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Ruinair
Paul Kilduff
How to be treated like shite in 15 different countries…and still quite like it!Stung by a ten-hour delay and a not-so-bargain fare to Spain on his native 'low fares' airline, Dubliner Paul Kilduff plots revenge. Can Paul beat 'Ruinair' at their low cost game and fly to all fifteen countries in Western Europe for less than the €300 it cost him to be stranded in an airport lounge surrounded by drunks, bimbos and incompetents (and that was just the flight crew!)?Suffering every low-fares airline indignity: a miniscule carry-on baggage allowance, 6.00 am departures, Six Nations-style boarding scrums, epic bus excursions and terminal anxiety, Paul is doing something he's never done before: travelling to places he never knew he wanted to go, which are probably not quite where he thinks they are, with no idea what he's going to do when he gets there.In a way never before possible Ruinair and its competitors have opened up Europe's treasures to the average traveller, and, as discovered by Paul, a few complete dumps too. In this hilarious, no-holds-barred account of a holiday of a lifetime-cum-human endurance test, Paul takes us on an adventure that is not for the faint-hearted. From Luxembourg to Liechtenstein to Spain and back again, pack your bags (maximum 10kg, please) and join Paul Kilduff on this is a whirlwind no-frills tour of Europe and the low-cost airlines that help make that colourful continent a smaller, and somewhat angrier, place.
Ruinair
How to be treated like shite in 15 different countries…and still quite like it
Paul Kilduff
‘For years flying has been the preserve of rich fuckers. Now everyone can afford to fly.’
MICK O’LEERY, CHIEF EXECUTIVE
RUINAIR HOLDINGS PLC
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u96f6cb8a-1fe8-56c4-93e7-5dbf1aae0d57)
Title Page (#uef2ebc14-7a15-5899-994e-5af2903705df)
Epigraph (#ucb75d72d-01ac-57bf-b865-071204638fdc)
Prologue (#u5232ea9d-3802-5a35-84af-dd223e427521)
Spain…not quite (#u4fe8c787-edb5-5ab0-8426-5bae10a93c28)
Mick’s Plane Speaking (#ud54c421b-d91e-5fa2-b375-fa355fbdf284)
France (#u40199d39-7ad4-5237-b0a0-af47b60f8061)
How to Build Your Own Five Billion Euro Airline (#ua26760fa-53c9-58ac-83e3-f4c0c745efb8)
The Low Fares Airline (1) (#ub8fcc61d-c4a4-5205-8029-b10c858b7a5a)
United Kingdom (#u447aa855-de22-5d21-b24b-531c04bbb619)
The Low Fares Airline (2) (#u58fec6a3-0cb8-5184-8618-99f014c6768b)
Belgium (#u1c275fb1-cf93-59d0-bc9b-6dcdc7fe37b3)
The Low Fares Airline (3) (#u4a204192-9d28-5161-8863-10edc9ce3b23)
The Rough Guide—An official handbook for Crewlink staff working on Ruinair aircraft (#litres_trial_promo)
Netherlands (#litres_trial_promo)
Flying for Peanuts (#litres_trial_promo)
Luxembourg (#litres_trial_promo)
Easy (#litres_trial_promo)
Greece (#litres_trial_promo)
Germany…not quite (#litres_trial_promo)
Germany…again (#litres_trial_promo)
Berlin (#litres_trial_promo)
Austria (#litres_trial_promo)
Germany…more (#litres_trial_promo)
Ireland (#litres_trial_promo)
Switzerland (#litres_trial_promo)
Liechtenstein (#litres_trial_promo)
United Kingdom…again (#litres_trial_promo)
Spain…again (#litres_trial_promo)
Spain…more (#litres_trial_promo)
Andorra (#litres_trial_promo)
Italy (#litres_trial_promo)
San Marino (#litres_trial_promo)
The Low Fares Airline (4) (#litres_trial_promo)
Most Definitely…‘Not Ruinair’ (#litres_trial_promo)
Norway (#litres_trial_promo)
Annual General Meeting (#litres_trial_promo)
Some Appreciation (#litres_trial_promo)
Aero-Naughty-Cal-Endar (#litres_trial_promo)
Denmark (and Sweden) (#litres_trial_promo)
www.airlinemeals.net (#litres_trial_promo)
The Only Official Ruinair Joke in the Universe (#litres_trial_promo)
Bus Excursions from Airports Ruinair fly to (#litres_trial_promo)
Finland (#litres_trial_promo)
Wheel Share (#litres_trial_promo)
France…encore (#litres_trial_promo)
Taxes, Fees and Charges (#litres_trial_promo)
Portugal (#litres_trial_promo)
Caught Napping (#litres_trial_promo)
Ireland…again (#litres_trial_promo)
Financial Ruination (#litres_trial_promo)
The Low Fares Airline (5) (#litres_trial_promo)
Christmas Presence (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Sources (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_8fd4c909-6b10-5eac-a6ab-9c4d83afc2b6)
Ruinair Flight FR206 – Tuesday @ 8.30am – DUB-STN
Is that Mick? I stare ahead at the check-in queue for London Stansted. Others spot him too and peer over. It looks like Mick. He wears faded denim jeans and a creased check shirt, with buttons undone and sleeves rolled up. He is active and agitated. So it must be Mick. I have never stood so close to a man worth six hundred million euro who doesn’t possess a tie, nor apparently an iron. Mick is the closest thing we have to a real cult in Ireland.
I wonder why he bothers to stand in a queue, five or six people ahead of me, taking another flight to his Mecca. He could have jumped the line; instead he joins the Great Unwashed. I’m vaguely impressed. I wonder if he really purchased a ticket like I did, how long ago he booked it and if it’s as cheap as my flight.
There’s no sign of Mick when I reach the departure gate so he must be in the VIP area. But suddenly he stands up like a Messiah in our midst and assists his staff to take our boarding cards. I purposefully join his personal queue and he rips my boarding card in two with a practised ease. Mick doesn’t look at me. We don’t bond.
I have an aisle seat in the centre of the B-737. Mick sits a few rows ahead, reads an Irish Times at speed, then grazes some business papers. He chats to a colleague who sits opposite. The crew are on their very best behaviour today. So is their boss. He hasn’t sworn at anyone yet, us passengers included. I wonder where it all went wrong. We both attended private schools in Ireland favoured by the cream of the country: rich and thick. We were at university in Dublin at the same time. We joined large accounting firms in Dublin. He almost qualified as an accountant, but I did. He left the profession to buy a few corner shops in Dublin, but I took a proper day job. One of us is now a multi-millionaire and one of us writes books.
How does he do it? There isn’t a spare seat on the flight. I paid a teeny ten euro return fare for the trip. It’s cheaper than parking a car at the airport, cheaper than the books on sale in the terminal, cheaper than the sandwich and coffee available on board, cheaper than the train to civilisation at the other end. The taxes, fees and charges are still a mystery to me. I paid forty penal euros. Mick had the gall to charge me a €6 credit card handling fee, yet I did it all online. I mean, who ever handled my credit card but myself?
Today we fly to a place to the north-east of London called Stansted, which is Connexted by rail to Liverpool Street. This modern accessible airport is an essential component of this airline’s strategy. Experience shows that passengers will fly from somewhere to nowhere, but will not fly from nowhere to nowhere. I stalk Mick along the corridors on our communal route march towards Arrivals. I spy a row of five middle-aged men in grey suits wearing shiny British Airport Authority ID badges. They are on bended knee as they shake his hand. Mick delivers 60 per cent of all passengers arriving at their airport. It’s like a visit from the Pope.
The new world order is in the concourse. Ruinair have half the floor space. EzJet have the rest. Herr Berlin is the latest upstart. Buzz were badly stung. DebonAir went out of fashion. Go are long gone. The walls of the terminal are adorned with Ruinair’s smiley bulbous aircraft, their route map cobweb and must-see website address. The latter is the most searched travel website in Europe and the world’s most searched airline brand according to Google. Ruinair is the world’s largest international scheduled airline by passenger numbers, ahead of Lufthansa, Air France and British Airways, and is the third most valuable airline in the world, surpassed only by Southwest Airlines and Singapore Airlines. Even with its millions of passengers, Ruinair only enjoys an 8 per cent market share of the 600 million people who fly annually within Europe.
We are the Ruinair generation who take flights abroad in the same way our parents took bus trips into town. Ruinair takes us from A to somewhere remotely near B; from Aarhus to Zaragoza (Pyrenees). They fly to every hamlet in Europe: Altenburg, Billund, Brno, Lamezia, Pau, Vaxjo (which sounds like a toilet cleaner), Weeze, Zadar; places that I doubt even exist. RuinWhere? They fly to the vague destination of Karlsruhe Baden-Baden (Stuttgart), so Bad they named it twice. They fly to Balaton in Hungary, which is not a city, but a lake. Fifty million passengers travel annually on 550 routes between 26 countries on our own Eireflot.
This is no longer a little Irish airline. It’s an epidemic of biblical proportions. As I study the Ruinair route map, I am reminded of their Spanish routes. I decide I will book another flight, this time to Malaga. I am confident the fare will be as low, and the experience as painless, as today. Surely Mick and his very cheap airline couldn’t ruin my precious summer holiday.
Spain…not quite (#ulink_6840b651-c702-5a9b-889c-2d2118304d87)
Ruinair Flight FR7043 – Saturday @ 2.10pm – DUB-AGP-DUB
Fare €300 plus taxes, fees and charges €40
The first sign of terminal trouble is the subtle inactivity at the Malaga departure gate. Our scheduled boarding time passes quite uneventfully. Growing mumblings of discontent and half-truths circulate like gossip. A lady with us has a daughter who works for this airline, such an admission to make, think of the public shame and humiliation, but she telephones her daughter. There is an aircraft outside so there’s hope, but she learns it has technical problems. The screens show ‘Retrasado’. This is Spanish for ‘Your Aircraft Is Fucked’. We wait in a void of passenger information and customer service. Every Ruinair flight number has an FR prefix. If the R stands for Ruinair, someone tell me please, what does the F stand for?
One brave passenger walks up to the desk and comes back with his hands outstretched, holding up ten fingers in full view to us. We will board in ten minutes time? He announces: ‘Delayed until ten o’clock tonight.’ Eight hours late. An engineer is flying out on another aircraft to rescue us from our fate. I recall Mick’s statement: ‘If a plane is cancelled will we put you up in a hotel overnight? Absolutely not. If a plane is delayed, will we give you a voucher for a restaurant? Absolutely not.’ I paid an arm and a leg for this trip, not to mention other essential body parts. Three hundred euros plus taxes, twenty euros less than our green national flag carrier Aer Lingus. And if Aer Lingus will now fly me from Dublin to London for one euro, does that make them a low fares airline? Ruinair is not a low fares airline. It’s only a lower fares airline.
My fellow passengers are middle-aged couples returning from their place in the sun with a tan to demonstrate that they’re loaded, glamorous leathery mothers and svelte daughters swapping copies of chick-lit and Hello, and gangs of forty-something businessmen still dressed in their garish checked golfing gear, all owning their little piece of Marbella or Puerto Banus. There is utter incredulity from four Americans who have lost all faith in European air travel. Airline credibility is like virginity. You can only lose it once. There are two Spaniards who can go home, eat, sleep, shop, clean, procreate and still return in time to depart. We sit near the screens showing departure times. In the past I have looked at these screens and gained much amusement from various charter airlines’ delays of, not hours, but days or weeks. Our flight is top of the list with a now nine-hour delay. Others pass by and smile over at us. Today the joke is on us.
I find a girl from Iberia; that’s the airline, not the peninsula. She checks her screens and tells me my flight has now completely disappeared and she doesn’t know what gate it might leave from. She is baffled because she says she used to work with the little Irish airline but she left. Wise woman. Somehow I survive nine hours in the terminal. You can only read the small print on the reverse side of your boarding card so many times. I visit every shop ten times, doze, read all known English language newspapers, down fries and Cokes, but still there are eons to kill until departure. At a time like this I harp back to Mick and his wise words: ‘An airplane is nothing more than a bus with wings on. Are we are trying to blow up the notion that flying is some kind of orgasmic experience rather than a glorified bus service? Yes, we are.’ Success.
We are drawn to the gate like moths to a flame as midnight approaches. A few Irish guys are drunk and enter the Ladies by mistake. Inside naked sunburnt babies are bathed in the hand basins by irate mothers. Passengers lie on the airport floor, their energy levels as depleted as their mobile telephone batteries. We prepare to board but there is mass confusion. Some of us have yellow fluorescent pen ‘P’s hand-written on our boarding cards. We think it means Priority. Others behind in the scrum ask if anyone has a yellow pen they can use. The Americans ask what the ‘P’ means. I tell them it stands for Pissed Off.
On board it’s clear some passengers are well and truly hammered, having spent nine hours in the airport bar knocking back rounds of San Miguel. ‘Same again.’ A guy sitting in the emergency exit aisle is swapped by Gavin the cabin supervisor with another passenger, because he’s too drunk to do anything in the event of an emergency, save a burp, stagger or a Ralph and Huey. He carries a plastic beaker of beer with him as he rises to move seats. The crew say nothing. Apparently you can now bring your own alcohol on board. He takes the proffered seat and asks Gavin for a Heineken. Gavin tells him to wait until we are airborne.
We get a vague explanation from the pilot as to the technical problem. It’s something to do with the ‘data management’ system. So that’s okay. It’s not like it’s important or anything, like a wheel, an engine or a wing. The pilot is female, called Carole somebody. She introduces her colleague on the flight deck, another female. The Americans look at each other and become very non-PC. ‘Two women pilots?’
Our aircraft is one of those pre-historic 23-year-old Boeing 737s, one evidently previously owned by Lufthansa because all the warning signs are in a language I don’t immediately understand. Schwimmweste unter Ihrem Sitz. Nicht Rauchen. Ausgang. I start looking for old pre-WWII signs like Gott im Himmel and Hände Hoch. The aircraft is so old that there’s a receptacle in the WC for the disposal of used lethal razor blades. I sit in one of those tired sunken velour seats where I worry my butt will become permanently wedged and I won’t ever be able to get up, and I might have to spend the rest of my life going back and forth on this aircraft, never getting any help from the crew, what with their fast turnaround times. As Mick says about this unique low fares travel experience: ‘You want luxury? Go somewhere else.’
The in-flight service is uneventful save for the resentment of the Americans. When it is announced there are drinks and snacks available for purchase, they exclaim to Gavin, ‘You’re kidding. Ten hours on the ground and you don’t even give us a goddamn cup of water?’ They have not heard Mick’s proclamation: ‘No, we shouldn’t give you a bloody cup of coffee. We only charge 19 euros for the ticket.’ One of the Americans is creative and asks the crew, ‘Do you have ice cubes? Can you give me a cup of ice? You don’t charge for ice?’ She denies his request. The American isn’t beaten. ‘Can we drink the water from the taps in the toilets?’ he perseveres. She stares back blankly. ‘That is forbidden.’ Later the crew come past with plastic bags and one girl says to me ‘Rubbish?’ and I wonder if she’s asking for my opinion about this airline.
Flights which depart late often arrive on time because airlines brazenly lie about journey times. Not this time. We land in Dublin at 1am local time on the next day. When I checked in thirteen hours ago I was clean-shaven but after this journey of Palinesque proportions, I now have a beard like Santa’s. We had religious education classes at school where a Holy Ghost priest educated us on the concept of eternity. He told us to think of time as a grain of sand and then add all the grains in the world together to gain a concept of eternity. Now I know I need to additionally include the delay on this flight to fully comprehend eternity.
I am still seething days later but consider myself fortunate to have escaped from Malaga. I mean, I could still be there today. My Ruinair experience demonstrates that sometimes it can be better to arrive than to travel. I crave a feeble revenge of sorts. I don’t hold out much hope but I craft a stroppy letter.
Customer Service
Ruinair Ltd
Dublin Airport
Dear Sirs,
I had the great misfortune to travel on FR7043 from Malaga to Dublin where our departure time was delayed by a record-breaking ten hours. In these circumstances can you firstly advise me of the exact reason for this delay since at the time all we got was the usual vague explanation?
Can you explain why no information was given to us at any time by any of your staff and why do you have zero staff located at Malaga airport? Why was it necessary to fly an engineer all the way out from Dublin when surely you could use local contractors to do maintenance work? Can you confirm the defective aircraft in question, a Boeing 737, is twenty-three years old, and if so, isn’t this three years longer than the useful life of twenty years as recommended by the makers?
Can you explain the utterly chaotic boarding process where some of us had handwritten ‘P’s on our boarding cards, which some thought meant ‘Priority’, and if so why was this not used when boarding as opposed to the ugly scrum we endured?
Can you advise why drunk passengers were allowed to board the flight after ten hours spent in the airport bar; one male passenger being moved by the cabin supervisor from a seat in the emergency exit row since he was too inebriated to do anything in the event of an emergency save barfing, and when moved he had a plastic beaker of beer in his hand; and do you now allow passengers to bring their own alcoholic drinks on board direct from the terminal bar?
Lastly please confirm you will reimburse me for my evening meal in the airport and the extra day’s car parking at the airport when a seven-day holiday became an eight-day human endurance test. If I had paid ten euros for this return flight I wouldn’t bother with this letter, but I paid a whopping €300 which isn’t so wonderfully low fares after all.
