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Feb. 11th, 2009 08:58 pmSo, last weekend, myself, Himself, and four friends were heading off to Bournemouth in England to the SFBall. Guests were Peter Jurasik, Stephen Furst, Robert Picardo and Mary McDonnell. *squees* We were a smidge worried in the run up, being as England has been under feet of snow, but figured that since we were flying at half seven on the Friday morning, we had all day to get there, so we should be fine.
*boggles at our stunning naiviete*
So, we arise from our bed at half four, leave the house at five (in the morning, did I mention that???), with S, who drove down from Belfast the night before to stay with us. Roads are like glass, there are a couple of near skids. We get to the airport, park up in long stay, and get the bus to the airport terminal. There, we meet with Jo, and F&J. F&J are already checked in, they go ahead through security. The other four of us check in, get into a queue for security that is amazingly long (due to the fact that the airport was closed the previous evening for 6 hours due to snow.)
When we get through security, we think that we're ok, and we get to the gate. See that flight is delayed to 7.50. No bother, we say. Grand. At 8 o'clock, we notice that we're delayed til 9.10. No bother, we say again. Off for breakfast. I have a croissant and a cup of tea. At 9, we head back to the gate.
No sign of boarding. Outside, it is still white and slippery. We expect another delay. Then, disaster! The screen at the gate changes from Bournemouth to Tenerife. Jo walks up to the departures board. Our flight, it has disappeared!!! She phones L, her sister. I text![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
smiley_b. Both say the same thing - our flight is listed on the internet as cancelled.
It takesthe thieving bastards in blue Ryanair ten further minutes to announce the cancellation over the airport tannoy.
We go to get our bags, cursing all the way. Jo's bag is, quite literally, the last one out; we are freaked until we see it. We go to join the Ryanair queue, to see what can be done. On the way, L phones Jo. There is a flight to Southampton at four, and we could get the train. We'd have to book it ourselves, and it's E247 apiece. Another flight to Southampton goes at 9ish. It's E150. The next Ryanair flight to Bournemouth is Saturday evening; no good. We debate, while finding the queue. Which stretches half the length of the terminal building, then starts to snake.
Someone at this point has the idea of taking the boat to Holyhead and training it down to Bournemouth. L does the business on the internet and rings Jo, the boat would cost E30 a head. We abandon the queue from hell and jump in a taxi.
Once at Dublin port, at 11 o'clock in the morning, we book the ferry, and someone has the bright idea to hire a car once we get there. L again does the business, rings car places in Holyhead. There are no cars to be had. Apparently, we are not the only ones screwed by Ryanair. She rings, and eventually finds two cars in Llandudno. (Don't get on to me about my spelling; by this point I was tired, hungry, stressed and past caring.) We tell her to reserve them; they take no credit card details, and the place closes at 6. We will have to get the train from Holyhead to Llandudno, and it leaves 6 minutes after the boat docks. It'll be tight, but we agree to it, as we're running out of options.
In the ferry port, I have tea and a packet of chocolate buttons. We board the ferry at half two, where I have my first meal of the day, a fry, which the lads swear is just the ticket to settle your stomach. Except that we're on the fast crossing, which goes up and down like a seesaw, and even though F swears it's a calm crossing, I'm halfway through the fry when I realise that I'm definitely going to be seeing this meal again, and soon. I keep going, on the basis that it's better to have something in my stomach, and hoping against hope that I'm wrong.
I'm not.
The only saving grace is that I fall asleep soon after and wake when the boat docks.
The way our luck is going, what is inevitable happens; we don't make the connection. Realise that the next train, at 5.20, will not get us to Llandudno by 6. Onto plan some-letter-in-the-middle-of-the-alphabet. We need to leave Holyhead, because there is nothing there. We get the next train, which will take us to Birmingham where we can get to the airport, on the basis that airport car rental places open late. Of course, we realise this quite late, and end up having to run for the train. J drops her mobile phone, it shatters into 5 pieces on the platform, people are very Samaritanly and point out bits as she picks it up. We run, we make the train.
We meet many people on the two hour journey to Chester who are in the same boat. Literally. The SS We Have Been Shafted By Ryanair. Some of them have train timetables and J goes to work. Works out that we can go from Chester to Crewe, from Crewe to Wolverhampton, from Wolverhampton to Birmingham New St, and from there to the airport where we can rent a car. Phone call to L is made, she books car for us. Now all we have to do is get there.
At Chester, we know we have 15 mins to wait for our train. There we are, on the freezing cold platform, when a voice comes over the tannoy. "Anyone on platform 3A, awaiting the 19.36 train to Crewe..."
We freeze. We look up at the tannoy, daring him to do the inevitable.
"Your train has been cancelled."
We howl.
TannoyMan informs us there is another train to Crewe at 19.55. Which isn't long to wait, but it screws up our connections. J goes to the office, enquires about connections. Finds that there is a train that will leave Crewe to go direct to Birmingham, thereby eliminating the change at Wolverhampton. The catch? The Crewe train we're waiting for gets in at 21.17. The Birmingham train departs at 21.18.
We have one minute to get it, otherwise we're going to be very tight for time to get the rental car picked up.
Like the Dixie Chicks, we are ready to run.
The train gets into Crewe, and we run. We go this way and that, up the stairs, across the bridge, down the stairs, There is a train there, we scream at the redcoated jobsworthy bitch from halfway down the stairs. "Is that the train to Birmingham?"
She screams back, "Yes and it's going now."
Cries of "Wait" "Hold the train" "Hurry up" abound. J reaches the train first, throws her bag in, and stands bodily in between the doors, hands outstretched to stop them closing. Jobsworthy Bitch is giving out to her, she does not care, she shall not be moved. We run, all five of the rest of us, leap onto the train, and as the last person drops their bag, the doors close and the train begins to move. We have made it. There is hugging, and kissing. There are almost tears. The girls take out their phones and begin ringing people to share the first bit of fortune we have had all day. The boys look at us and roll their eyes. We do not care.
We get to Birmingham, and the train to the airport we get is one that has been delayed. Things are looking up. At the airport, we get the monorail to the main terminal building and find our rental car place. The lot where it's parked is in another country, possibly Siberia, and when we dig the car out from a foot of snow ( I exaggerate, but I have earned the right to do so), and scrape the ice from the windscreen, we are on our way. It is now eleven o'clock at night.
Hunger has caught up on us, so we pull in at Warwick services. I get soup, still not feeling great from the Exorcist re-enactment on the boat. The minute the spoon touches my lips, I know I can't eat it. I eat the bread roll instead and hope it will stay down.
We leave the services at one minute past midnight, and drive to Bournemouth. We arrive at the Carrington at 2.26 in the morning. Our friends, most of them, have stayed up to greet us. M tells me I need a glass of wine, I refuse. He insists, I tell him of the lack of food I have had all day. It is a measure how bad I must look, and how awful I must sound, that he instantly goes "Cup of tea?"
It has taken 22 hours from leaving the house to get there.
Our epic journey reaches the status of con legend in jig time. At the ball on the Saturday night, Anne, the director, thanks the guests, the staff, the people for coming. Then she thanks "The Irish contingent for their epic journey in getting here... for those of you who haven't heard, their flight from Dublin was cancelled yesterday morning. They got a ferry to Holyhead, got 5 trains to Birmingham Airport, where they hired a car and drove here, and got here in the wee hours of the morning." There are gasps, there is applause.
Peter Jurasik and Stephen Furst, as the banquet is breaking up, come over to our table, saying "We have to meet you guys" and they shake our hands.
Mary McDonnell comes over to us and stands and talks to us for 15 minutes in the middle of the dance floor. She can't believe what we went through.
The next day, I'm getting my photograph taken with Robert Picardo. The photographer, who knows us all by now, quips that "this girl had a longer journey than you did." Robert Picardo looks down at me and says, "Oh my goodness, are you Irish?" Then apologises for not coming over to our table the previous night.
And the coolest thing of all...Himself has a B5 cast photo that he's had for 15 years. It has all the cast members on it, and all have signed it. Except Stephen Furst. At autographs on Sunday, it is completed. There are friends of ours who queue up with us who get nothing signed, they just want to see it. We chance our arm, ask one of the staff can we take a picture as it's being signed, even though we know it's not allowed. He asks Stephen, who says no problem. When the signing is done, he even lets Himself come around the table, sit down beside him, and he holds up the poster and makes a classic Vir face as Himself smiles.
And I know that the whole rigmarole was totally worthwhile.
*boggles at our stunning naiviete*
So, we arise from our bed at half four, leave the house at five (in the morning, did I mention that???), with S, who drove down from Belfast the night before to stay with us. Roads are like glass, there are a couple of near skids. We get to the airport, park up in long stay, and get the bus to the airport terminal. There, we meet with Jo, and F&J. F&J are already checked in, they go ahead through security. The other four of us check in, get into a queue for security that is amazingly long (due to the fact that the airport was closed the previous evening for 6 hours due to snow.)
When we get through security, we think that we're ok, and we get to the gate. See that flight is delayed to 7.50. No bother, we say. Grand. At 8 o'clock, we notice that we're delayed til 9.10. No bother, we say again. Off for breakfast. I have a croissant and a cup of tea. At 9, we head back to the gate.
No sign of boarding. Outside, it is still white and slippery. We expect another delay. Then, disaster! The screen at the gate changes from Bournemouth to Tenerife. Jo walks up to the departures board. Our flight, it has disappeared!!! She phones L, her sister. I text
smiley_b. Both say the same thing - our flight is listed on the internet as cancelled. It takes
We go to get our bags, cursing all the way. Jo's bag is, quite literally, the last one out; we are freaked until we see it. We go to join the Ryanair queue, to see what can be done. On the way, L phones Jo. There is a flight to Southampton at four, and we could get the train. We'd have to book it ourselves, and it's E247 apiece. Another flight to Southampton goes at 9ish. It's E150. The next Ryanair flight to Bournemouth is Saturday evening; no good. We debate, while finding the queue. Which stretches half the length of the terminal building, then starts to snake.
Someone at this point has the idea of taking the boat to Holyhead and training it down to Bournemouth. L does the business on the internet and rings Jo, the boat would cost E30 a head. We abandon the queue from hell and jump in a taxi.
Once at Dublin port, at 11 o'clock in the morning, we book the ferry, and someone has the bright idea to hire a car once we get there. L again does the business, rings car places in Holyhead. There are no cars to be had. Apparently, we are not the only ones screwed by Ryanair. She rings, and eventually finds two cars in Llandudno. (Don't get on to me about my spelling; by this point I was tired, hungry, stressed and past caring.) We tell her to reserve them; they take no credit card details, and the place closes at 6. We will have to get the train from Holyhead to Llandudno, and it leaves 6 minutes after the boat docks. It'll be tight, but we agree to it, as we're running out of options.
In the ferry port, I have tea and a packet of chocolate buttons. We board the ferry at half two, where I have my first meal of the day, a fry, which the lads swear is just the ticket to settle your stomach. Except that we're on the fast crossing, which goes up and down like a seesaw, and even though F swears it's a calm crossing, I'm halfway through the fry when I realise that I'm definitely going to be seeing this meal again, and soon. I keep going, on the basis that it's better to have something in my stomach, and hoping against hope that I'm wrong.
I'm not.
The only saving grace is that I fall asleep soon after and wake when the boat docks.
The way our luck is going, what is inevitable happens; we don't make the connection. Realise that the next train, at 5.20, will not get us to Llandudno by 6. Onto plan some-letter-in-the-middle-of-the-alphabet. We need to leave Holyhead, because there is nothing there. We get the next train, which will take us to Birmingham where we can get to the airport, on the basis that airport car rental places open late. Of course, we realise this quite late, and end up having to run for the train. J drops her mobile phone, it shatters into 5 pieces on the platform, people are very Samaritanly and point out bits as she picks it up. We run, we make the train.
We meet many people on the two hour journey to Chester who are in the same boat. Literally. The SS We Have Been Shafted By Ryanair. Some of them have train timetables and J goes to work. Works out that we can go from Chester to Crewe, from Crewe to Wolverhampton, from Wolverhampton to Birmingham New St, and from there to the airport where we can rent a car. Phone call to L is made, she books car for us. Now all we have to do is get there.
At Chester, we know we have 15 mins to wait for our train. There we are, on the freezing cold platform, when a voice comes over the tannoy. "Anyone on platform 3A, awaiting the 19.36 train to Crewe..."
We freeze. We look up at the tannoy, daring him to do the inevitable.
"Your train has been cancelled."
We howl.
TannoyMan informs us there is another train to Crewe at 19.55. Which isn't long to wait, but it screws up our connections. J goes to the office, enquires about connections. Finds that there is a train that will leave Crewe to go direct to Birmingham, thereby eliminating the change at Wolverhampton. The catch? The Crewe train we're waiting for gets in at 21.17. The Birmingham train departs at 21.18.
We have one minute to get it, otherwise we're going to be very tight for time to get the rental car picked up.
Like the Dixie Chicks, we are ready to run.
The train gets into Crewe, and we run. We go this way and that, up the stairs, across the bridge, down the stairs, There is a train there, we scream at the redcoated jobsworthy bitch from halfway down the stairs. "Is that the train to Birmingham?"
She screams back, "Yes and it's going now."
Cries of "Wait" "Hold the train" "Hurry up" abound. J reaches the train first, throws her bag in, and stands bodily in between the doors, hands outstretched to stop them closing. Jobsworthy Bitch is giving out to her, she does not care, she shall not be moved. We run, all five of the rest of us, leap onto the train, and as the last person drops their bag, the doors close and the train begins to move. We have made it. There is hugging, and kissing. There are almost tears. The girls take out their phones and begin ringing people to share the first bit of fortune we have had all day. The boys look at us and roll their eyes. We do not care.
We get to Birmingham, and the train to the airport we get is one that has been delayed. Things are looking up. At the airport, we get the monorail to the main terminal building and find our rental car place. The lot where it's parked is in another country, possibly Siberia, and when we dig the car out from a foot of snow ( I exaggerate, but I have earned the right to do so), and scrape the ice from the windscreen, we are on our way. It is now eleven o'clock at night.
Hunger has caught up on us, so we pull in at Warwick services. I get soup, still not feeling great from the Exorcist re-enactment on the boat. The minute the spoon touches my lips, I know I can't eat it. I eat the bread roll instead and hope it will stay down.
We leave the services at one minute past midnight, and drive to Bournemouth. We arrive at the Carrington at 2.26 in the morning. Our friends, most of them, have stayed up to greet us. M tells me I need a glass of wine, I refuse. He insists, I tell him of the lack of food I have had all day. It is a measure how bad I must look, and how awful I must sound, that he instantly goes "Cup of tea?"
It has taken 22 hours from leaving the house to get there.
Our epic journey reaches the status of con legend in jig time. At the ball on the Saturday night, Anne, the director, thanks the guests, the staff, the people for coming. Then she thanks "The Irish contingent for their epic journey in getting here... for those of you who haven't heard, their flight from Dublin was cancelled yesterday morning. They got a ferry to Holyhead, got 5 trains to Birmingham Airport, where they hired a car and drove here, and got here in the wee hours of the morning." There are gasps, there is applause.
Peter Jurasik and Stephen Furst, as the banquet is breaking up, come over to our table, saying "We have to meet you guys" and they shake our hands.
Mary McDonnell comes over to us and stands and talks to us for 15 minutes in the middle of the dance floor. She can't believe what we went through.
The next day, I'm getting my photograph taken with Robert Picardo. The photographer, who knows us all by now, quips that "this girl had a longer journey than you did." Robert Picardo looks down at me and says, "Oh my goodness, are you Irish?" Then apologises for not coming over to our table the previous night.
And the coolest thing of all...Himself has a B5 cast photo that he's had for 15 years. It has all the cast members on it, and all have signed it. Except Stephen Furst. At autographs on Sunday, it is completed. There are friends of ours who queue up with us who get nothing signed, they just want to see it. We chance our arm, ask one of the staff can we take a picture as it's being signed, even though we know it's not allowed. He asks Stephen, who says no problem. When the signing is done, he even lets Himself come around the table, sit down beside him, and he holds up the poster and makes a classic Vir face as Himself smiles.
And I know that the whole rigmarole was totally worthwhile.
