By

Craig Ennew

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Thirty-Seven: In for the Long Haul

This week: Craig, his wife and The Boy endure the long haul from KUL to LHR

When my girls were tiny, they had a lovely little playhouse in the garden. I remember sitting on the smallest of plastic chairs, knees around my ears, while they lovingly prepared a “roast dinner” of dock leaves and mud gravy.

I’m remembering this now as, thirty minutes into our long-haul flight from KL International Airport to Heathrow, the in-flight dinner is served. Somehow, British Airways can fit three courses (beef curry, sticky toffee pud and a pre-school edition of cheese and biscuits complete with Dairylea triangle) onto a black plastic plate the size of a postcard. This wobbles precariously on a fold-down tray which is hardly any bigger. You’re also fiddle-arsing with hot plastic tubs, tiny sachets and packets of dispensable cutlery. Throw a bit of turbulence into the mix, and I would challenge anyone to accomplish the feat of consuming this meal without wearing most of said curry in their lap. It’s a delicate balancing act of using a knife made out of balsa wood to spread butter with the consistency of concrete, whilst keeping your miniature wine bottle upright with jutting pinkie.

Supreme selfishness

While we’re on wine (which I often am) I’ll confess that I’ve taken advantage of my wife’s untimely illness in this flight by requisitioning her portion of red wine. This act of supreme selfishness bites me in the arse when The Boy, jerking his fold-down tray down with typical enthusiasm, sends the entire contents of the miniature red wine bottle across the crotch of my clean beige trousers.

Another hour in and things appear to have settled down. Mercifully, my wife has managed to find sleep, The Boy watches “Barbie: the Movie”, and I am content drifting off to the comforting roar of the engines and the gentle dimming of the cabin lights.

Adjacent to us are the Couple Who Never Sit Down. While one is visiting the loo, the other will be standing in the aisle twiddling their glasses ready to tag-team. No one else gets a look-in. If they’re not doing this, they’re perpetually moving items in and out of overhead lockers, much to the chagrin of passengers and crew who dare to pass by. This ritual continues throughout most of the twelve-hour flight.

In-fligbt entertainment

Celebrity status

I shift my attention to the folk in row behind us. Although I can’t hear the conversation properly, I make out two words: “Ken Bruce.”

This is odd, largely because it’s the third time I’ve heard his name mentioned on this flight. What’s with Ken Bruce, I wonder? Has he joined Ozzy Osbourne in that great post-gig party in the sky and I haven’t heard about it yet? As it happens, I’m nearer to the mark than I think: at that very moment, there is the great Pop-Master himself, in the flesh and making his way from the loos down the adjacent aisle. He waves at someone, evidently enjoying his celeb status, albeit 35,000 feet up in the air.

I try to resist the impulses to wake my wife and share the news, but the knowledge is just too much to bear alone. I poke her shoulder and she wakes with a start. “Ken Bruce is on the plane!” I whisper with some urgency. “He’s sat over there!”

She looks less than impressed. In fact, she doesn’t even look over to where I’m pointing. She just mutters, “If it’s him, why’s he flying Economy?” then falls asleep again.

Imposter

There’s another guy who’s bothering me. He’s about my age but scruffy- all shaggy grey hair and big glasses, rather like a David Williams character from Little Britain. It’s disconcerting because he’s dressed in the same gear as the cabin crew – tie, white shirt and everything- but he looks like he’s been hanging off the end of the plane by a rope rather than demonstrating safety procedures. The rest of the crew are immaculate and this guy stands out like Alice Cooper at a Steps concert. He walks past one more time. Maybe he’s an imposter? Perhaps it’s some bizarre form of cosplay? In twenty minutes, I have devised a whole “Snakes on a Plane”- type plot around the guy, but he never reappears. Perhaps it was some figment of my long-haul addled imagination…

An hour is so in and The Boy sleeps too. Just me awake. I want to tilt my seat back but always feel guilty about disturbing the person behind me. The person in front of me has no such qualms as their seat jerks back into my chest. I console myself with three back-to-back episodes of Friday Night Dinners and a Dairylea triangle I’ve saved from earlier.

As I write, we’re thirty minutes from Heathrow. It’s very early in the morning here, but I couldn’t tell you what time of day it feels like. An odd breakfast has been served, and I now have a congealed scrambled egg stain on my crutch to complement the red wine stain. People everywhere have jolted into life, and are clattering with their fold down trays; the seatbelt signs are on again for landing.

I flex my shoulder and shake the sleepiness from my head. One task remains to complete a fantastic holiday- to catch Ken Bruce for an autograph at the luggage carousel.

©Craig Ennew 2025

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