HARD to say what has done more damage to the image of flying lately. Rising fuel costs have meant higher fares and lower ticket sales. (Remember when falling costs meant cheaper tickets? No, me neither.) A run of dreadful accidents and terrifying incidents, including this week's 22,000ft plunge by a Ryanair jet, have made everyone think again about the wisdom of travelling vast distances at high speeds in a tin can.
HARD to say what has done more damage to the image of flying lately. Rising fuel costs have meant higher fares and lower ticket sales. (Remember when falling costs meant cheaper tickets? No, me neither.) A run of dreadful accidents and terrifying incidents, including this week's 22,000ft plunge by a Ryanair jet, have made everyone think again about the wisdom of travelling vast distances at high speeds in a tin can.
But perhaps it's the sudden collapse of Zoom, leaving hundreds of passengers washed up at Glasgow and other airports, desperate to find another way of getting to their destinations, that best sums up what's gone wrong with flying. From check-in to landing, it has become hell on wings.
A plane ticket is now your entry to a gruesome video game with many levels and challenges, none of them pleasurable. Take the experience of flying from Glasgow Airport. Level one in this game of Doom Raider begins with getting into the place. If you can find your way, with luggage, from a drop-off point hundreds of yards distant, traverse a post-apocalyptic wasteland strewn with concrete crash barriers - and all of this while lashed by horizontal rain, remember - then you will be rewarded by entry into the hallowed halls of check-in.
Level two, security, is a tricky one. The guardians at the gate appear essentially the same whether it be Glasgow, Stansted or Luton, but beware: each tribe abides by its own rules as to permissible behaviour, and these rules can change from day to day, hour to hour. Laptops in bags are okay in Glasgow, not in Stansted. It's shoes off at Stansted, on at Heathrow (sometimes). You can probably sneak a rocket launcher through, but wear one of those deadly weapons known as an underwired bra and they'll pull you up for a pat down every time.
Let's not dwell on what happens in the other levels of the game - trial by delay, the valley of lost luggage, death by airline meal. It's enough to make Lara Croft take the bus or, more daring still, holiday at home. This summer has seen a boom in "staycations". In Scotland particularly, staying at home is an offer you'd be mad to refuse. So you might not get the weather, you'll certainly get the midges, and asking for lunch after 2pm is a crime punishable by stoning, but so what. You'll be less stressed, more comfortable and you won't need an emergency oxygen mask. Until you get the credit card bill, that is. No-one said having fun was easy.
NOW what was the point of that ladies? The cast of Desperate Housewives put on their posh frocks and had their hair done for photos to puff their new series. Then, it seems, the airbrush boys got to work, transforming a crew of thirty- and fortysomething women into impossibly line-free Barbie dolls. Much scoffing ensued. No matter how carefully it is done, airbrushing will always shriek of phoniness. Truly, the camera doesn't lie. These pampered stars should take a lesson from journalists, who in the era of the photo byline have shown others the ethical way to go. You will never find a journalist with a photo that's 10 years and two stones out of date. Not for us the graphic artist's false caress, or the picture desk's fumblings. We show it like it is. Honestly. Cross my heart, my fingers, my toes, my seven eyes DANTE Moore has been given a place in feminism's circle of hell with his book, The Re-education of the Female. Among his tips on how to keep a man are dressing to entice while doing the housework. Mr Moore, 33, has never been married. For the life of me I can't think why.
OFCOM'S prediction that calls from mobiles will soon outnumber those from land lines is a reminder that the home phone is going the way of Betamax recorders. When mine rang the other night I had to send a St Bernard to find the thing, so long had it been since anyone called me on it. We should mourn the passing of the old phone ways, if only because of the paraphernalia that frequently went along with fixed lines. Telephone benches, for instance. Making or receiving a phone call used to be an event. You sat on a special seat, with a shelf on which was the phone, a drink and an ash tray. It was like being Bette Davis. Now, you have no idea where people are when they call, or what they're up to. Half of them could be on the toilet, and probably are. Telephone benches: civilisation's only hope.
GREAT that the Muppet Show is coming back, but what's the point of the Scottish Parliament now?
