Ruinair. Paul Kilduff
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a different generation, where only wealthy adults had mobile telephones and nobody outside of academic and research laboratories possessed an email address. A URL was a really exotic address. Amazon was a river in South America. Orange was a bright colour. A googol was the technical term for an enormous number, a 1 followed by one hundred zeros. XBox, eBay and iPod were typographical errors. An instant message was something you sent via a bloke on a motorbike. No one wanted to drive a Mini. There were little shops on the High Street called travel agents and Ruinair was a small Irish airline which lost money annually and which most Irish people were sure would never amount to much more than an embarrassment.
17.17. A Ruinair Boeing 737 lands and flashes by the huge plate glass window at speed. Such relief.
17.19. The aircraft pulls up outside the gate, only twenty feet away, filling the glass window with its logo. The sun shines suddenly and bounces off the white paint in an almost ecclesiastical experience.
17.21. The first passengers disembark. The ground crew work at speed, actually running around the aircraft. The last time I saw a team work this fast they were refuelling a Ferrari at the Monaco Grand Prix.
17.23. The aircraft is empty. Thumbs up signals are given and reciprocated between ground and cabin crew, the latter immediately coming down the steps to the gate to board us.
17.45. We take off five minutes ahead of the scheduled departure time. I have been flying for twenty years and I have taken hundreds of flights. I can’t ever remember taking off before the scheduled time.
The flight is uneventful except for one announcement from the crew supervisor: ‘If anyone has change of a fifty euro note would they make themselves known to one of the cabin crew.’ They are tight. I sit next to someone I vaguely recognise from Irish politics. I take a second look at the only guy in a suit and risk all.
‘Are you a TD?’ I ask.
‘MEP.’
Myself and an Irish MEP discuss low fares airlines. He seems to be a fan of the concept.
‘I receive a fixed EU allowance to travel to Brussels. I only paid forty euro today. I keep the rest.’
I tell him I’m writing a book about this airline and others and he likes the idea. I agree to send him a copy if it sees the light of day. He offers to attend the book launch and say a few words. I wonder will he? We exchange business cards. A few months later I get a personal invite to his Golf Day. I don’t play golf.
After one hour the eastern coastline of Ireland is in view, with the undulating hills and pastures of Wicklow sweeping seamlessly towards the finest coastal residences of Killiney and Dalkey, home to Bono, The Edge, Enya, Eddie Irvine and Neil Jordan, and of course little old me. We cruise over Dublin Bay, past lush golf courses and white sands to touch down on cue. Ireland never looked so good.
We land in Dublin at 18.10, twenty minutes ahead of our scheduled arrival time. What with the one-hour time difference, I think we landed before we took off, which is surely impossible. I’m amazed, since this is an Irish airline. Sure, we’re always late for everything. Stephen Hawking’s weighty tome called A Brief History of Time was not a great seller in Ireland. Oscar Wilde once remarked there’s no point in being on time for anything in Ireland since there will be no one else there to appreciate it. The poet Patrick Kavanagh advised there were thirty words in the Irish language equivalent to the Spanish mañana but none conveys the same sense of urgency. When God made time here, sure didn’t he make plenty of it.
Inside the terminal building at passport control, our queue is stopped by the officer sitting in the box.
‘Where are you travelling from today, madam?’ he asks the elderly lady ahead of me.
‘From Murcia. In Spain,’ she replies.
That should be sufficient information but it’s not. ‘Did you have a pleasant time?’
What? She nods. ‘Yes, it was good enough. Weather was a bit mixed. Cloudy for a few days.’
‘But you enjoyed the break?’ he perseveres.
Jesus Christ. The rest of us need to get home sometime today. ‘Yes, it was nice.’
That must be it. But not so. ‘Would you go back there?’
‘Ah, I think I would. But not this year. Maybe next year.’
They don’t know each other. I am sure of that. ‘Right then, all the best.’
‘Thanks again.’
He bids her fond farewell. ‘Safe home.’
Next it’s my turn. I am dreading another Spanish inquisition. He gives my passport a quick glance. ‘Fine, Paul.’ I mean, I don’t know him or anything either. I don’t travel that much. It’s only an Irish welcome.
I am beginning to understand the real challenge I have set myself. It’s not the getting there and back that’s the difficult part. It’s having to spend time in these continental places much beloved by Ruinair.
THE LOW FARES TAXI
A row over security at Stansted Airport has broken out after it was alleged an aircraft was flagged down ‘like a London taxi’ as it moved towards the runway for takeoff. The GMB union says a Ruinair plane was stopped by one of the airline’s employees, breaching safety and security rules. Ruinair has confirmed the incident took place, but says safety was not compromised. A GMB spokesman said the plane, with approximately 100 passengers on board, was flagged down as it taxied towards the runway. Ruinair denies the plane was taxiing but admits it had moved off its stand. In a statement the airline said one of its co-pilots had asked to travel home to Esbjerg as a supernumerary crew member. The airline’s statement confirmed that the co-pilot, who had a fully authorised air-side access pass and was wearing full reflective clothing, did board the plane. ‘He boarded after the aircraft had pushed back early from the stand, and before the engines had been started up. While it was unorthodox and the co-pilot was disciplined, there was no breach of safety procedures and no delay to the aircraft. The flight continued onwards on its journey and arrived 22 minutes ahead of schedule in Esbjerg.’
BBC NEWS
THE NO FARES TAXI
The head of Ruinair has come up with a novel way to beat Dublin’s notorious traffic jams – his own taxi licence. Tired of crawling through the capital’s frequent gridlocks, multi-millionaire O’Leery has bought a taxi licence, number MG99, which allows him to drive his luxury Mercedes S500 saloon in restricted bus lanes. Since the deregulation of the taxi industry three years ago, the number of licences in circulation in the city has tripled to around 10,000. A spokesperson for Ruinair confirmed the move by O’Leery. ‘To the best of my knowledge it’s true and what is reported in the papers is correct,’ the spokesperson said. While it is not illegal to use the licence, O’Leery would be obliged to pick up customers if hailed while driving without a passenger in his car, the papers said. O’Leery was quoted as follows: ‘Last time I checked this was a democratic republic. As long as I pay my taxes I’m free to do with my money what I like. It’s a black taxi registered in Mullingar. I have a driver who drives it for me. It appears to be alright if I rent a taxi but if I own a taxi there’s a problem. If you’re in Mullingar then give me a call. I’d be happy to look after you. If they want to amend the taxi regulations which says I’m allowed to pick up people in Dublin, I’ll be happy to pick up people in Dublin. And I’ll do it a lot cheaper.’ There is a meter in his taxi and it produces receipts. The fare from Mullingar to Dublin Airport is eighty euros. ‘We are a low-cost airline so we wouldn’t entertain