Not in a meeting at work

(Read time – one “half-caff” Nespresso and a very tasty macaroon)

It’s been a while, but I am actually on a plane!!!

As I have previously remarked, I fly a lot less now than I used to, and that’s a good thing in general—certainly for the planet, but also for me—and I am a lot happier for it. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss it, as I do actually really enjoy flying. Since the very first flight I took, in a Bell JetRanger helicopter—a joyride at RAF Binbrook’s farewell to the mighty English Electric Lightning in 1988—I’ve been a fan of flying.

But sitting here now, with nothing else to do other than ponder, it does make me consider how strange a place aircraft are, because as human beings we’re simply not supposed to be at 36,000 feet when the temperature is -67°C. Not even The North Face can provide me with equipment to make this environment hospitable.

I know I am at 36,000 feet, and that outside it is -67°C, because the bacteria-laden touchscreen in the back of the seat in front of me tells me so. This is clearly very high and very cold—obviously. Few people, I guess other than astronauts, will ever experience an environment this hostile, or anything remotely like it. Even those who climb the highest mountains only begin to get close to this extreme. Everest—the Queen of mountains, the highest point on the planet—tops out at only 29,000 feet and around -30°C during climbing season.

And even in the crazy (but strangely fascinating) world of mountaineering, there is a point where things reach their most serious level: “the Death Zone.” This is typically categorised as the area above 26,000 feet, where those climbing these extreme peaks (there are only 14 independent mountains on the entire planet stretching this far) face the most extreme conditions on Earth. Oxygen is limited, hypoxia sets in, and death becomes a real risk—hence the name. Mountaineers have trained hard, acclimatised, and built up to the extreme altitude, travelling under their own steam at something like— I would imagine—1 mph at a sprint. So what am I supposed to understand, never mind do about, the additional 10,000 feet of altitude, the extreme cold, and the fact that I am travelling at 550 miles per hour?

This really is the most utterly pointless set of statistics. It’s not likely that I will ever be exposed to this environment (if it were likely, would anyone ever dare board a plane?), and if by the remotest chance I am exposed to it, I am certainly going to perish into a bazillion pieces in the smallest fraction of a second… so why do airlines and aircraft manufacturers think I need to know?

I know their machines and crews are phenomenal at what they do, and knowing that is enough for me—rather than how quickly I will vaporise if something does go completely “Pete Tong.”

With this in mind, I can completely understand how and why some people become nervous about the whole process of flying. Few of us would board a submarine to go anywhere—which has a similar, though opposite, challenge with extreme positive pressure—even at relatively shallow depths. And yet we’re all invited to accept that a pressurised tube travelling at incredible speeds is a normal—nay, vital—form of transport.

And therefore, it is perhaps understandable that not every aircraft or airline has a row number 13. (Where are you going with this, Mr MAMIL? Bear with me!)

Such is the concern about the number 13 that even racing cyclists—who are prepared to take risks most of us cannot comprehend—will wear the number 13 upside down if they are allocated it in the race draw: a long-standing cycling tradition.

I am sure we’ve all seen it, heard it, and maybe even observed it… Friday the 13th—the most feared thing of all. At midnight on Thursday the 12th, the great white shark, norovirus, and a 50-year-old’s hangover from too much Sangiovese can stand aside as the most feared things on the planet. For these 24 hours, Friday has got it.

Stay at home. Do not plug in any electrical devices in case they short and electrocute you or catch fire. Don’t have a shower in case you slip. In fact, just stay in bed all day and “stay safe.”

Clearly, these superstitions are utter nonsense… but while there are some who are extremely concerned—or even paranoid—about them, they do present something of a “travel hack.” If there is a row 13, I will choose a seat on it.

Why, I hear you ask? You mad man! You will surely die!

Evidence suggests this isn’t true… and given the number of times I’ve flown, using a great statistical tool called a “guesstimation,” I’d say I’ve flown in row 13 at least 20 times—and I am very much alive. I have not yet crashed into the Alps in a ball of burning aluminium, composite, and Jet A1… seriously, not once.

But while superstition exists, if there is a row 13 on the seat selector when you’re booking your seat, the vast majority will choose to sit somewhere else—so I book it. I’ve even seen people get to row 13 with their boarding card in hand and then spend 20 minutes negotiating with the cabin crew about their need to be moved.

Now, it’s entirely possible that this was purely to avoid sitting next to me—and I wouldn’t blame them. And frankly, if they want to be crammed in like sardines across rows 1 to 12, and 14 and beyond, then fill your tin… and I’ll enjoy having row 13 to myself.

Call me boring, but I am reasonably certain that the chances of the plane crashing—regardless of the row I am seated in—are exactly the same. And if I am going down by sitting in row 13, then I am taking the rest of you with me… and I’ll enjoy the space in the meantime.

I’m not an awful person to fly with, but I do think I am perhaps, for many people, a little too relaxed when I am flying. Aircraft (see above) do tend to be quite serious spaces—and I do love to laugh.

I know there is science—biological and psychological—behind why laughter is good for you, and I know that it always makes me feel good when I do. It’s become something of a natural disposition for me. In fact, in my last performance review at work, I was told that I smile too much in meetings and need to stop—and be more serious. Thanks.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t recognise that some topics are very serious and clearly not to be laughed at or smiled about. In my case, when I do, it just means that I am relaxed and enjoying what I am doing and the conversation.

Given that communication is 55% visual/body language, what am I supposed to infer from business meetings where 90% of people look like robots and demonstrate no emotion, engagement, or passion whatsoever? That’s my problem, and I’ll deal with it. And in the meantime, I am sorry if anyone is offended by my smile. It’s rare in the modern world, hey! Perhaps it’s my USP!?!?

Leaving the office and getting back to the most serious of environments—the aircraft…

A lot of people love the distraction of watching films on flights. I think the last film I watched on a plane made me cry, so I don’t do that any more. There is some science that suggests your emotions are exaggerated by altitude and/or flying—it’s called “altitude-adjusted emotions.”

I’ve even found that pieces of music that ordinarily wash over me can make me melancholy just because of the altitude, the view out of the window, and the combined effect of a gin and tonic.

But I also think this works in reverse—and therefore I watch comedy. In fact, aircraft are fast becoming my favourite place to watch it. The effect is quite profound—it’s like comedy on steroids. Even “ordinary” comedy is funnier at 36,000 feet.

Perhaps it’s the thought of exposure to -67°C being the alternative that makes it funnier… or is it just the fact that everyone else is so serious… like we’re all sitting waiting to die.

So what better than sitting watching Live at the Apollo, laughing my head off—even to the point of crying—and having the cabin crew ask what I’m watching, as they didn’t realise there was anything remotely funny on their IFE (inflight entertainment).

But there’s much more entertainment on a plane than just the IFE… open your ears.

I love listening to the conversations, interactions, and announcements. My favourite to date was literally 20 minutes ago, when the drinks were served and the guy sat behind me asked for a “black Americano.”

The mouthful of G&T that I had just poured into my mouth nearly exited quicker than the plane was travelling… fortunately I contained it, swallowed, and then laughed out loud. The cabin crew looked at me and smiled knowingly, as they knew precisely what I was guffawing* at.

Having humoured the passenger’s request, they served the finest black coffee they had available (you know the one—more akin to crude oil than coffee) before moving down the cabin to serve many more Latte’s and Cappuccino. It genuinely made my day!

Many people don’t listen to the cabin crew at all, or even the captain’s announcements. I do. Despite how many times I’ve flown, I still do—not because I think there’s anything new I am going to learn from the safety briefing, or because I care how long the flight will take or what route we’re going. I can’t do anything about that—it will be what it will be.

I do it because it’s just the right thing to do—and sometimes, they really can be quite amusing…

Some of them are so funny that even after a good 25 years, I can still remember them like yesterday.

Flying from Heathrow to Chicago with Virgin Atlantic, I remember it well, as the cabin manager was hilarious. Preparing to leave, the usual announcements waffle on about bags and overhead bins etc.—yada yada yada. Not this guy. No, he proudly proclaimed that “your bag should now be in the overhead locker, or crushed beyond all recognition under the seat in front of you.”

Shortly after take-off, just before the seatbelt sign was turned off, out came the “no smoking” reminder—where we were informed that “the toilets are equipped with highly sensitive smoke detectors, and if they should go off and you are caught smoking or trying to smoke, you will be put out on the wing—and then if you can light it, you can smoke it.”

The handful of us who were actually listening were in stitches. Most were still worrying about whether they were sat in row 13 and would make it to O’Hare.

The most recent was flying from Houston to New York with Delta. Deep into the descent, flying pretty much up the line of the Hudson River, the lead steward was chatting away on the tannoy and gave a five-minute diatribe of all the beautiful sights on the right-hand side—Manhattan.

With everyone gazing out of the window, he mentioned pretty much every big building, Madison Square Garden, the museums, and even several bars and cafés that we should all visit while in the Big Apple.

Then he said, “And if you look out of the left-hand side… THAT’S JERSEY!”

The entire cabin erupted with laughter. Poor Jersey, I thought.

What’s your point, caller?

Announcements, engagements, and even meetings don’t need to be humourless. They can still be important, without being soulless.

Humour is a critical part of who I am, and I know I am not alone. The world today is “shit enough” (technical term), with nincompoops’ egos creating really unnecessary diversions from us getting on with solving the real challenges that we, as a global society, really do face.

I fully acknowledge that you should only worry about what you can control—but there’s some pretty worrying stuff going on. So the only thing I can do is ignore it all and try to make sure that I have a bloody good laugh when I can…

Though, obviously, not in a meeting at work!

*Guffawing – a massively underused word today that I think accurately describes how I laugh. Another underused word—nincompoop. I encourage you to find a way to use it this weekend and bring it back to the fore of the English language. A nice word for at least more than one world leader, perhaps?