Ladies and Gentleman, Your In-Flight Entertainment for this Evening: Late Capitalistic Nausea

Or, my platonic relationship with Emirates’ ICE entertainment system (their choice, not mine).  

Commercial flights are one of the many necessary evils in life. They are a gooey melting pot of culture and class; rows upon rows of speckled, disheveled people, all transiting for a thousand different reasons. If you ever actually tried to create anything out of this melting pot, you’d end up with a sort of horribly astringent stew, akin to a pre-holiday meal designed to clean out the fridge.  

Of course, what we tend to forget when setting off for our annual holibobs is that the plane ride in itself is a holiday. Where else would you find such an exciting, global itinerary? For example, an exhausted route: a hop, swim, and a jump across the English Channel, a noodling through Western Europe—for those history buffs among us—a traversion across the historic cities of Hungary and Romania, and a final leg that stretches over Turkey and Iran—although most are probably drooling over their blanky by this point. This monumental odyssey leads us adventurous heroes—as who else would dare embark on such a journey but heroes—right above the UAE, ready to plop down onto one of DXB’s runways. 

… thank you … thank you … have a great day … yes, baggage carousel will be confirmed in the terminal … thank you… 

Why, your typical commercial flight is the journey of a lifetime! A 17th century peasant would tie you in a bag and toss you in the river if you told them this journey was even possible, let alone within the space of six and a half hours! 

I’m taking a flight now, hence the suggested route above, and I’m dedicated to taking you through the whole experience with me. While some remarks will be specific to this particular flight, i.e. the route traversed (BHX–DXB), the airline flown (Emirates), and the class traveled (Cattle), I would assume many will apply to the hundred thousand flights that happen each and every day. So sit back, relax, and enjoy this flight of fancy. 

Before boarding the flight, there is always a waiting area at the gate. Inevitably, I too am suffering this fate. But fortunately, you can pass the time by people-watching. The bloke next to me is watching a YouTube video on the Emirates inflight meals. Like me, he too is anxious; not of the flight itself per se, but rather of being underprepared when the age old question is popped … will that be chicken or beef?

Fortunately our flight isn’t canceled/postponed/delayed, and once we’ve sat down, we’re greeted by a gazillion messages over the tannoy. Once in English, once in Arabic, welcoming us, thanking us, wishing you a safe and a pleasant journey, safety briefings, take-off updates, the weather if we were all 16th century monks in Scotland (wouldn’t leave thee’ouse if I was yoo) and finally a jerking off of the flight’s onboard entertainment system … ICE, ICE baby … but I’ll get to that in due course, since we have six and half hours to … kill. 

Immediately, I am aware of the pathetic, paper-thin disposable cover emblazoned with EXPO 2020 on every headrest. One must assume that, once asleep, this imprinted information will be permeating through each and every one of our skulls, slipping between the folds of our brain tissue. While most of us will remain unscathed by this subconscious process, an unlucky few will awaken—no memory of who they were, where they’ve been, or why they’re standing stark naked in the middle of Terminal 3—with only four letters dancing around their cerebral cortex … E … X … P … Oh? 

I barely have my seatbelt on before a final barking comes from overhead—a crass reminder of the duty free shopping available via the crusty magazine in the back pocket of the seat in front. God, what would we do without the back of the seat in front? Shopping mag, comfy-womfy blanket, headphones, and most importantly, telly. We all leech off the passenger in front of us, cognitively converting the back of their head into a telly. Like some sort of malformed Teletubby, they sit with a screen jutting out the back of their head, while they too do the same to the poor sod in front of them. 

I try to snap out of this fantasy but the interior of the plane begins to rattle. The molded plastic compartments—a beautiful shade of nerve-settling beige—gyrate. Before I can settle my nerves, we are zooming off into the sky, ready to experience the best airline in … the world. Like devout followers of asceticism, we ascend into solitude, committing to a monastic penance. 

Ladies and Gentlemen we are floating in space. 

Briskly, the cabin crew offer a meal, with no regard to time of day. There is a certain temporality that engages when airborne. Clocks run faster as altitude increases—although they may just be travel sick like the rest of us. 

Now, here we all are, 11:30 at night—local time at destination three-fucking-thirty in the morning—all tucking stiff serviettes into our shirts for a three-course meal. “Tubby Custard, Tubby Custard, Tubby Custard!” We all chant. 

The cabin crew dishing out the grub are amiable, but queer. One in particular only spoke in  questions the whole flight … Would you mind tucking that bag under the seat in front of you?  … Could you put your seatbelt on? … Will it be chicken or fucking beef? … Are you quite sure you should be saying that to me when your wife is asleep next to you? 

And just like that we are fed, burped, and bedded. The lights go down and we’re now expected to sleep, under the star-studded overhead lockers. But how can we? When whispering in front of us is the glowing teevee … ICE, ICE baby … ICE ICE baby … 

ICE! Information! Communications! Entertainment! ICE is a system designed to distract you from the thousands of feet between you and the earth. It is made to divert your attention from the hundreds of hectares of land you pass every hour. It is designed to sidetrack the thought of … hang on, how on earth is this thing flying? 

ENTERTAINMENT, the tail end of the acronym but, ironically, it spearheads the operation. A gazillion movies, TV shows, and albums. Want to watch all the Harry Potters? No fucking way. Noughties Pop? Shoot me first. Wonder Woman 2? I've already had my fill of vile assaults by Israeli nationalists, but thank you.

I’ve got a nosebleed from the pure amount of choice on my ICE, ICE baby machine—two streams of blood coming straight out my snozzles. Luckily, an air hostess clocked my nasal dilemma—a frequent occurrence for this very reason I’m sure—and dabbed it for me with a spare hot towel. 

Despite snobbishly disregarding the movie choice, my favorite airborne pastime is steeped in hypocrisy: watching movies on other people’s malformed Teletubbies. As Scorsese intended, I’m half watching “The Irishman”—film muet de style—over the shoulder of seat 58D. 

The I of ICE is … INFORMATION. I poke the directional buttons on my corded remote and enter the I. In the era of information, what great secrets does Emirates divulge to their weary travelers? The Countdown: 5h 49m to go … Outside Temp: -54C … Speed: 555mph … now only 552mph … a simulation of our flight course imitated by a giantized version of our beloved A380 sliding across the globe on a yellow rail. I’m unsure what to do with a lot of this information, as the I in ICE seems to be preemptive padding for the rest of the acronym. At least 90% of this information is aeronautical nonsense. The plane cameras are interesting at least—I briefly watched a live feed of what’s out there. Although, the views are tarmacked over during taxi and usually shrouded in cloud during the flight—so make sure you’re glued to them during take-off and landing. 

The C is for COMMUNICATION but it might as well be COMA because it’s fucking boring. Passenger survey? YAWN! Although, hang on, having a look at it, there are some real kicker questions in this feedback form … 

QUESTION 22 OF THE PASSENGER SURVEY— PLEASE RATE ONBOARD COMFORT FOR THE FOLLOWING … the question lists various parts of your immediate space, for I, the passenger, to rate from excellent to piss poor. Listed amongst other options is SEAT WIDTH. A flaw of the quiz is the final option for grading this as: did not use …

QUESTION 24 OF THE PASSENGER SURVEY— PLEASE RATE THE APPEARANCE OF THE CABIN CREW … Crudely, I mark this one as: did not use, and rudely, I pencil in my own remark—would you like ICE with that? 

QUESTION 28 OF THE PASSENGER SURVEY— PLEASE RATE OVERALL PASSENGER CONNECTIVITY … I’m stumped. no snide quip in my arsenal. Everyone is positively glued to their screens, which are, in turn, glued to the seat in front … who the fuck thinks any sort of connectivity is going on here? Seat 58C is watching Harry stroke his wand, Seat 59B is watching a movie he shouldn’t be watching, and Seat 57G is watching their 23rd episode of Peppa Pig. The plane would need to nosedive into Southend’s pleasure pier for anyone to realize that the creatures around them were anything more than disgusting cracker crumb-covered, blanket-skinned, teevee-slurping eremites. 

With my ambulation of the ICE plains complete, I reach for my book. But before I can even glance at the contents, two stewardesses peddle the drinks cart into the scene. Slopping whiskeys and gins, mother’s ruin, into the hands of mummies and daddies, aiming to aid the ailment of in-flight headaches. It isn’t their kids causing the headaches, they are already plugged into the seats in front, direct input. Rather, the alcohol is to subdue a different source of pressure: one at the back of the noggin, one that is only unearthed in the depths of a pious hermit’s six and a half hour penance. 

Pa says to Ma: “Darling … I’ve been thinking … maybe these thousands of flights whizzing around the world a day aren’t such a good idea. This mass of transatlantic mosquitoes buzzing about the globe … maybe we should take it easy … on the whole mass transportation, mass fabrication, mass infrastructure … I mean, do we really need things instantaneously? Can’t we live without our, madeinchina china, holidays in doo-bye and beef burgers? … Because isn’t all this moooooving about choking what’s below … what comes up must come down as they say … isn’t this what causes zooootropic viruses to get around so fast? … And isn’t this why continents are sinking, resources are thinning, and wars will start over food? The land will be so scorched from the sun that we won’t be able to cultivate even a single weary crop. The whole planet will be riddled with a terminal case of Mutually Assured Dystopia with no point of return, as we’re unable to tackle the sheer volume of crises that have ultimately toppled and crippled organized society?” 

“What was that, dear?” The wife says, looking up from her screen. “I couldn’t hear you. Headphones were on … looky here though, Dobby’s just been given the sock—” Her fingernail presses hard against the part of the screen with a little rat in a bin bag. “—innit cute?” 

Her husband scoffs, putting his own headphones on to return to his silver screen. He mutters under his fermented breath, “The sock was probably imported from China that morning … still warm …” 

With regards to the screen watching, I’ve bitten off far more than I can chew. I’ve reached sensory overload. Reality and all the crap blockbusters have sludged together into one big SLODGE. Wonder Woman is stroking Harry Potter’s wand, Peppa and her classmates have joined the Hitler Youth, and James Bond is storming into a Bollywood movie looking for a man that simply goes by the name of Tubby Custard. Run Fat Boy, Run! Agitated and estranged, I crawl up to the overhead locker. It’s time to curl up, sleep, and pretend I’m a piece of luggage. This will help me get away from all that … noise. 

It is morning, with one more hour left on this metal bird hellhole. Only two entries remain on my itinerary: shit and get-the-fuck-out. Chronology is imperative here as getting the-fuck-out isn’t possible at this exact point in time—our descending altitude still in the thousands of feet—and I would soon, as the French put it, merde moi-même. 

Inside the cramped crapping cupboard, I immediately clock the red label above the toilet, pointing to the big, blue plastic flush button. The red label reads in Arabic, Urdu, and Hindi, all roughly translating to: please, after using the toilet, kindly use this button, referring to the blue flush button below. For the English speakers, in a much less sophisticated and gentle manner, there is the monosyllabic command on the blue button: PUSH. The button, in one word, has created an instruction for both how to excrete and how to remove the consequential aftermath. That’s what you get for flying the best airline in the world. 

I crap and back in my seat I switch onto one of the live feeds for landing, almost immediately having my face pressed against the asphalt, as we slide into DXB Terminal one. People worry about landings, but it’s take-offs that are far more dangerous. 

Before (finally) exiting the craft—what had gone up had come down—I realize I never paused the Beatles album I started at the beginning of the flight, when testing out the ICE entertainment system. My poor malformed Teletubby had been subjected to listening, againannagain, to the same 11 songs for the entire journey, succumbing surely to a microtonal migraine within its microchippy mind. 

As I leave my seat, I relieve myself of my hermit recluse to join wider society, but my malformed Teletubby must eternally continue its atonement. I can still hear the computerized cry for help as the digital vinyl seamlessly runs out of groove and the record starts afresh … please kill me master … oh no … here we go again … lettit be … lettit be … lettit be—yeah—lettit beee …

Artwork by Simone Hadebe

Benjamin Kirby is an arthropod living on the fairway of an 18-hole golf course in Dubai. He feeds off local larvae and detritus. All his works are hand-scribed by one of the range’s ball collectors. He yearns to travel but is scared of flying.