It’s amazing how tight you can wear a seat belt without actually cutting the body in half. It does restrict the breathing, but it helps to mute the screams of terror. Each bump, air pocket, change of engine tone were threats to my survival. 7 hours, will I manage to retain my sanity for 7 hours?

WHAT’S THAT? Only the drinks trolley. Now here’s a possible answer to my nightmare. A mobile supply of canned & bottled liquid anaesthetic.

Soon I was downing a good supply of fluid relaxant. I could almost have flown without the artificial aid of an aircraft.

Now another problem rears its ugly head. It’s OK to consume vast quantities of booze, there’s only a limited storage space. Mine was full and was painfully informing me that I’d better consider making space for more.

That means loosening my seat belt. Waves of insecurity starts my sweat glands operating in top gear, or is it the booze trying to find an alternative route out. No choice but to brave the journey to the Loo. 

I think the engineer at Boeing who designed the Loo on our flight must have been a midget, and even he must have been pushed to fit in there. I still, to this day, wonder how people manage to join the “Mile High Club”. It couldn’t have been a loo on this flight. Unless they were members of a Circus Contortionist Act.

Duty done, now for the technical bit, lots of buttons and levers, no instructions. This could be extremely dodgy. What if I press or pull the wrong one?  Would I end up being hurled through an aluminium ceiling attached to a chemical ejection seat?

Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. What a choice to have to make. Liquid soap, aftershave, hot & cold water. One of them’s got to flush.

Luckily the second to last one worked, I still wonder about the last one.

Gallons lighter and strapped firmly in my seat. Time for scoff. The mobile trough doesn’t give you a great selection, but what’s there is edible. More than can ever be said for later flights I made on Military Charter flights or RAF trooping flights.

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, The Red Baron banks the aircraft steeply to the right. “Bloody Hell what’s he doing?”  It doesn’t take a lot to make me burst into involuntary, high volume, shouts, that question the ability of our pilot.

My immediate reaction was to try to solve the problem. Much to the amusement of all around me, I lean forcibly to the left and halfway across the aisle. Whether it was the pilot or not I’ll never know, but the plane resumed even flight. Possibly someone had mentioned to the pilot that he’d better level out before the idiot 15 rows back rips the seat of its mountings.

Fully fed and watered there was nothing to do now except just sit there and wait for this unnatural experience to finish. No, I’d tried to sleep. Didn’t work. Each change of sound and attitude required my utmost attention. Look out of the windows to ensure that the engines were still there and not on fire. Check that nobody was fiddling with the handles on the emergency exit doors. I didn’t realise that flying could be such a tiring experience.

PING, “This is your Captain, in 15 minutes we will be starting our descent. We should be landing at Idlewild (now JFK) in approximately 45 mins. During our descent the engine noises will vary, flaps and spoilers on the wings will be deployed, all these actions will cause noises and vibrations, do not be alarmed as these are normal” PING.

Looking out of the window there’s not a lot to see, it’s dark. Every now and again there’s a red flash. Passing comment to a stewardess confirms that, “No Sir, the engines aren’t on fire, they are navigation lights reflecting on the wings”

Have to keep these people on their toes. I could have prevented a serious disaster.

Loads of strange noises and plenty of ear popping later lights start to appear in the distance. Still a long way down. Must have made a mistake with his timing, only about 10 minutes to go and he’s nowhere near the ground. PING. On come the fags out belts on signs.

I think, “he’s definitely too high, he’ll never make it” I then begin to think stupid things, Was this pilot an ex Stuka pilot? Perhaps he’ll hurtle towards the ground at a suicidal angle and the suddenly pull up. Maybe he’ll miss completely and we’ll have to land somewhere else.

No, we’re in a holding pattern and losing altitude with each circuit. Thump, suddenly we’re down, rattling. Engines screaming,

Flaps waving. I can’t handle this. I’ve still got three more of these to go through. Perhaps I could catch some evil disease, and get sent back home on a boat.