Untied Airlines and BMI
I booked a "really good deal" on a flight from San Francisco to Manchester at Christmas two years ago. My destination was actually Scotland, but this flight was £180 less. How much longer would it take, when you added in the 24 hour door-to-door travel time of my international flight?

The first leg of the flight was SFO to Chicago. I was early. The plane was not. In fact, the plane was still in Chicago, where they were having weather problems. It is beautiful in San Francisco.
Nobody can tell me if my later flight has been cancelled because: "There is no way for me to know that m'am. Please wait behind the rope for me to call your name." After searching every bit of paper that came with my ticket and confirmation, I find a phone number for an automated service run by the airline for the sole purpose of informing passengers about flight delays and cancellations. I phone it. My second flight is taking off in an hour and a half.
I report this information at the desk, where I am assured that they don't give a fuck and that I need to wait for my name to be called. Eventually it is, and I am one of the "lucky" people going on a different flight to Chicago.
By this time it is getting quite late, and I am worried that I will not make the last flight to Manchester. There is some talk of routing me through a tiny Russian airport, but they will only issue me new ticket as far as Chicago, because technically I haven't missed my next flight yet. I try to explain to surly staff that I would rather stay an extra night in San Francisco than be stranded in Chicago - Can they promise me I will be able to leave Chicago today if I take this flight? I am once again reassured that they don't give a fuck, but that this is the only ticket I'm getting, so I had better get on the airplane. I do.
The flight is uneventful, but I am already exhausted. In Chicago, I am given a ticket for a flight to LHR. I am told to run to the gate, it is a close connection. I run and I run and I run. I drag my suitcase with me (berating myself for bothering with a large cary on) and I run. People stare. I run some more. I pass through a second security check into the international terminal. I am advised that I should run to my flight. Yes. I will run.
I arrive at the gate. I am wheezing. I smell. My flight is delayed by an hour. The cleaners didn't turn up. Everyone has known this, they just didn't bother to post it on the board. I ask if I might go and fetch a bottle of water from the duty free shop, having passed through security and surrendered all my liquids. I am told that leaving the gate area after boarding has started (though the plane is not yet cleaned, much less accessible to passengers) will lead to the cancelation of my ticket. I manage to find a phone card machine (the pay phones will not take an international call with a credit card, nor, as I discover only at that moment, will my mobile make an international off-own-carrier call) and spend $20 on a 3 minute call informing my partner of my new flight information.
Eventually I am permitted to board the plane. Despite the extra hour for "cleaning," my pillow and blanket are used, with curly hairs stuck to them. Four peanut M&Ms are in my seat. One is undiscovered and melts onto my ass. It is yellow. It falls off on the floor of the airplane toilet four hours into the flight.
I eventually arrive in London. I have not slept. have no ticket booked for the rest of my journey. I eventually push my way into a queue of angry passengers waiting to use "courtesy" phones and ticket stations to get tickets to their true destinations. There is a young asian man in the queue for the phones behind me who I recognize from the death march from the SFO flight. He does not speak English, but points at his ticket. His original itinerary was the same as mine. There is no human for him to talk to. Only one of a bank of red phones. When I eventually reach the front of the queue and begin to negotiate with the insane woman on the phone for my ticket to Manchester, the young man hands me his ticket as well. I attempt to explain his situation, but am told I can only get information about tickets I booked under my own name. I am asked if I am willing to run to make a flight to Manchester leaving in half an hour. I will run. I ask her where to send the young man for help. She doesn't know because she has never been to this airport. I abandon him.
I run again. More running. I stumble and scuff my new boots. Everything is an exhausted, dehydrated blur except for the fact that now I am disgustingly filthy. I make it to the gate.
The flight is delayed. Something is wrong with the plane. Not to worry, there will be more information and we will probably be boarding in 40 minutes. I find a coke machine and manage to ingest my weight in sugary drinks. I watch a tiny wall mounted TV that details how airports in the north of Scotland are closing (remember that blizzard?) first the islands, then Aberdeen, then a host of tiny regional airports, then Inverness... 40 minutes pass. We are told that the problem hasn't been found, but not to worry because we will be boarding in 40 minutes. 40 minutes pass. We are told that the problem hasn't been found, but not to worry because we will be boarding in 40 minutes. 40 minutes pass. We are told that the problem hasn't been found, but not to worry because we will be boarding in 40 minutes. 40 minutes pass. We are told that the problem hasn't been found, but not to worry because we will be boarding in 40 minutes. I am not really sure how many times this happens before I try to negotiate with the well groomed man who is honest-to-god filling his nails behind the counter. Could I go on any flight up north please? I am not attached to this flight. In fact, Glasgow or Edinburgh or any tiny regional airport within 250 miles of Manchester or my actual midlothian destination would suit me just fine. I do not want to spend the night snowed in at LHR. It is not possible. My bags are already on this flight and they can't permit me to fly without them. I spend four hours waiting. Eventually a different plane is brought in from CDG (France!) and we are shoveled onto it. It smells. I smell. It is disgusting. The young asian man is not there. (I am truly sorry. I only hope you managed to get on a better flight than I did.) I do not see him again.
I arrive in Manchester, 13 hours late. I slept about an hour and a half of the last 48. My bags are not there. My bags are in Chicago. The same bags I was assured were not going to be offloaded from a plane we never wound up flying on so that I could take an earlier flight. They eventually agree to send them to Scotland when/if found. I am thankful for the changes of clothes in the massive cary on bag that I ran all over three airports with. The drive home is a blur - I am asleep. Eventually my bags are returned via courier, three days later. They have been dumped out, every item of clothing is unfolded and covered in white beach sand. One knitting needle is gone.

On my flight home, all is fine from Manchester to Chicago. My Chicago to SFO flight is fucked. They have overbooked it. I am eventually helped by a random member of airport (NOT airline) staff who notices that my bags have been mis-tagged and are not booked through to San Francisco. She fixes it. I am given a first class ticket. It is the last one available on a new flight. To Denver. The flight only stops there, before going on to San Francisco. On the plane, it is noted that I am only actually booked through to Denver. I am booted off as soon as we arrive. I am fucked. There are no people working at this airport. My checked cases are still on the plane - they are ticketed through. A true first class traveller comes to my rescue. He overheard my plight when the unhelpful stewardess booted me from the plane. He has a magic frequent flyer gold card. I am lead to some kind of secret, fancy underground lair where a woman with big, big hair berates me for changing my flight to this Denver nonsense, and eventually books me back on the same flight to San Francisco. But only if I am willing to run back to the gate.
I run. The flight has been delayed. I am eventually seated and returned home. Four hours late.
( gracielou, Sat 31 May 2008, 8:49, 1 reply)

Do you think we could have some more paragraphs?
Please please please otherwise its too much of a strain on my eyes.
(Stevie Ruggling, Sat 31 May 2008, 22:46, closed)