end up waiting in arrivals for our luggage side by side. Staring, dead-eyed, at the statue-still belt, willing it to move. Five days and five nights pass as we wait for the bags to get transported the 6 metres from the plane to the building. Then slowly, very slowly, the belt creaks to life. Everyone surges closer. Tensions are high from the waiting. An elderly woman, Doris, tramples a five-year-old who momentarily blocked her path.

I watch as person after person eagerly grabs their luggage and leaves, skipping with glee. Fifty minutes pass. Four forlorn suitcases have been circulating for 45 minutes, their owners seemingly perished from the waiting. I watch in horror as the belt crawls to a stop and the gate where the bags come out slowly shuts. My luggage nowhere to be seen. I spot a young man sat rocking in a corner. He tells me he’s been there four days, waiting for his luggage. He’d flown back from Australia, which had taken less time than the journey from England to the island.

Broken and dejected, I eventually give up on my luggage – which, it turns out is being destroyed in a controlled explosion. Turns out I had accidentally packed my bandsaw – and I crawl out to arrivals. I scan the throes of people holding signs saying, ‘welcome home, Doris!’ and ‘We’ve missed you, Juan!’ and ‘WE LOVE YOU, SARAH, NEVER LEAVE AGAIN!’ None of which are being held by my parents. Because my parents are nowhere to be seen. They have forgotten I get back today. I laugh, manically, as one does when they slip into madness, and curl myself into the foetal position. As I do, a fresh-faced couple passes, clearly excited for their travels off-island.

‘Oh dear,’ I hear one of them say. ‘They must have had a rough trip home. Would you rather have your trip disrupted at the start of your holiday or the end?’

‘The end,’ I hear the other reply.

And just like that, the curse is passed onto another unsuspecting traveller.