Next morning the reliable shuttle bus arrived to take me back to the airport for the first of three flights that would take me back to Alice Springs and then on to Auckland via Melbourne. I envisaged a rather dull and tiring day ahead, but Australia had a surprise farewell gift for me.
Checking in for my flight to Alice I couldn’t help but notice a huge pile of luggage and equipment piled up in front of one of the check-in desks. At the heart of the pile there were large film cameras and a guitar case. The heap appeared to belong to a group of six blokes who were hovering nearby and engaged in animated conversation with each other. Was I in the presence of a rock band? I quickly tried to think of all the Aussie bands I knew. Men at Work and INXS were the only two that came to mind and they would surely all be much older than the six pack before me.
On closer inspection I discerned that the group could be divided in two. There were a couple of older, average looking guys, who I took to be some sort of crew, and four young, fit, good looking blokes. ‘The talent’, as they seem to say in showbiz circles.
It was one of those rare occasions when my plea for extra leg room for my 6 feet 3 inch frame was accepted and I got a row of three seats next to the exit over the wing all to myself. On the opposite side of the aisle, occupying the equally capacious seats and the row in front of them were the six amigos.
Their spirits were very high as they laughed heartily to the succession of one-liners they threw at each other. As the banter continued, so the division between crew and talent became more distinct. At the heart of it all was the guy sat in the aisle seat just across from me. He was incredibly good looking, like the sort of prat you see in magazine adverts for expensive aftershave. Except this bloke wasn’t a prat at all. He seemed to be very jovial and pleasant, the others clearly deferring to him and calling him ‘Robbo’.
As soon as the plane was in the air and the seatbelt sign was switched off there was a mad rush by the all female cabin crew to attend to the every need of our on-board celebrities. A giggly but gorgeous blond girl stood with her back to me as she poured herself over Robbo. Leaning in as close to her bum as I dare, I strained to hear the conversation.
‘Been on holiday?’ said the stewardess.
‘No. Working,’ said Robbo, in a smooth Australian accent.
‘Working?’ she echoed back to him. This was good. The attractive young lady was conducting an interview for me. I wanted to reach for my notepad but that would have been a bit obvious so I pretended to listen to my iPod instead.
‘We’ve been doing an ad for the Tourist Board,’ said Robbo obligingly. ‘Last year it was Melbourne and this year it was Ayer’s Rock Resort.’
‘Was it good?’
‘It was great, apart from all the bloody flies!’ interjected one of Robbo’s mates to all round laughter.
For the rest of the short flight the young men, and Robbo in particular, received an inordinate amount of attention from the cabin crew. It was a frustrating journey for me as the noise of the engines and my failing hearing prevented me from catching anything other than snippets of conversation. I still had no idea who these guys were. Leaning across and saying: ‘Excuse me, but who the hell are you?’ seemed a bit rude. What would Bill Bryson do in this situation?
As the flight neared its end and the coffee cups and empty peanut packets were all stowed away, all three of the female cabin crew gathered in the aisle next to me in a frenzy of flirting and autograph signing. Maybe the odd phone number changed hands too.
Time was running out. Managing to get the attention of the star-struck blond girl for a few seconds, I quietly asked her who these guys were.
‘They’re footie stars. They play for Melbourne.’
A second later and I was facing her bum once more. But no matter, I had the information I wanted and an idea began to form.
As the aircraft made its decent the cabin crew reluctantly peeled themselves away from their heroes and returned to their seats. I leaned across the aisle and spoke to Robbo.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, in a very English manner. ‘I wonder if I could make a very strange request?’ Robbo looked quizzical as I pointed to the overhead locker.
‘In my bag I have a gnome. He’s dressed in my football team’s colours. Would you mind having your photograph taken with him?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ said the obliging Robbo. ‘What team is it?’
‘Hull City, English Premier League. We’re second from bottom.’
‘No worries.’ I couldn’t tell from his expression whether Robbo had ever heard of Hull City. I suspect not.
Once the plane was on the ground there was a final rush by the cabin crew to obtain autographs and pictures while I slid out quietly and got myself ready outside. I took my camera and the fragile Wainwright out of my padded backpack and waited. A minute or so later Robbo clambered down the steps from the aircraft and broke into a huge grin as he spotted Wainwright.
Clearly used to media attention, Robbo was an absolute pro. He held Wainwright aloft, posing and smiling for the camera. Robbo, it turned out was one Russell Robertson, a 31 year old retired Australian Rules footballer. He admitted to not knowing much about English football but said he hoped to come to London and see Chelsea play.
Later, when I had the chance to search the internet, I discovered that Robbo was one of Melbourne’s greatest goal kickers of all time. Not surprisingly, his personality and good looks had led to TV work and modelling. After singing on an Australian TV show he has even brought out his own album, Higher. To me he was a top bloke who couldn’t have been nicer when faced with a very unusual request from a mad pom..
Checking in for my flight to Alice I couldn’t help but notice a huge pile of luggage and equipment piled up in front of one of the check-in desks. At the heart of the pile there were large film cameras and a guitar case. The heap appeared to belong to a group of six blokes who were hovering nearby and engaged in animated conversation with each other. Was I in the presence of a rock band? I quickly tried to think of all the Aussie bands I knew. Men at Work and INXS were the only two that came to mind and they would surely all be much older than the six pack before me.
On closer inspection I discerned that the group could be divided in two. There were a couple of older, average looking guys, who I took to be some sort of crew, and four young, fit, good looking blokes. ‘The talent’, as they seem to say in showbiz circles.
It was one of those rare occasions when my plea for extra leg room for my 6 feet 3 inch frame was accepted and I got a row of three seats next to the exit over the wing all to myself. On the opposite side of the aisle, occupying the equally capacious seats and the row in front of them were the six amigos.
Their spirits were very high as they laughed heartily to the succession of one-liners they threw at each other. As the banter continued, so the division between crew and talent became more distinct. At the heart of it all was the guy sat in the aisle seat just across from me. He was incredibly good looking, like the sort of prat you see in magazine adverts for expensive aftershave. Except this bloke wasn’t a prat at all. He seemed to be very jovial and pleasant, the others clearly deferring to him and calling him ‘Robbo’.
As soon as the plane was in the air and the seatbelt sign was switched off there was a mad rush by the all female cabin crew to attend to the every need of our on-board celebrities. A giggly but gorgeous blond girl stood with her back to me as she poured herself over Robbo. Leaning in as close to her bum as I dare, I strained to hear the conversation.
‘Been on holiday?’ said the stewardess.
‘No. Working,’ said Robbo, in a smooth Australian accent.
‘Working?’ she echoed back to him. This was good. The attractive young lady was conducting an interview for me. I wanted to reach for my notepad but that would have been a bit obvious so I pretended to listen to my iPod instead.
‘We’ve been doing an ad for the Tourist Board,’ said Robbo obligingly. ‘Last year it was Melbourne and this year it was Ayer’s Rock Resort.’
‘Was it good?’
‘It was great, apart from all the bloody flies!’ interjected one of Robbo’s mates to all round laughter.
For the rest of the short flight the young men, and Robbo in particular, received an inordinate amount of attention from the cabin crew. It was a frustrating journey for me as the noise of the engines and my failing hearing prevented me from catching anything other than snippets of conversation. I still had no idea who these guys were. Leaning across and saying: ‘Excuse me, but who the hell are you?’ seemed a bit rude. What would Bill Bryson do in this situation?
As the flight neared its end and the coffee cups and empty peanut packets were all stowed away, all three of the female cabin crew gathered in the aisle next to me in a frenzy of flirting and autograph signing. Maybe the odd phone number changed hands too.
Time was running out. Managing to get the attention of the star-struck blond girl for a few seconds, I quietly asked her who these guys were.
‘They’re footie stars. They play for Melbourne.’
A second later and I was facing her bum once more. But no matter, I had the information I wanted and an idea began to form.
As the aircraft made its decent the cabin crew reluctantly peeled themselves away from their heroes and returned to their seats. I leaned across the aisle and spoke to Robbo.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, in a very English manner. ‘I wonder if I could make a very strange request?’ Robbo looked quizzical as I pointed to the overhead locker.
‘In my bag I have a gnome. He’s dressed in my football team’s colours. Would you mind having your photograph taken with him?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ said the obliging Robbo. ‘What team is it?’
‘Hull City, English Premier League. We’re second from bottom.’
‘No worries.’ I couldn’t tell from his expression whether Robbo had ever heard of Hull City. I suspect not.
Once the plane was on the ground there was a final rush by the cabin crew to obtain autographs and pictures while I slid out quietly and got myself ready outside. I took my camera and the fragile Wainwright out of my padded backpack and waited. A minute or so later Robbo clambered down the steps from the aircraft and broke into a huge grin as he spotted Wainwright.
Clearly used to media attention, Robbo was an absolute pro. He held Wainwright aloft, posing and smiling for the camera. Robbo, it turned out was one Russell Robertson, a 31 year old retired Australian Rules footballer. He admitted to not knowing much about English football but said he hoped to come to London and see Chelsea play.
Later, when I had the chance to search the internet, I discovered that Robbo was one of Melbourne’s greatest goal kickers of all time. Not surprisingly, his personality and good looks had led to TV work and modelling. After singing on an Australian TV show he has even brought out his own album, Higher. To me he was a top bloke who couldn’t have been nicer when faced with a very unusual request from a mad pom..
'mad pom', lol
ReplyDeleteRegards - hope you're well
RLS