Death From Above 2017.

In sci-fi movies whenever people have to travel long distances in space they ‘cryogenically freeze’ them and then just thaw them out when they get there. Like most sci-fi inventions, this technology has been spoken about as having real-life potential. And while I agree with its intention, I don’t agree with its application. We shouldn’t be developing it to send people into space to be eaten by aliens, we should be developing it so parents can travel further than the supermarket without wanting to fire themselves into the sun. Unfortunately we lack the ability to freeze our children on planes right now, but if any scientists are reading this I will fund your Kickstarter.

It’s been some time since I wrote a blog post, but I felt it necessary in the wake of what I’ve just been through. For those readers who don’t know me personally, I’ll bring you up to speed. I’ve got two of them now. Frankie is 2 and a half, and she now has a 4 month old baby sister, Nina. So what do you do when you’ve got a toddler and a baby in Australia? Well if you’re certifiably insane you take them to visit your in-laws in Canada.

On my THINGS I WOULD LEAST LIKE TO DO list, ‘be fired out of a civil war cannon naked into a field of Saguaro cacti’ and ‘be eaten alive by a Kodiak bear’ both come a distant second to ‘be locked in a giant sardine can in the sky with a screaming baby and toddler surrounded by people who want to stick my head on a spike’, but nevertheless that’s what I’ve gone and done.

And just to add fibreglass to the festering wound, a cold swept through our house in the week leading up to our departure. Sensing the existing proposition wasn’t challenging enough, my immune system decided to say ”here deal with this lol’ and went on its own holiday a day before the trip, meaning every single one of us was plague-ridden for the expedition.

To begin with, we had to wake both the kids up at 3am to get the airport in time for the flight. Which is a fantastic to way to start things off, as the old saying goes ‘always piss off a sleeping baby’. Including one domestic connecting flight, the total travel time was around twenty hours. The first flight was short and went off without a hitch thanks to Nina being a generally chill baby and the infamous toddler-hypnotising abilities of the iPad. It was to be the calm before the extinction event meteor strike.

The 14-hour flight from Brisbane to Vancouver is where the shit got real. I had packed a couple of books and in the days leading up to the flight loaded my phone with some music and games to keep myself entertained. What a fucking idiot, right? Who the fuck do I think I am? I literally used none of that shit, not even once. There was no ‘time to kill’. The entire flight was a marathon tag-team battle against a pint-sized team of indomitable terrors.

The first three or four hours weren’t that bad and eventually Frankie drifted off for a nap. Then, just as my wife decided she would take Nina up the other end of the plane to change her nappy, it happened. Frankie woke up, startled, looked around with a ‘where the fuck am I?’ expression, realised Mum wasn’t there, and then freaked the absolute fuck out. I’m talking just constant screaming. Like if someone replaced the siren of a firetruck with a howler monkey infected with the virus from 28 Days Later and ran it through Spinal Tap’s amplifier. Honestly at this point I really would have not minded if the plane had been shot down by a Russian militant and exploded in a ball of flames. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably more like 10 minutes, my wife returned to lend a hand. But the damage was done. The scars left on my soul cut deeper than when Atreyu’s horse sank in that swamp in The Neverending Story. I’m sure everyone within a 10-metre radius was already plotting to string us all up by our toes the second we dropped our guard. Three people in the aisle over were were holding torches and pitchforks. I’m not even sure how they got them on the plane.

The other thing to consider is just how much carry-on stuff you need to sustain the lives of two adults and two young children. We had three backpacks and a suitcase full of food, nappies, changes of clothes in case of poonamis, toys, colouring books, electronics etc. and by the midpoint of the flight our row was absolutely littered with crap. It looked like someone was filming an episode of Hoarders 30,000 feet in the sky. You’d be less likely to step on something navigating a Cambodian minefield in clown shoes. A family of raccoons eventually made their home under the seats. I named them Angry, Scratchy, Bitey and Steve. We were eventually rid of them when an unsuspecting hostess walked past with some bags of pretzels. I really underestimated Steve as he definitely did the most damage. She may never see out of that eye again.

Somehow, between intermittent moments of ‘I’ve had enough of this shit’ from one of the two of them over the next ten hours, I managed to watch John Wick on the in-flight TV screen. John Wick is a cool as shit movie about Neo from the Matrix hunting down Euron Greyjoy because he killed his dog. I know it sounds like a strange crossover but it really works. What doesn’t work however is Fist Fight, which despite an impressive cast, is so nauseatingly terrible I turned it off after twenty minutes. Honestly, I think that movie must have been directed by a shoe and shot by a wedding photographer. Even that’s generous because a wedding photographer can usually make people look like they give a shit for at least one take.

The home stretch of the flight was filled with mixed emotions. There was a galvanising sensation of accomplishment and relief as the little plane on the entertainment system crawled closer to the right of screen, but it was short lived. About two hours from landing, both kids went into complete meltdown. It was like sitting in a listening room at a hi-fi store with built-in Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound that only played ‘Screaming Kids of Summer Vol.3’. They were understandably inconsolable. Hours upon hours of being stuck in a noisy tube had pushed them to the brink. I just felt utterly helpless. All we could do was ride it out until the plane landed or someone sitting nearby snapped and threw a molotov cocktail at us.

But, nevertheless, we made it. Came, saw, wanted to die, conquered. And here’s the really crazy bit. I’m only here for a couple of weeks. My wife is staying for a month. So she’ll be doing this all over again ON HER OWN. I cannot even fathom the thought. But if anyone can do it, she can. I won’t be surprised though if she packs a parachute and just nopes the fuck out of there somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.


Cabin Fever

In the 90’s, action movie writers had a real penchant for adversity on aeroplanes.

We had the glorious flowing locks of Nicholas Cage in Con Air, the abruptly deceptive cameo of Steven Seagal in Executive Decision, Bruce Willis saving Christmas as John McClane in Die Hard 2, the immortalisation of Wesley Snipes line : “Always bet on black” in Passenger 57 and the psychopathic performance of Ray Liotta in Turbulence.


After the spate of onscreen disasters on planes in the 90’s, you would think it impossible to come up with a worse situation, until Samuel L. Jackson “had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane” in 2006.

snakes-on -plane-1

Despite all of this, I don’t think we’ve quite hit our Everest of catastrophic situations on planes. I have a script that I believe can top the lot.

Picture this:

Our female protagonist is originally from Vancouver, but lives in Australia. She’s booked on a flight to visit her family. Sure, she’s made this flight before, but somehow you never quite get used to spending 18 hours in a giant sardine can.

But this flight is not going to be like the rest. She recently became a mother for the first time. Her baby is only 14 weeks old. And she’s coming along for the journey.

But that isn’t all. Two days before the flight, the travel agent calls to advise her that they cannot provide the bassinet she requested upon booking the tickets.

So she’s stuck in a regular seat, for 18 hours, with a newborn baby, with nowhere to put it. Alone.


That right there is what my wife soldiered through two weeks ago. I would not want to be on that flight for all the Sriracha hot sauce in the world. I would rather combine all the bad shit in every previous aeroplane movie than do that.

I would rather be seated next to a prisoner in shackles, on a plane with a bomb in the cargo hold, that is running out of fuel, under the control of a terrorist, flying through turbulence, with a bag full of snakes on the loose.

And she’s going to do it all again in a week’s time.

So this one goes out to yet another amazing feat of motherhood.

Although, now that I think about it, I did put together the new crib today. So I guess that makes us even.

Just kidding.