I'm Virgin on an episode of air rage

If hell were airborne, it would be Virgin flight DJ515 from Sydney to the Gold Coast.

After arriving at the airport on time*, for a change, I was advised that takeoff will be delayed by 10 minutes. No probs. I can deal with that, I'm officially on holidays. After passing through the security check unscathed (which I can't say the same for the poor handicapped, invalid old fart in a wheelchair who had been pulled out for a pat down - WTF?), and enjoying some quality Subway and light reading (NW of course) I made my way to Gate 40, or as I like to now call it, Gate Step this way for a couple of hours of sheer pain in your arse.

Once I managed to deal with the imbeciles that couldn't follow the simple boarding instruction of Rows 1-13 board from the front, the rest of you board from the back, I found my seat and strapped myself in. Let the games begin. I think the one family took up maybe 2/3 of the flight, and until that jet's tyres lifted off the tarmac, they were going to make sure they visited every last one of their family members dotted throughout the plane for some last minute conversation. Which I wouldn't have minded, if they weren't screaming at the top of their lungs. Freaking wogs.

Then there was the family across the aisle with the toddler that was absolutely not going to sit in his own seat and put his seatbelt on. Bless, his parents thought they could negotiate with him. Um, people, you negotiate with captors in a hostage situation, not with a toddler. After about 10 readings of Spot Cocks His Leg and Pisses On A Man Waiting at the Traffic Lights, the little dude's arse finally made contact with seat. Needless to say he was unimpressed. And by that point so was I.

I don't know about y'all, but my idea of fun is not sitting on a crowded plane for 25 minutes on the tarmac at Sydney Airport. Ok, so there was a technical problem with the plane that required maintenance. But, really, just fly the fukn thing to Coolangatta and let those guys deal with it, I have a holiday to get to. So finally hell on the tarmac became hell in the air. If I had a dollar for every screaming child on that flight, I'd have enough money to hire a car and drive back to Sydney. I was sitting next to a lovely guy, who was... rotund, to put it nicely, and who also didn't believe in the use of deodorant, and his daughter who had to touch, poke, prod and question every single thing around, above, below and to the side of her.

Thank God the pilot decided that he needed to flog that plane like no-ones business, because we seemed to get there not much later than what we should've done if it had of TAKEN OFF WHEN IT WAS MEANT TO DAMMIT. Although I must say, he needs to rethink his landing technique. Throwing that thing down at full speed cannot be good for the shocks, 'cos it certainly wasn't good for my internal organs. Of course, the co-pilot came over the PA to advise that we had landed at Coolangatta (no shit Sherlock) and to remain seated with our seatbelt securely fastened until the plane had come to a complete stop, which most mother f**kers on the flight then proceeded to totally disregard. Finally, holidays were in sight.

After disembarking, which really is a formal way of saying pushing and shoving everyone in your path to get out, I made it down the stairs and onto the tarmac. Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, we're free at last. I strode into that massive shed posing as a terminal, retrieved my bag from the carousel, and, finally, started my holiday.

It now begs the question - how the hell am I going to cope with 24 hours of that shit when I fly to London? God help me.

*this was by sheer miracle, as I was still packing at 11:15 (my flight was due to leave at 1:10pm and I live about 45km from the airport, you do the math). Plus, I realised as we pulled out of the driveway that I had forgotten to pack a very important component of anyone's trip - underwear, so had to go back in and grab every pair that I could find... that were clean.