Unruly plane passengers? Send in the clippies, not the RAF

Can’t remember the last time I was this excited. Honestly, it’s like that Christmas when I got Grow-Hair Sheena with an air hostess uniform thrown in. My mum says I was dang near hysterical from pressie-opening time until the Queen’s Speech. Well, felt much the same way when the bus pass landed. The photo on the pass is not that bad, although I do have the air of a baffled featured extra in the background of an episode of Vera – ‘Dead, you say? That’s rum!’, you know the sort of thing. The maiden voyage went well. I leapt aboard the bus waving the symbol of my new freedom, and then for no reason at all, I got off at the next stop and got on the bus behind me. Given the way my health has been going of late, I’m going to get my use out of this thing. Now I can leave the house without tearing it apart to find exact change for the bus. My bus riding career started in Glasgow, of course, back in the days when buses were ruled by terrifying women sporting ticket machines, smart uniforms and an attitude that could deck a berserk Auld Firm fan at forty paces. These Boudiccas of the buses gave out change for your tuppeny fare and rang the bell. I desperately wanted to be one. I even styled Grow-Hair Sheena into a towering beehive, down to encasing the entire construction in layer upon layer of hairspray. Mum was raging. I used an entire can of her best Elnett, used to keep the updo in place for the works dinner dance. Clippies, on the other hand, favoured Bel-Air. Technically, this wasn’t spray but lacquer. Several layers of that and it was more like a high-gloss varnish. Well, it started off glossy, but a few hours on a Glasgow bus on a hot summer’s day where smoking was allowed up the stairs and the midgies were rampant and the sheen soon came off that beehive. Exact change did mean that the clippie could go, but it did mean we all got a lot more familiar with the back of our sofas. Now the dredging of the bag for that last 20p coin has gone forever. Well, let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time before buses, like everything else, go contactless. Plane crazy Chloe Haines is only 25, and tiny, but she kicked off so badly on a Jet2 flight that the RAF had to be scrambled, which looks a bit like overkill to me, since I’m not entirely sure what a pair of Typhoon fighters were meant to do about someone inside a passenger plane. What next? Calling in the SAS next time Tracy from Wester Hailes turns into a Buckfast bammer on the last train from Glasgow Queen Street? Chloe was on her way to Turkey. Tip for you, Chloe, next time get arrested on the way home. That way you at least get your holiday. Of course, Chloe is not alone in having a mid-air moment. Ryanair recently had to deal with a stag do from Edinburgh. A small blonde is one thing. A dozen lads turned Viking is another. Where’s the RAF when you need them? We should ban drink from airports, howl the Drink Responsible Brigade. Like that’s going to stop a determined stag do from getting totally hammered. No, we shouldn’t. Why should other people suffer for the actions of amateur drinkers who can’t handle their booze? If you want a champagne cocktail with your breakfast to celebrate going on your holidays once a year, why should you pay the price for the fact that some people become complete heidbangers when they hit the Blu WKD? The solution is clear. When I dressed my Grow-Hair Sheena in her air hostess uniform, cabin crew resembled young ladies with accomplishments who just happened to be serving coffee at 35,000 feet to smug businessmen and celebrities. Air travel has changed. We don’t need a stewardess who can speak five languages and looks like a runner-up for Miss Basingstoke 1967. We need the Glasgow clippie back. Get her and her hair in that cabin. Sorted. Stand down the RAF. How do you beg in a cashless economy? The bloke on the pavement outside Tesco said: “Any spare change?” I was telling the truth when I said nope. In fact, contactless payments now mean I go for days with no cash on me at all, very like the Queen. Bet she was happy when she qualified for her bus pass. Meant she didn’t have to put up with Phil’s driving. Hardly any of us rattle with pennies anymore. Spare change is going the same way as the Glasgow clippie, drifting away into the mists of time. What are beggars going to do? Will they have to go contactless, too?

Unruly plane passengers? Send in the clippies, not the RAF – Susan Morrison