Over the years, I suspect, I have spent too much time in tents. I have tightened my flaps on the veldt, as lions yawned 20 feet away. I have hurled bottles of shampoo at marauding Indian monkeys. Thanks to an accommodation mix-up as a teenager, I once spent a month living in a two-man tent with three boys, a girl, and a small, flatulent dog. And yet, when I am asked to consider the true horror of camping, it is to Pilton that I always return. The Glastonbury Festival, 2005. Friday morning. The flood.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
They're like camping, only worse:
Keeping an airliner on the ground doing nothing is like burning money, so most airlines are pretty much a 24/7 operation.
In the constant quest to for carriers to undercut their rivals airlines are going bust on a regular basis at the moment.
What happens if the airline goes bust after you've paid?
What happens if the airline goes bust after you've taken off?
There are not happy thoughts, are they? As an alternative can I point out that the magical trifecta of Front Room, Sofa and Telly is far less likely to go into receivership while you're kicking back with a packet of Jaffa cakes and a Sopranos DVD.