Peregrinations

A wry look at the world of travel

YAnthony Peregrine ou can still, thank heavens, lose your mind when dealing with Ryanair. Let me be clear: I am Ryanair’s greatest fan. The company has eased my life immeasurably and saved me ££££s, notably in the shuttling from France to Britain and back. Ditto for family and friends. Nor do I sympathise with those who routinely claim that Ryanair treats passengers as cattle. Passengers are legion. What do they expect? A personalised welcome for one and all? (“Good day, Mr Peregrine, I have prepared a pot of tea for you in seat 26F”?)

Given the pressure they’re under, Ryanair staff generally show supernatural patience. Were I a steward, I’d be kicking customers up and down the aisle, raining oversized hand luggage on their heads. In truth, my only recent complaint about the company is that boss Michael O’Leary has stopped calling his passengers idiots. In a world of sleek corporation-speak, this brought a bracing honesty to the business of travel. The new niceness feels wrong.

Conceive of my delight, then, when, last week and after 25 minutes on the Ryanair website, I was taking leave of my senses, crushing pens and screaming: “Just give me a frigging telephone number!” For a moment or two, at least, Ryanair matters were back on their time-honoured track. The facts: my flight had been changed from 13h20 to the less convenient hour of 06h30. I couldn’t make it, and needed to change not only the flight but also the destination airport. You don’t seem to be able to do that under the “Manage My Booking” heading on the website. You must contact the “Contact Centre”. Fine. Click on “Contact Centre” and do you get the relevant telephone number?

You do not. You get a whole list of options – claims for flight disruption, how to access forms to pay Ryanair compliments (sic) – that you do not want. You really do not want. You click back and forth, up and down – “Name change”, “Inflight Sales”, “Pregnancy” – and rapidly acquire the conviction that your whole life is being ripped apart by evil forces who order you to contact a “Contact Centre” but refuse to reveal where the centre might be. I swore so loudly that the neighbour rushed around with lasagne. (It’s her response to all crises.)

Long story short: I went temporarily insane (“Lasagne?!”), was slapped hard and sobbed: “This takes me back to the great days of budget air travel, circa 2008.” Then I noticed a “chat support” option. I clicked. Soon enough “Csilla” replied and had the problem sorted in minutes. The anguish had been quite unnecessary. It had, though, been honouring low-cost travel traditions. In ditching these, we have lost something of value. The opportunity for grown men to weep and swear really loudly springs to mind.