by Matthew ParrisMy affections for Ryanair, with its thrilling disregard for whingeing passengers, vary according to mood and circumstance. But both conspired against the airline on Monday night at Girona airport in Spain. It was late, I was tired, my flight to Luton was set to arrive a little before midnight, and I was anxious about getting back from Luton by public transport at that hour. So I opted to take hand-luggage only, and skip the 30-minute wait at the luggage carousels that a British airport tends to impose. My suitcase was just small enough.
There was only one problem. "Your bag weighs almost 12 kilos," the Ryanair desk-person told me. "The limit is 10. You must check it in."
"No, I'll take some things out," I said.
"Then you'll have to throw them away. There are some bins here."
A red mist enveloped me. I looked around at other intending passengers, mountains of wobbly flesh, twice my weight, poised to spill over into my aircraft seat after we boarded. Were they being asked to check in their bellies or their buttocks?
"No, I won't," I said, reopening my case, "I'll wear the extra weight."
"Please stand aside. You're getting in the way of the other passengers."
I stood aside. Then I got down on the floor, emptying the whole case onto the marble. I re-dressed. I swapped my lightweight shoes for the walking boots I'd packed. I put on waterproof over-trousers over my trousers, and a belt, then a huge, thick, gaily-patterned, almost-knee-length jersey over my shirt, then a green body warmer over the jersey, then a big down jacket over the body warmer, then an outsize yellow Gore-Tex cagoule (with a hood) over the lot. Also a green scarf.
Then I filled the four capacious net pockets of the cagoule with a DVD, two books, my toilet bag, three handkerchiefs and the chargers for my mobile phone and laptop. Triumphantly I waddled back to the queue (which had been much entertained by the performance) looking like one of those police-dog trainers swathed in bite-proof clothing. Though I still did not weigh as much as most of the other passengers, my suitcase had shed three kilos. Grinding their teeth, the staff let me through.
The security scan after passport control was quite a trial, but after this I was able to undress again, stuff everything back into the case (they daren't impose weight limits at the boarding gate, or the duty-free rip-off shops would have to close down) and board the flight. Well, it gave me something to do.
At Luton I swanned past everyone waiting at the carousels and caught, by minutes, the 00.07 train to London Blackfriars. Reader, you can have no idea of the joy this whole episode has afforded your childish columnist. Delicious.
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