Celebrity air ste­ward re­veals his A-List en­coun­ters at 35,000 feet!

VIZ - - News - As told to Vaginia Dis­charge

IF you passed 63-year-old SELWYN GASFORTH in the street, you prob­a­bly wouldn’t give him a sec­ond glance. You’d cer­tainly never sus­pect that the unas­sum­ing, be­spec­ta­cled fa­ther-of-nine had spent the last ten years get­ting up close and per­sonal with Hollywood’s most fa­mous celebs. But, in­cred­i­ble as it seems– he has!

For Ket­ter­ing-born Selwyn has spent the past decade criss-cross­ing the globe as a flight at­ten­dant for a well-known bud­get air­line – who he prefers not to name as he is cur­rently pur­su­ing them through the courts fol­low­ing his re­cent sum­mary dis­missal. Dur­ing his time on the job, the thrice-di­vorced bach­e­lor reg­u­larly found him­self face to face with the cream of the glam­orous Tin­sel­town jet set. And now he’s ready to spill the beans about all the A-lis­ters he met at 35,000 feet. “I’ve lost count of the megas­tars I’ve served up there in the big blue yon­der,” he chuck­les. “If I told you some of the huge names to whom I’d flogged over­priced sand­wiches or pointed out the emer­gency ex­its, you’d ac­cuse me of mak­ing it up.” Now, to cel­e­brate his ca­reer in the sky – which came to an abrupt end last week fol­low­ing ac­cu­sa­tions of in­de­cent ex­po­sure and in-flight drink­ing which he hotly re­futes – Gasforth has re­leased a star-stud­ded, no-holds-barred au­to­bi­og­ra­phy en­ti­tled Cabin Pres­sure: My Life

As An A-List Air Ste­ward. In these siz­zling ex­tracts from the book, he lays bare the cra­zi­est, most un­be­liev­able sto­ries from his daz­zling decade of top-level flight at­tend­ing. And big-hearted Selwyn told us: “Ev­ery last penny I make from this book is go­ing to char­ity. If there’s any left over af­ter I’ve given it all to char­ity, I’ll use it to pay for my forth­com­ing wrong­ful dis­missal tri­bunal and per­haps a hol­i­day if there’s any left over af­ter that.”


Selwyn had his first celebrity en­counter on his very first flight – a quick hop from Lon­don Stansted to Glas­gow. Dur­ing his pre-flight safety demon­stra­tion, as he pointed out the exit lights and demon­strated how to blow into the whis­tle thing on the life jacket, he spot­ted a fa­mous face among the plane’s pas­sen­gers – none other than out­spo­ken godless bof­fin PRO­FES­SOR RICHARD DAWKINS.

Once the plane took off, I started down the aisle with my trol­ley, dish­ing out re­fresh­ments. As I passed Dawkins’s seat, I over­heard him dron­ing on at the woman squashed in next to him about the ‘mir­a­cle’ of air travel, which he said rep­re­sented man’s Dar­winian sci­en­tific prow­ess and was con­clu­sive proof for the non-ex­is­tence of God. The pro­fes­sor stopped me and asked for a gin and tonic. Just as I handed him the tiny plas­tic glass and took his £14.50, the plane hit a small pocket of tur­bu­lence. The pi­lot got straight on the in­ter­com and asked the pas­sen­gers to re­main seated with their seat­belts fas­tened and I quickly nipped back down the aisle to make sure ev­ery­one was fol­low­ing or­ders. Sud­denly, I heard a fran­tic, muf­fled whis­per­ing com­ing from the mid­dle of the plane. I couldn’t be­lieve it: it was Pro­fes­sor Dawkins – the sup­pos­edly ‘godless’ fire­brand with his eyes clamped tightly shut and his palms pressed to­gether. He was quite lit­er­ally pray­ing for his sur­vival. ‘Oh, please Almighty God who art in Heaven’, Dawkins hissed. ‘Hal­lowed be thy name. Please, O Lord and Saviour, see me through this time of trou­ble. If Thou lettest me sur­vive this, O Mighty God, I prom­ise to be­lieve in thy majesty for ev­er­more and pray to thou ev­ery day and go to church on Sun­days and ev­ery­thing. For thine is the king­dom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.’ At that ex­act mo­ment, the tur­bu­lence ended and the cap­tain switched off the seat­belt sign. Dawkins mo­tioned me over and sheep­ishly asked for some nap­kins. ‘I’m afraid I ap­pear to of spilled my G&T in my lap,’ he ex­plained, mo­tion­ing to a rapidly spread­ing wet patch in the crotch of his beige slacks. I had to smile, be­cause I’ve had a few of those gin minia­tures in the gal­ley and be­lieve you me, there’s not enough liq­uid in one of them bot­tles to make a stain that big.

I would never tell a soul that he had pissed his­self. And, what’s more, I never will.

Now, us air ste­wards are like doc­tors: we take a solemn oath when we sign up that what hap­pens at 35,000 feet stays at 35,000 feet. As I handed him his servi­ette and took his fiver, I re­as­sured the red-faced ‘athe­ist’ that his se­cret was safe with me: I would never tell a soul that he had pissed his­self. And, what’s more, I never will.


Cabin pres­sure can get to any­one. And one per­son who blew a gas­ket at al­ti­tude was It’s All About the Ben­jamins rap­per P DIDDY, whose bout of air rage at 35,000 feet left his fel­low pas­sen­gers – and Selwyn – shocked.

It was a short com­muter flight from Robin Hood Air­port, Don­caster, to Teesside. I’d been suf­fer­ing from a sore throat and had just nipped be­hind the gal­ley cur­tain for a few ther­a­peu­tic whisky minia­tures off the trol­ley when the at­ten­dant call light lit up. I was be­ing sum­moned by the pas­sen­ger in seat 14B. I popped a Smint in and went to see what the trou­ble was. When I got there, I was amazed to find Bad Boy For Life rap­per P Diddy squashed into the mid­dle seat of a row. I recog­nised him im­me­di­ately from his trade­mark Ver­sace shades, mink fur coat and di­a­mond topped cane. He’d just bought a tiny can of Cola and was turn­ing the air blue over the con­tents of his com­ple­men­tary bag of peanuts. ‘There’s only five mutha­fuckas in this mutha­fuckin’ bag of peanuts, cock­sucker,’ he was scream­ing. ‘Get me an­other mutha­fuckin’ bag, mutha­fucka, or I’ll pop a cap in your mutha­fuckin’ pussy ass.’ The two old ladies crammed in on ei­ther side of him didn’t know where to look as the foul-mouthed rap­per’s four-let­ter tirade con­tin­ued. I ex­plained to him that mar­gins were tight and it was strictly one bag per pas­sen­ger. ‘The air­line can only of­fer such low fares and re­main com­pet­i­tive in the crowded sub-bud­get air­line mar­ket­place by keep­ing costs to an ab­so­lute min­i­mum,’ I told him. Sud­denly, his en­tourage – who were squashed be­tween some back­pack­ers and a hen party in the row be­hind, joined in. ‘Fuck you, ass­hole! You heard Mr Diddy, cock­sucker,’ screamed his man­ager. Then one of his body­guards reached over and grabbed me by the lapels of my bright or­ange fleece gilet and pulled me over. ‘Get the man an­other mutha­fuckin’ bag of nuts, cock­sucker, or you’re dead,’ he hissed into my face. I could feel that the sit­u­a­tion was rapidly get­ting out of con­trol. What’s more, as the only ste­ward on board, I was go­ing to have to sort it out my­self be­fore I ended up with a full­blown gangsta riot on my hands… at 35,000 feet! Think­ing quickly, I made a grab for the in­ter­com. ‘Are there any pas­sen­gers on the flight with a peanut al­lergy? Please make your­selves known to the cabin crew,’ I an­nounced. For­tu­nately, there were three on­board, and I was able to col­lect their bags of peanuts and give them to the irate

Shake Your Tail­feather star. Luck­ily, this seemed to calm Diddy and his hang­ers-on down a bit, and the rest of the 20-minute flight passed with­out a hitch.

I was go­ing to have to sort it out my­self be­fore I ended up with a full­blown gangsta riot on my hands… at 35,000 feet!


In the good old days of air travel, small chil­dren were of­ten in­vited up to the cock­pit to see the pi­lots at the con­trols, but sadly those times are long gone. Nowa­days ev­ery­one knows that the flight deck is strictly out of bounds to any­one who isn’t of­fi­cial flight crew. But amaz­ingly, this fact seemed to be news to one fa­mous pas­sen­ger – BBC an­chor­man HUW ED­WARDS.

I was wel­com­ing pas­sen­gers on­board a Mon­day morn­ing flight from New­cas­tle to Lu­ton air­port. This route is typ­i­cally pretty hairy, as you get stag par­ties re­turn­ing home af­ter a week­end’s solid booz­ing on Ty­ne­side’s no­to­ri­ous Bigg Mar­ket. And this oc­ca­sion was no dif­fer­ent: as I stood at the plane’s en­trance, I heard rau­cous shouts and cheers ring­ing through the tun­nel. As they came into view I was amazed to see who was mak­ing such an un­couth racket – it was a gang of the BBC’s most re­spected news­read­ers. It turned out that it was Ni­cholas Witchell’s stag-party, and all his mates from the BBC news depart­ment were there; Ed­die Mair, Clive Myrie, Jon Humphrys, Ni­cholas Owen and John Sopel – all of them and more bus­tled past me, dressed in Hawai­ian shirts and Ber­muda shorts, stink­ing of booze, ke­babs and stale Lynx body spray. Ni­cholas Witchell brought up the rear, look­ing very much the worse for wear in a tra­di­tional stag night Lit­tle Bo Peep cos­tume with a ball and chain round his an­kle. They were a lively bunch of lads, all right – but thank­fully, af­ter a light-hearted-but-firm word from the cap­tain, they set­tled down quickly for the short half-hour flight. Well, all ex­cept one... As soon as the seat­belt signs went off, sil­vered-haired news­reader Huw Ed­wards dragged him­self un­steadily to his feet and started stag­ger­ing up the aisle to­wards the front of the plane. I thought he was look­ing for the bogs, so I told him they were at the back end, but in­stead he pushed past me, ex­plain­ing that he wanted to go and see the cap­tain. ‘He’s go­ing to fly us all to Wales,’ he slurred. ‘I’m tak­ing ev­ery­one to Glam­or­gan for a nice drink. The beers are on me.’ Al­though Ed­wards was quite good-na­tured to be­gin with, he be­gan to get more ag­i­tated and ag­gres­sive as I tried to steer him back to­wards his seat. ‘Get your hands off me, we’re go­ing to Wales,’ he shouted as he shoul­der barged me out of the way. ‘Let me see the cap­tain, you bas­tard.’ A rogue pas­sen­ger can spell dis­as­ter on a flight; I knew I had to neu­tralise Ed­wards, and quick. I was just about to ad­min­is­ter the se­cret neck pinch that all air­line ste­wards are taught at cabin crew col­lege when I felt a tap on my shoul­der. It was Ge­orge Ala­ga­iah, who could clearly hold his drink a bit bet­ter than his Welsh col­league. ’Sorry about Taffy, he’s had a few too many,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look af­ter him. No hard feel­ings, eh? Let me buy you a drink,’ Ala­ga­iah of­fered, as Si­mon McCoy, Quentin Somerville and Damien Gram­mat­i­cas man­han­dled a now maudlin Ed­wards back to his seat. ‘I just wanted ev­ery­one to come to Brid­gend for a nice pint at the Llangewydd Arms,’ he was sob­bing. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I was a lit­tle shaken by my ex­pe­ri­ence, so I took up Ala­ga­iah’s gen­er­ous of­fer. ‘That’ll be £29 please,’ I said as I swiftly downed a cou­ple of ther­a­peu­tic whisky minia­tures to calm my nerves and popped a TicTac into my mouth. I must say I had to chuckle when I turned on the Six O’Clock News later that evening to see Huw Ed­wards’s trade­mark steely frown star­ing back at me as he read out the lat­est Trea­sury fig­ures. The poor twat must have been nurs­ing the mother of all hang­overs!


Gasforth will never for­get the events of the dis­as­trous flight that was to be his last as a jet set em­ployee of the bud­get air­line. And amaz­ingly, he lays the blame for his tragic down­fall squarely at the feet of US pop vixen TAY­LOR SWIFT.

The route was pretty stan­dard – Leeds Brad­ford to East Mid­lands – but I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw the glam­orous

Shake It Off singer sat in the back row of econ­omy, right next to the bog. With all her mil­lions, she could surely of af­forded her own pri­vate jet to get from Yeadon to Not­ting­ham, so what on Earth she was do­ing in the cheap­est of cheap seats on a low-bud­get air­line, I’ll never know. But such mus­ings were none of my busi­ness; I’m an air ste­ward first and a mu­sic fan sec­ond, so I re­mained ut­terly pro­fes­sional and sim­ply handed Tay­lor the four gin and ton­ics she or­dered, charg­ing the £58 to her gold Amex card us­ing the ma­chine on the trol­ley. While I was down the arse end of the plane, I de­cided to nip into the toi­let to an­swer a call of na­ture. I hadn’t been in there more than about five or ten min­utes or so when there was a knock on the cu­bi­cle door. I opened it and Swift’s per­fectly coiffed blonde head ap­peared. ‘Ex­cuse me,’ she purred. ‘Can you tell me how I go about join­ing the Mile High Club?’ I could smell the thick end of sixty quid’s worth of gin on her breath. Now, Tay­lor has been linked to some of the planet’s hottest hunks – from Harry Styles to Calvin Har­ris – so I’d be ly­ing if I said I wasn’t flat­tered by her at­ten­tion. But I’m cabin crew first and a red-blooded male sec­ond, and I made it clear to the nu­bile megas­tar that I sim­ply wasn’t in­ter­ested. How­ever, Ms Swift was clearly not used to tak­ing ‘no’ for an an­swer. She grabbed me by my neon or­ange waist­coat and pushed me back into the cu­bi­cle. I’m too much of a gen­tle­man to re­count what she started to do to me next. How­ever, the A-List icon had for­got­ten to lock the door, and it was promptly opened by an­other pas­sen­ger, catch­ing me and the Look

What You Made Me Do singer in fra­grante delicto, with her pulling me off. The pas­sen­ger screamed and there was a right old ker­fuf­fle as ac­cu­sa­tions and counter-ac­cu­sa­tions flew around the cabin. To cut a long story short, af­ter land­ing we were both marched off the plane and ques­tioned. Swift’s hot­shot lawyer ran rings around East Mid­lands Trans­port Po­lice, spin­ning them a lit­er­ally in­cred­i­ble web of lies about how she had walked in­no­cently into the un­locked cu­bi­cle to find me plea­sur­ing my­self sur­rounded by four empty gin minia­tures. Even more in­cred­i­bly, she also claimed that she wasn’t even Tay­lor Swift – a ‘fact’ that was backed up by a false pass­port that re­vealed her to be a 48-year-old of­fice ad­min­is­tra­tor from Sal­ford. My em­ploy­ers and the po­lice sim­ply wouldn’t lis­ten to rea­son. My line man­ager turned up and I was handed my P45 right there and then. My whole life has been turned up­side down and I’m now on the Sex Of­fend­ers Reg­is­ter, but I know one thing for sure; if I ever board a plane again, it’ll be too soon. I just want to put these last ten years of my life be­hind me and never think about them again.

NEXT WEEK: Selwyn fondly re­calls the flight from Cardiff to Aberdeen on which he had full sex­ual in­ter­course with all five Kar­dashian sis­ters who had drunk the trol­ley dry.

‘He’s go­ing to fly us all to Wales,’ he slurred. ‘I’m tak­ing ev­ery­one to Glam­or­gan for a nice drink. The beers are on me.’ ‘Ex­cuse me,’ she purred. ‘Can you tell me how I go about join­ing the Mile High Club?’

TOUCH DOWN AND OUT: Gasforth be­lieves he lost his job as a flight at­ten­dant on well­known air­line due to star pas­sen­gers’ hi-jinx.

PUFF OF AIR: P Diddy’s mid-flight flare-up was de­fused by Gasforth’s quick-think­ing.

P-NUTTY: Diddy’s flew off his nut at snack packet’s mea­gre con­tents.

PLANE SPEAK­ING: Selwyn’s high-fly­ing life was brought down to earth af­ter fa­mous fliers’ fits led to his dis­missal.

PRE­PARE FOR TAKE-PROF!: Dawkins prayed for steady flight.

TAY­LOR MADE: Su­per­star Swift shook Selwyn up.

HUW’S A NAUGHTY BOY?: Unsteady Ed­wards caused in-flight panic.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from UK

© PressReader. All rights reserved.