ALL the world’s a stage. A certain Warwickshire lad of great renown made that observation a few hundred years ago and, believe me, this little literary nugget is as true today as it was back then.
I just wish I’d said that. Trouble is, everyone knows it. Which means I can’t nick it and then pretend I made it up myself. Cruel world.
So. We’re an hour into the flight, cruising at 37,000 feet, and have started the long haul over the Atlantic bound for the Caribbean.
Bound. Or maybe it should be pronounced bowwer-wend pirate-style. You can almost hear the ‘har-har me hearties’ bit, can’t you?
Especially as I’m nursing a plastic beaker of red but actually wishing it was a large pewter mug of rum. Served on a dead man’s chest, of course.
But best of all it’s free too, part of the deal – there’s no need to fish about in my flight bag for some pieces of eight to pay the man.
As you can see, I’m getting in the buccaneer zone. Azure blue seas, waving palm trees, the thought that Captain Kidd’s treasure might be buried somewhere above the wave line… my mind is packed tighter than a Spanish galleon’s hold crammed with the looted gold and silver of the Indies.
Suddenly, an urgent voice crackles and splutters over the intercom, rudely interrupting my little daydream…
THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING! THE PLANE HAS DEVELOPED A TECHNICAL FAULT AND MUST RETURN TO BIRMINGHAM!
All right, all right, no need to shout, Cap’n. But what about the ship docked in the Dominican Republic and now waiting for us? We’re meant to board it later today. And what’s wrong with the bleedin’ plane?
Is there a risk of crashing into the sea, and a Titanic-type drama unfolding, with me sat on the fast-sinking fuselage trying to remember the words of My Heart Will Go On? And where’s Celine Dion, never there when you want her, is she?
The plane does a U-turn. Keir Starmer's not flying this thing, is he? Blimey, I hope it's not Rachel Reeves or the Ginger Whinger. I'm too old to die.
Now, the plane's turning round in mid-air. I’ve never experienced that manoeuvre before, it’s really weird. The clouds spill over the wings, eventually parting, and so we’re heading back to the rain and mist of a late January Britain.
Titanic mentality soon sets in. People start laughing and joking, making merry quips about facing the prospect of getting a fabulous suntan in Perry Barr, Sparkhill and Blackheath, rather than Tortola, Santo Domingo and Antigua.
Idiots. Brummie planks. Why on earth are you making jokes? You’ve just seen your holiday going down the toilet, and besides – remember the reason we’re returning to Brum? Yes, that’s right, you lot. There’s a TECHNICAL FAULT WITH THE PLANE!
It must have been like this on Titanic. Well, it was in the film, and I should know, because I must have watched it at least 25 times, courtesy of my younger daughter’s obsessions with all-things White Star Line circa April 1912.
You know, young men playing football with the ice lumps that had fallen onto the deck just after the ship hit the iceberg, completely unaware of the reality. Then there were the stewards telling the people in steerage to stay where they are, the posh folks drinking brandy in the First Class saloon, Captain Smith gradually filling his kecks, and the stokers down below drowning like rats caught in a trap.
Eventually, after circling the airport for what seems like an age, we’re back where we started from, and being ushered into a departure lounge. We can’t return to the main complex because technically, as we had left British airspace, this meant that we’d have to go through passport control and customs, even though none of us had gone anywhere.
The hours go by. There are well over three hundred people in this room, with one toilet to serve the lot. Despite several promises of packs of sandwiches and bottled water being brought in, no refreshments materialise.
The mood changes. Gone is the jollity and Dunkirk spirit of the early afternoon, feelings of hope and optimism that we might soon get airborne again slowly fading.
This was how it must have been on Titanic, if you remember. It’s a sort of epiphany of doom, to put a poetic slant on it all. Destiny creeps up on you, just like those water levels that gradually rose over the stricken liner’s promenade deck.
Today, the Mr Murdoch role is being played by a member of staff who is desperately struggling with not just explanations, but his words, too, chuntering away like a chunter. And he’s now getting a lot of stick from the same passengers who, only a few hours before, had been as happy as Larry on a charabanc trip to Skegness Butlins.
Of course, our man hasn’t got a loaded revolver, like Mr Murdoch. But he may now be wishing he’d packed his .45 calibre Smith and Wesson that morning before leaving for work, as a couple of people are now getting really heavy with him.
Meanwhile, two security men are standing around, chatting and pretend-oblivious to the row unfolding only yards away, despite the fact that Mr Murdoch is clearly under pressure as the passengers become increasingly abusive, seemingly blaming him for everything that has gone wrong.
This strikes me as being quite unreasonable as it now transpires that the cause of the aborted flight was a failure in the plane’s navigation system. I suppose it's a satnav-type bit of kit like you have in your car, only bigger.
I feel very sorry for Mr Murdoch, who's now trying to stutter his way out of trouble. Hey, it’s not just Celine Dion, where the hell is Second Officer Charles Lightoller, when he’s needed? Hiding in a lifeboat with Mr Ismay?
In the end, this sorry situation is at last resolved. Of sorts, anyway. We are all packed off to hotels for the night as all hope of a replacement flight, let alone of joining the ship, has gone. It has well and truly sailed.
And the holiday that should have been as unsinkable as a certain liner, now might as well have joined her at the bottom of the sea. Well, not literally, but you know what I mean.
Yes, indeed. All the world is a stage. And all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances.
That Warwickshire lad of long ago certainly knew a thing or two about life, yes indeed.
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