The Monarch Airlines Flight To Gambia

Excess luggage 300x225 The Monarch Airlines Flight To Gambia

The Monarch Airlines flight from Gatwick airport that we were getting on runs twice a week which means that if you miss it.

It’s over.

You’re finished.

No begging and pleading to get on the next flight which is usually the same day or the day after. In knowing this I am early (well an hour and a half before the flight, which is early to me)

As I make my way to the check in desk I am approached by a woman who looks kinda like Alicia Keys with a heavy French accent,

“You are from The Gambia, yes?”

“No, but I’m going there.”

“Oh, oooh, so sorry.”

I want to ask her what she was going to say to me if I was from The Gambia, but decide against it. I returned to focusing on standing in the check in queue, which has only three people in it, but is not moving.

Fifteen minutes pass and no sign of Deborah. I’m getting worried because she doesn’t have any of the flight details except that the plane leaves from Gatwick airport at 9.30am. I also accidentally told her the wrong airline on the phone in the morning. I cannot even call her as my battery is dead, so all I can do is hope that she makes it. The couple in front of me has repacked their bags three times trying to avoid the excess baggage charge. It is another ten minutes before they are finished.

Not long after this Deborah comes sauntering into line. She points at the Alicia Keys look a like,

“That woman was asking if I was Gambian.”

“Yeah she asked me that too.”

“Apparently she is running an African Queen Beauty Pageant and those girls (she points at 2 girls next to the woman) are in it.”

At this point the girl who was about to check in after the couple is on her hands and knees chucking her clothes on the floor in a bid to pull in the extended handle from the inside. I am thinking that this chick is not serious. In my experience to make the handle draw back into the suitcase all that is needed is a hefty blow from the outside. Of course after all the kafuffle and mayhem this is exactly how she gets the handle back in eventually.

Deborah points to the girl on her hands and knees,

“She is one of them too.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah the Madam told me.”

Let me add in here that the girl has matted extensions and unvarnished overgrown cracked toenails.

I whisper to Deborah,

“How can she be? Wouldn’t a beauty queen fix up her nails and hair at least?”

“Well all their beauty stuff must be in their excess luggage.”

The beauty queen is taking her sweet time checking in as there is now a problem with the letter she has produced which allows her to carry excess luggage at no extra charge. Deborah and I manage to check in at another desk and make our through customs and to the duty free area. After buying random stuff at various shops at the airport we make our way onto the plane, the last to board before the gated closes.

The plane is less than half full, so we have the opportunity to take a row each and spread out. I am in front of two huge mixed race northern sounding lasses. They are very excitable and making a lot of noise. After we have been fed I try and get some sleep. From behind me I hear a radio blasting. Its like bloody Soul Plane, and its the girls behind, not only have they brought on a radio they are singing along too ugh!

Do they think that it is their duty to entertain the masses? Or are they just selfish bitches? The shit was loud. I go to the bathroom. Deborah is coming out and says to me,

“Can you believe those fat ones have brought a radio?”

“I know I can’t believe it. It’s like Soul Plane.”

On my way back to my seat I realize that they don’t have a radio. What I thought was a radio is in fact headphones! Wow! Maybe they have bad hearing. I feel bad now.

As we get off the plane I realize that the Northern lasses are not in fact Northern. They are Irish. We find this out because they are talking to another guy who was on the plane. He asks them,

“Do you get a lot of black people in Ireland, like black Irish that were born there?”

One of them answers,

“No you don’t get any”

“But you lot are there, so there must be some.”

“But we’re not black.”

When they said this, the guy’s smile turned into a frown. Deborah too looks disgusted. I didn’t understand the reaction. If they are mixed they are mixed, what’s the big hoopla with black people insisting that mixed people call themselves black? The guy looks confused,

“So what are ya then?”

“We’re mixed. Our mum’s Irish and out Dad is from Nigeria. There are people like us in Ireland, but no proper black people”

The guy still looks confused. I sense that he wants to question them not seeing themselves as black, but he is with his white girlfriend so perhaps doesn’t want to get into a race debate with strangers.

Let me fast forward to arriving in Banjul. On arrival you have to pay a £5 tourist tax. We get to the desk and I pay and receive my receipt and then I hang about waiting for Deborah to pay. She has all this change and is trying to get the right money together. In the end I chuck her a pound to make up the fiver and she gets her receipt and we get to stepping. Why does this fool call me back? He tells me I need to pay the £5. I show him my receipt and tell him that I already paid it. He tells me I didn’t. Its Deborah’s fault with all her faffing about. I keep on insisting that I have already paid and he finally lets me go.

When we get outside the airport the guy is hot on the tail of the fat Irish. His girlfriend is nowhere to be seen. Deborah comments,

“You see with men its all about the Nyash. Look how he saw Nyash and deserted his girlfriend.”

At the time I scoffed at this suggestion. Their asses didn’t look that big to me. I mean they were big but their asses were in proportion with their weight or so I thought. When I saw them later in a club I realized they really did have humongous asses. At this time I am thinking that the guy cannot really be with his girlfriend and chasing after them and tell this to Deborah. She insists that it is his girlfriend.

Soon after we get on the coach to take us to the hotel. The guy and his “girlfriend” are on our coach. The fat Irish left with some Gambian dudes at the airport. I assumed that they must have known them. Deborah assumed they were just a couple of tarts. They guy and his “girlfriend” are sitting at the back of the coach on opposite ends. They don’t seem to be talking. Maybe she is his girlfriend and pissed off at the fact that she got dashed aside for some fat nyash. The guy seems a bit thugged out. He has a couple of scars on his face, is heavily adorned with tattoos and is sporting a heavy gold chain. His phone rings and his voice carries across the whole coach,

“YEAH BLUD. CAN’T TALK. ME DE-YA INNA AFRICA!”

Deborah and I roll our eyes at each other. We ain’t impressed. Apparently neither is the “girlfriend” because she is rolling her eyes too. We get to the hotel about half an hour later and it is not until the next day we find out if the girl is his girlfriend or not.

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