Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (11 page)

I stared at the wreck before me. “Right,” I said, “I’ll climb up and you pass me my bags.”

I wedged my feet into a pile of tiles then climbed onto the rim of the bath, holding on to the top of the gate with one hand. “Ready,” I called.

Laura lifted my case. “Be careful, Mandy,” she warned.

I grabbed the case, heaved it over the gate, followed by my hefty crew bag and handbag, trying desperately not to lose my balance. Then I climbed onto the tumble dryer, hoisted my skirt and vaulted over the gate, landing neatly in the driveway.

I could hear peals of laughter from the other side. “Are you okay, Mands?”

“I’m fine, Laura. Better dash – I’ll call you in the week, hon.”

Then I ran through the streets of Horley, my ground shoes skating over the frosty pavement. I arrived at the Flight Centre just as the bus engine chuckled to life. “Vegas, here I come,” I said under my breath as I clattered towards the bus door. I’d made it – and I hadn’t even snagged my tights.

CHAPTER 6

GALLEY FM

There’s nothing cabin crew love to do more than have a good old gossip. When the passengers are fed and settling down for a kip or watching the in-flight entertainment, we huddle in the galley, perched on our bar boxes, and giggle over the outrageous stories doing the rounds. Cabin crew are renowned for their zany and promiscuous proclivities, both down-route and on board, and their japes kick the galley gossip mill into overdrive. There are no secrets at Virgin – every antic is noted and talked about. Some stories are true, others turn out to be hyped-up rumours. Some of us even started rumours about ourselves, to see if they ever got back to us – and they did. There’s a phrase we use for the discussions that go on behind those soundproof galley curtains: Galley FM – and trust me, you don’t want to make the bulletins.

Some crew members made quite a name for themselves as a result of their debauched shenanigans. One of them was Paula, a raging nymphomaniac with frazzled blonde hair who went through men like tights. She was a popular Galley FM topic because she was always getting drunk and making a show of herself down-route or on nights out. I flew with Paula a few times in my early
days, although I felt I knew her better through Galley FM. Every time I saw Paula she looked different. She had a weird routine: get married, get fat, get divorced, get her stomach stapled and then get hitched again. She’d done this at least four times that I knew of.

Once, on a night out in Hong Kong, she got so drunk that she wet herself. She didn’t even try to conceal it. Standing legs astride, she simply let it all out and then laughed, pointed at the puddle on the floor and exclaimed: “I’ve just pissed me self.” When she’d finished, she whipped off her soggy knickers in the middle of the packed bar, spun them above her head by her finger and hurled them across the room, where they landed on a startled Chinese businessman’s head.

In another equally shocking incident, Paula found herself passed out in a bush in Brighton, knickers round her ankles and smeared in dog muck. A couple of stewards found her, fished her mobile from her bag and called her then husband, whose response was: “You can fucking well keep her – I’ve had enough.” So the guys had to carry her home with them, reeking of dog poo.

But Paula’s finest moment happened when she was caught performing a blow job on a popular boy-band singer at 35,000 feet. She’d forgotten to lock the toilet door and a passenger walked in on her mid job. She was handed her notice after that one.

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 actor 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.