I wore all my clothes to the airport and here’s what happened…

Not heat exhaustion. But very nearly.


When RyanAir ask you to pay £20 for hand luggage, what do you do? Not pay it. For those who don’t know, RyanAir now expect you to pay to bring bags over a certain size onto the plane. Now the world is getting smaller and more people are travelling cheaply, packing lightly has become easier than ever. You know you can buy everything you need once you get to a destination. Or, like me, people realise they can stuff two weeks worth of bikinis and sarongs into a hefty carry on.

RyanAir must have clocked that everyone was stuffing two weeks worth of gear into a fake Louis Vuitton bring on, and not shelling out an extra £40. Can’t imagine why… the more luxurious of us do travel with them.

I decided therefore to do it. To do that thing everyone always says they’ll do: wear everything to the airport.

Three things I picked up:

  1. It was exhausting.
  2. I definitely nearly got heat exhaustion.

It’s nerve-wracking. Air Stewardess’s check nowadays that your hand luggage is no bigger than the size of a small Chihuahua if you haven’t paid for it.

I tried producing my first vlog entry for this, but am having some technical difficulties uploading it. In lieu of this, I have below the diary entry that I wrote whilst I was panicking in front of the first frontier: The RyanAir ticket and passport station. I was sat in 7 layers of clothing, puffed up and dripping with sweat on a bench. It was twenty minutes before boarding and I could see the tapping feet of the awaiting ‘checker’s. They even had a cage which was a size that no hand luggage item could fit through.

I was shitting it- having also not slept at all.

Please note the writing is a tad delirious, it being over 36 hours since I had last slept. I had been up all night putting on my clothes and arranging them as surreptitiously as possible. Although no one could see the different layers they could see that there was a girl with an abnormally small head for the size of her body.

Diary entry at RyanAir to Kiev:

I seem to be at the last frontier. I have tried and failed to put on all my clothes ont he ladies toilets that sit just outside gate 55. I have joined the soon to be masses at the station and hope now that fate deals me a fair hand. I indeed only have the one “bag” followed by another duty free. I look like a grandmother umpaloompa and now just hope that I have someone who is not a jobsworth seeing me through. Someone who is fed up with their job, hates their boss and curse the name “Ryanair” every time they call their mum or step out the airports grounds.

If I get pulled up on it I will have to say “fine, how much is it to be priority? I tried to do it online but I couldn’t see the option. And it was too late to add baggage”

Hopefully they will not know priority is filled up and let me on. If not, I shall of course give way graciously to hold luggage. To be honest it may be easier. Though irritating since I’m wearing half of the bloody case.

I made it through! Hurrah! The demi frontier- now all that’s left is Kiev’s station before Dubai’s flight. With the sweet victory feeling soon comes the realisation that I haven’t slept, I have a tonne of crying babies behind me and all I want to do is curl up and go to bed. I’m also wearing 8 layers. Hot and sweaty just adds another layer of irritation to an otherwise victorious moment.

So I woke up after two awful hours of sleep, punctuated by period pains right in the core of my uterus feeling utter shite. I then had the genius idea to use the bathrooom! I had these mini farts that kept rolling and then stopping short of doing out and I knew I just had to let rip. Once in the toilet my saddened face looked back- it only was I tired beyond belief I was probably hugely over heating! I stripped off happily and frantically and when I came out the bathroom this special woman with fake lips and peroxide hair looked utterly aghast and bewildered at my huge pile of clothes in my hand. Well fuck you .


What would the takeaway be?

It’s not worth it.

Published by toobusytowrite

My page is called “too busy to write” because we all think we are. Where you’ve been and who you’ve met may be nothing but something to fall asleep on now, but in 40 odd years they will be the stuff you try and remember.

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