READERS will know the sexy tale of Virgin billionaire Richard Branson strutting his stuff in fishnet stockings and pencil skirt and pretending to be a flight attendant on Sunday night. All because he lost a bet to AirAsia chief executive Tony Fernandes. A real drag.
The bet, back in 2010, was whose Grand Prix motor racing team would roar ahead in the World Championship – Branson’s Virgins or Fernandes’ then Lotus. The loser would do a cabin staff stint on the other’s airline. Branson lost by two places.
Shy as ever of free publicity, he got himself injured in a skiing accident and could not then perform his hostess duties.
Last week his luck ran out again – or ran in – and he turned up for duty on the AirAsia flight from Perth, Australia, to Malaysian capital Kuala Lumpur, a five-and-a-half hour torment for all.
Branson kept his beard, we are told, but shaved his legs to show them off in his red AirAsia uniform. He added bright red lipstick, heavy eye make-up and blond hair pulled back “in a quiff”.
The disguise fooled no-one.
He dumped a tray of orange juice in Fernandes’ lap – they had once worked harmoniously in the music industry.
Fernandes declared Branson’s hostessing skills to be “rubbish” and sacked him.
Branson could not, however, be ordered out due to IATA regulations that prohibit the opening of aircraft doors at altitudes above the ground. Apparently this causes loss of pressure and of some passengers.
Now, we have all been afflicted with flight attendants who seem to have lost a bet and need us to punish. They are still ahead of the passengers who seem to have won their tickets that way.
Resent, you must, the cartage contractors who lug aboard luggage fit for a touring team and expect to heave it into the rack above your head. Does the cabin controller ever say: “No, never”?
And what do you do when they say: “Please look at the safety instructions in the seat pocket and front of you and locate the nearest exit … This may be behind you”? Listen to the instructions and read the card is the correct answer, for what may be ahead of you.
Who gets the armrest – that is the question. And the contest can last from “fasten your seatbelts” all the way to “thank you for flying with us”.
There’s the heavyweight lounger in front of you, who feels entitled to horizontal sleep but paid only for an upright seat. Try eating with seat-back shoved in your face. Or the lady who feels no meal complete without flapping her elbows fit to fly.
Beware the nursing mother who imagines herself all alone and the first ever in the air. Ditto the laptop yuppie whose travelling desk extends across your flap-down table.
Beware too the jetstream talker, worse still the airborne charmer, if you happen to be female, who needs entertaining but imagines you do. One East London man at least had the grace to marry the girl.
And they landed happily ever after.
Today’s Chiel is Gavin Stewart:
A fate worse than Branson
The bet, back in 2010, was whose Grand Prix motor racing team would roar ahead in the World Championship – Branson’s Virgins or Fernandes’ then Lotus. The loser would do a cabin staff stint on the other’s airline. Branson lost by two places.
Shy as ever of free publicity, he got himself injured in a skiing accident and could not then perform his hostess duties.
Last week his luck ran out again – or ran in – and he turned up for duty on the AirAsia flight from Perth, Australia, to Malaysian capital Kuala Lumpur, a five-and-a-half hour torment for all.
Branson kept his beard, we are told, but shaved his legs to show them off in his red AirAsia uniform. He added bright red lipstick, heavy eye make-up and blond hair pulled back “in a quiff”.
The disguise fooled no-one.
He dumped a tray of orange juice in Fernandes’ lap – they had once worked harmoniously in the music industry.
Fernandes declared Branson’s hostessing skills to be “rubbish” and sacked him.
Branson could not, however, be ordered out due to IATA regulations that prohibit the opening of aircraft doors at altitudes above the ground. Apparently this causes loss of pressure and of some passengers.
Now, we have all been afflicted with flight attendants who seem to have lost a bet and need us to punish. They are still ahead of the passengers who seem to have won their tickets that way.
Resent, you must, the cartage contractors who lug aboard luggage fit for a touring team and expect to heave it into the rack above your head. Does the cabin controller ever say: “No, never”?
And what do you do when they say: “Please look at the safety instructions in the seat pocket and front of you and locate the nearest exit … This may be behind you”? Listen to the instructions and read the card is the correct answer, for what may be ahead of you.
Who gets the armrest – that is the question. And the contest can last from “fasten your seatbelts” all the way to “thank you for flying with us”.
There’s the heavyweight lounger in front of you, who feels entitled to horizontal sleep but paid only for an upright seat. Try eating with seat-back shoved in your face. Or the lady who feels no meal complete without flapping her elbows fit to fly.
Beware the nursing mother who imagines herself all alone and the first ever in the air. Ditto the laptop yuppie whose travelling desk extends across your flap-down table.
Beware too the jetstream talker, worse still the airborne charmer, if you happen to be female, who needs entertaining but imagines you do. One East London man at least had the grace to marry the girl.
And they landed happily ever after.
Today’s Chiel is Gavin Stewart:
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