by Mandy Smith
I also encountered a few alcoholics, one being Sharon. On trips she would just stay in her hotel room alone, drinking. She also had a tendency to steal items from hotels – usually random things. I remember being on a trip with her in Shanghai where she was caught trying to nick a bolster cushion. Hotel staff saw the cushion hanging out the side of her case as she walked through the foyer. Some were amazed that she kept her job.
Crew were forever injuring themselves. Drunken accidents led to broken limbs, backs and necks – people diving into swimming pools from balconies, cliff diving or injuring themselves on quad bikes and banana boats down-route. A steward called Jack was actually sober at a room party in Cuba, but he was hoisted on someone’s drunken shoulders and he fell head-first into a large television cabinet, embedding his teeth in the wood and fracturing his neck. In the same week a pilot and his purser wife were so tired after a night flight that they crashed her car and landed upside down in a ditch, resulting in the pilot’s neck being broken.
One accident that really got tongues wagging was when Tina broke her neck during a shower romp with a fellow dolly, Millie. It all began in the Jacuzzi at our crew hotel in LA. After several shots of tequila, Tina and Millie – both proud owners of giant plastic boobies – peeled off their bikini tops and put on a lesbian show for the lads by fondling and kissing each other’s boobs. When two of the guys joined in, they decided to continue their sex show in the privacy of Tina’s room. But when they got there, the girls only seemed to have eyes – and hands – for each other, to the point that they thought it’d be rather fun to try out the strap-on Tina had brought with her. Moments later, after Tina had strapped on her ten-inch black dildo, she and Millie were frolicking in the shower over the bath while the lads perched on the side of the bath and watched. Apparently Tina then tried to angle the dildo into Millie and, as she did so, slipped and fell flat on her back, dildo still vibrating, her neck twisting and cracking as her head smashed against the corner of the bath on her way down.
Millie called 911 and Tina was stretchered out of the hotel with her ten-inch plastic erection still in place. She never lived that one down.
Sex stories were common, especially those involving mile-high escapades. Many crew often popped into the Premium Economy toilets for a quickie. It’s the most spacious toilet on board an Airbus A340, with a handy fold-down baby-changing table to rest your bum on. Some colleagues also used the crew rest area bunk beds for their steamy liaisons. My friend Suzy had an unfortunate experience in the crew rest area on the Boeing. She was giving a steward a blow job when violent turbulence caused the plane to drop about twenty feet from the sky … just as he came. She said she was almost sick.
A few crew members soon spotted an entrepreneurial opportunity in the rest area. For £250 an hour, they hired out the space to amorous passengers wishing to join the mile-high club. This went on for some time before their scam was rumbled by management. Understandably, they were all sacked on the spot. The crew rest area is strictly off-limits to all passengers.
It’s a known fact that the airline industry is an incestuous environment. Casual bed-hopping is rife and crew sexploits are rarely kept secret. A group of lads – straight, party-hard stewards nicknamed the Vengaboys, most of whom had joined up to be the only straight man on a trip with twenty girls – had a “rugby boy” style competition going to see who could shag the most crew. There were about seven of them in total and they shared a huge house in Smallfield, Surrey, along with a hostie called Gill, who slept in a tent in their living room. The Vengaboys charted their sexual conquests on a whiteboard, which they kept on the kitchen wall and showed off at every party. Red wings were awarded for shagging a junior, brown wings if she let you shag her up the bum, white for an in-flight beauty therapist, black for a flight service manager and pink for gay sex. And to prove that they’d actually done the deed, they had to bring home a souvenir from each woman – usually a pair of knickers or a bra.
It was always fun going on trips with the Vengaboys, although they never got any work done and were constantly playing pranks; one of their favourite pranks was to hide in the overhead lockers. The first time I flew with Greg, the head of the Vengaboys, he filled up my flight bag with sugar and replaced my life jacket with a regular one for my safety demo. Every crew member had a tale to tell about the Vengaboys – they were hot gossip on Galley FM.
Some of my colleagues’ idiotic antics ended up being broadcast beyond the galley curtains … in the national news. In January 2002 – just four months after 9/11 – a French steward was charged with writing phoney bomb threats in the aircraft toilet on a flight from London to Orlando, which forced the 747-400 to make an unscheduled landing and take-off at Keflavik Airport in Iceland. The plane was searched but no bombs were found, and the plane safely proceeded to Orlando.
He was arrested at Newark International Airport two months later, as he was about to board a flight to London. His arrest came after an FBI investigation that included analysis of fingerprints left on a toilet mirror and air sickness bag on which the threats “Bin Laden is the best, all Americans must die” and “There is a bomb on board – Al-Qaida” were scrawled.
He was sentenced to five years’ probation and a $176,000 fine, to be paid to cover our costs at Virgin Atlantic. As a result of the case, security rules became even stricter on crew for all US flights, and the guards in Orlando hated us more than they had done before. We were all so shocked – we couldn’t believe one of our own crew could do such a thing.
Two other attendants, Nick and Allyson, made national headlines in 2007 when they became stranded at sea during a visit to Richard Branson’s paradise home Necker Island. They survived for eighteen hours after going overboard in the shark-infested Caribbean Sea, being hurled into the water after their canoe capsized during a storm. They clung to lobster pots for seven hours then swam three-and-a-half miles in the dark, through ferocious waves, to an uninhabited island. After a further seven-hour wait on the isle they were saved in a rescue operation spearheaded by Richard himself.
Nick was one of the many flamboyant characters at Virgin Atlantic. He often appeared on flights in fancy dress. One morning he turned up to an Orlando flight with only a Winnie the Pooh costume in his bag but got swapped onto the Vegas route. He wore the costume all around Vegas and ended up getting invited on stage during a show. I also heard that he once wore a ladies sari for a Delhi flight instead of his uniform – Nick was such a character he was the only person who could ever get away with this; anyone else would have been disciplined for turning up to work out of uniform.
Of course, another name that frequently cropped up during Galley FM chats was Richard Branson. Many dollies threw themselves at Richard; he was often seen at functions with attractive hosties draped on his arm.
Richard was also renowned among his staff for his generosity; he was always inviting crew to Necker Island and enjoyed partying with us whenever he was down-route. He once offered two of our crew the chance to get hitched on Necker Island, after they’d announced their engagement to him in a conversation at the bar on a New York–bound flight but told him they had no money to get married just yet.
Richard is such a good sport; he doesn’t mind making fun of himself. On our inaugural trip to Toronto – where a star-studded party was thrown in a huge lavish marquee on the tip of the harbour bay – the Weather Girls were performing “It’s Raining Men” and he was dancing on stage with the other hunky choreographed dancers – pulling his clothes off in unison with them to reveal Union Jack shorts as the finale. He attracted more attention than Ronan Keating, who also performed at the party – the Canadians had never heard of Ronan, so it was just all of the crew who sat at his feet on the stage, swooning and singing along with him. We were all over the moon when he joined us for a drink later after his performance, because he was such a gentleman.
Many celebrities were cherished by the crew, because you knew you would have a laugh when they were on board: Scottish acto
r and comedian Billy Connolly was well known for giving impromptu comedy shows in the Upper Class bar. And of course there’s “the Hoff” – David Hasselhoff – who is such a good sport and always up for a laugh; I once walked into the galley to find him and the other stewardesses swapping shirts for a bet.
Some passengers have even been known to write letters of complaint to the ground managers about the explicit conversations overheard through the galley curtains. One letter in particular raised a few eyebrows. It was from a passenger who’d typed up the whole conversation and had been horrified to hear a hostie discussing her detailed sex life, including failed attempts at anal sex.
Galley FM still continues to this day, and I’m sure my name has popped up from time to time. Just remember though: like most headlines, not everything you hear behind those “soundproof” curtains is true.
CHAPTER 7
JOBURG HIGH JINKS
You don’t go to Johannesburg for an early night and a mug of Horlicks. You go there to party … hard. And boy, did we kick the arse out of it. As soon as you saw Joburg appear on your roster you knew exactly what fun lay ahead: drinking, eating superb food, sunbathing, shopping … and the wildest room parties ever.
You could have either a two- or five-night trip to Joburg in those days, depending on which aircraft you flew out on. There’s no drastic time zone change to deal with, so there’s absolutely no excuse not to get rat-arsed. And because Joburg has a dizzying altitude of almost 6,000 feet above sea level, the booze shot straight to your head in minutes.
Staff at the Sandton Sun Intercontinental Towers Hotel must have dreaded our visits. We caused mass disruption and chaos there. It wasn’t really safe to go out in Joburg, so our shocking misdemeanours often happened within the hotel. It had everything we needed: spa, pool, bars, restaurants, Nelson Mandela Square – which was just through the sprawling shopping mall and full of more restaurants and bars – and a walkway linking us to the BA crew hotel and our gym. Room parties at the Sandton were wild affairs and there was always one person who’d take things too far. Once, a steward threw a sofa out of a window from the thirtieth floor. It crashed onto the street below and, miraculously, no one was injured, but I heard on Galley FM that the steward was sacked.
With so much hedonistic fun to be had down-route in Joburg, it was always a bonus if you could share the experience with your friends. So in February 2000, Suzy, Jonathan and I requested a trip there together. It couldn’t have come at a better time. I’d barely seen Jonathan recently and our break would take in Valentine’s Day. I’d even bought some props to spice things up a bit: the Kama Sutra; a 3D Mould-a-Willy kit; edible knickers; raspberry sorbet edible body paint and a couple of racy negligees from Ann Summers. My case was like a travelling sex shop – the security guards at Heathrow had a field day scanning my case, giggling and nudging each other like children.
I wasn’t the only one anticipating some action. Suzy was in the late recovery stages of a bitter relationship break-up – the phase where she was re-immersing herself, with newfound verve and confidence, in the dating game after weeks of crying and not eating. Jimmy “big chin” Forsyth had dumped Suzy after falling for another crew member. For a while we were extremely concerned for Suzy. It hit her hard. But after lots of TLC from us girls, her depression gradually lifted. Now she was spreading her wings – and her legs – by embarking on no-strings-attached flings with a number of stewards. In our previous week’s crew briefing on our way to St Lucia, she realised she’d slept with every steward in the room. It was payback time for Suzy. “I’m chewing them up and spitting them out,” she said.
This particular trip to Joburg was a five nighter – and we planned to make the most of every minute. There were some gregarious characters among our crew: our captain Nathan, a towering six-foot-four figure, well spoken but bumbling, with a penchant for fancy dress; Sindy and Katie – both big-time exhibitionists who appeared to be joined at the hip, and Adam, who had Mediterranean looks, fancied himself as a bit of a stud and was itching to bed Suzy. About fifteen other equally flamboyant and colourful personalities completed our merry throng.
Our first night began in a civilised manner with a slap-up dinner and wine at the Butcher’s Shop steak house in Nelson Mandela Square. From there the group fragmented. Some headed up to Nathan’s suite for a room party, while the rest of us shimmied along to the hotel bar for cocktails, where we managed to piss off a group of over-the-hill BA hosties sporting floral Laura Ashleyesque dresses and reading glasses. They took one look at us glamorous young Virgin girls strutting in and immediately looked the other way. They were even more infuriated when the two pilots they’d been sitting with decided we were far more interesting than them. The two men – both in their mid fifties – couldn’t leave their seats quickly enough and were soon mingling with our mob, gathering at the bar. One of them, who introduced himself as David, “pilot for British Airways”, sidled up beside Suzy and me. There’s a standing joke among hosties: “How can you tell who’s a pilot at a party?” The punchline being: “Because he will tell you.”
“Can I get you lovely ladies a drink?” David said, his crinkly eyes fixed on Suzy’s huge cleavage.
Suzy instinctively rippled her body like a pole dancer into an S-shape, flashing David a treacly smile. “We’ll both have Screaming Orgasms, please.”
David self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring. “Two Screaming Orgasms coming up,” he said with a nervous laugh, then shuffled to the bar, crossing paths with Jonathan, who was headed in our direction holding two goldfish-bowl-size glasses of Pinotage.
“Who’s that?” he said, cocking his head over his shoulder.
“Ah, that’s David,” I said. “He’s a BA pilot … he’s off to get me and Suzy a Screaming Orgasm.”
“I’ll give you a screaming orgasm you’ll never forget later,” said Jonathan, handing me one of the glasses.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
I sipped my wine, enjoying the sensation of the velvety liquid trickling down my throat. A fog of laughter and high-pitched conversations filled the room, drowning the languid background jazz music. I spotted David’s friend, smoothing down his wispy comb-over and chatting up a vampish hostie, whose fake boobs were popping out of her little black top. I glanced over at the BA hostesses, who were still shooting us hostile looks that screamed: “We were once like you.” It made me smile.
“Here, Suzy,” I said, motioning towards them with my glass. “Do you think that’ll be us one day?”
“Hell no,” she laughed. “We’ll still be partying when we’re ancient.”
Just then David returned with our drinks on a tray. “Two Screaming Orgasms,” he said.
“So, David,” I said, reaching for my glass. “I see that you’re married.”
“Was married,” he said hesitantly.
Me and Suzy exchanged knowing looks. Of course he was still married – we’d heard this old chestnut many times before.
“Does you wife not understand you?” I said with a sarcastic tone.
I took a sip of my Screaming Orgasm, then another sip of wine. “David, meet my boyfriend, Jonathan. He’s training to be a pilot too. We’ll leave you two alone to talk planes – thanks for the drink.”
Then I edged into the crowd with Suzy, leaving Jonathan and David to their geeky aircraft chat.
A few drinks later and we were becoming far too rowdy. The drinking games had started and we were getting foul looks from some of the other guests who were trying to enjoy a civilised tipple in a relaxed environment. The BA hosties had long gone and, when Sindy and Katie started kissing and fondling each other in an overly dramatic manner “just for a laugh”, we decided that was probably a good moment to make our exit, too.
“Let’s take this upstairs,” shouted one of the stewards as the two girls broke away from each other in fits of giggles, lip gloss smudged clown-fashion around their mouths. Drinks were d
owned in record time and off we clattered like a drunken, cacophonic marching band, through the lobby, into the lift and up to Nathan’s suite to wreak more havoc. Realising he wasn’t going to pull, David had made his excuses and left. His mate, however, must have got lucky; he was nowhere to be seen when we left – and the vampish girl he’d been fawning over had vanished, too.
Nathan answered the door to his suite wearing a ten-sizes-too-small salmon T-shirt dress, which left nothing to the imagination. He was also wearing a rabbit shower cap with inflatable ears and holding a glass containing a scarlet drink resembling mouthwash that was garnished with a cocktail parasol.
“About bloody time,” he beamed, flinging open the door. “Come on in.”
“Fucking hell,” said Adam, staring at Nathan’s bulging crotch as we spilled into the room, “What yer come as this time?”
Nathan glanced down at his groin, bunny ears drooping forwards. “I must say, it does feel rather snug down there.”
Adam shook his head. “See all yer meat and two veg in that, mate.”
“I’ve exchanged clothing with Natasha,” Nathan explained in a serious tone. “She’s wearing my chinos and polo shirt.”
But Adam had now lost interest in Nathan’s dress and was raiding a table loaded with booze bottles along with Suzy.
“You look a million dollars in that, Nath,” I said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Fantastic figure.”
“Knockout,” added Jonathan, patting his shoulder as we walked by.
Nathan laughed loudly – he had one of those booming upper-class laughs that reminded me of a character out of Blackadder. “I do like to keep in shape. You know what they say: a moment on the lips equals a lifetime on the hips.”
Nathan’s suite was huge. Pilots always get the best rooms, and that’s why they’re used for so many crew parties. The main room – a sprawling lounge with its own office space – was a hive of activity. There were bottles and items of clothing strewn across the floor, and Puff Daddy’s “Come with Me” was uh-huh-ing and yeah-ing from the stereo. People were laughing and counting out loud, as a girl with bubbly blonde curls, wearing nothing but a pair of bikini bottoms and a diving mask, was performing a headstand against the wall. Others sat on the huge window ledge, smoking cigarettes. On a giant television screen, encased in the ornate solid teak cabinet, a peroxide-blonde woman was giving a streaky-haired guy a blow job, as a long-haired man pounded into her from behind. The whole porn-in-the-background thing actually started as a prank played on many nasty pilots whom no one liked – we would drink their room bar dry and order porn so they had a huge room bill – but it had actually caught on and became a common background scene at a lot of our room parties. On one of the sofas in the room, a girl was simulating a deep-throat blow job on a banana as her friend fell about laughing.
