Recently I was sitting in Queenstown airport waiting to board a flight to Aussie. I am what could be politely described as an “unenthusiastic flyer” and so I had spent most of the day in a state of, well maybe not terror (that came soon enough), let’s call it, elevated anxiety.
Luckily, I have good friends who I share an office with and they did a great job of calming my nerves by playing air crash investigation videos loudly while I was making my final preparations. I am indeed blessed, as with friends like them I obviously have no need for enemies.
Now those of you who follow my blog ( and if you don’t can I advise you to start because it is not the worst thing on the internet) will know that I have written previous blogs titled Flying Drunk and, Flying Drugged, which tell in vibrant colourful language (like all good stories they involve cross-dressing and wayward urine) how I manage my flying phobia with either drugs(legal) or alcohol.
Both blogs received great critical acclaim (and two Facebook likes) so I am aiming to not just complete the “flying blog” trifecta here but also get at least “three” likes. A lofty goal I know but one can only but try!
Now it’s no good telling me flying is an irrational fear. I am already painfully aware of its irrationality and so asking me to be rational about it is irrational and about as much sense as asking me if the sound yellow makes are eleven.
It’s also no use telling me that you are safer in a plane than a car because I agree that at thirty-five thousand feet you are probably better off being in a plane than a car but it offers cold comfort I’m afraid.
And statistics say that it is much more likely that I will end up in a car crash than a plane crash which not only casts deeply unfair aspersions on my wife’s driving ability but begs the question of statistics. How do they know? For their information, I may be intending to die peacefully in my sleep like my Uncle Charlie, not screaming and scared like the fifty passengers on the bus he was driving.
Talk, advice, clichés and clear logical thinking have little part to play in irrational phobias and so as the pilot guns the engines and the wheels leave the runway, both the plane and my testicles chart a steep trajectory upwards, one to a cruising altitude just below the sky and the others to just below my ears.
As I sit there, holding the plane aloft by maintaining constant upward pressure on the armrests and the lumps from the turbulence matched only in discomfort by the newly acquired lumps on the back of my neck, I ask myself a question that casts grave doubt on my intellect.
I’m paying good money for this?
Well that’s the way it has been up to now but I am hopeful that I have found a solution as I am about to head over yonder to America. I desperately needed to do something so the something I have done is experiment with using better drugs and that seems to have worked a treat.
Oh, and I also got some pills from my doctor for my flying phobia.
We will see!