Manned flight? Look what happened to Icarus

I don’t fly in planes any more because of personal issues with that Joyce fellow, writes Phillip Adams. Picture: NCA NewsWire / David Geraghty

All the hullaballooning about balloons forces me to make a confession. I have invaded the airspace of two nations using this mode of transport, neither of them the USA for fear of copping a missile up one’s hot-air Khyber.

Firstly, on a few occasions in the Hunter Valley, soaring over vistas violated by coalmining while narrowly dodging power lines radiating from the belching sources of generation. Secondly, in Egypt, floating over the Nile in a dilapidated basket dangling beneath a giant bladder. Below me the ancient city of Luxor and the vast palace of Hatshepsut, who was effectively a female Pharaoh and, as you know, principal spouse of Thutmose II. Clunk as the basket hit the sands of time.

I also became briefly airborne while holding onto a giant kite on a beach in Bali, accidentally echoing the early experiments of Lawrence Hargrave in Australia in 1894. The intrepid Lawrence tied four box kites together and took to the air for a few memorable moments at Stanwell Park, south of Sydney – which is now a popular spot for hang-gliding and paragliding.

My first heavier-than-air flight occurred 70 years ago in a Tiger Moth. We took off and landed in a paddock in Albury, scattering sheep on both occasions. A little later I’d regularly go supersonic in a Concorde – an aircraft closely resembling the paper planes we tossed in the classroom. A vivid memory is how damned uncomfortable it was – tiny seats in a narrow tube. Not much comfier than the Tiger Moth. Nonetheless one marvels at the rapid evolution of aviation from the Wright brothers to the Jumbo Jet. (In WW1 pilots tossed grenades into the trenches. In WW2 we had the Luftwaffe bombing London and the Enola Gay nuking Hiroshima. What next as the Doomsday Clock approaches midnight?)

Man has always dreamt of flight, but one wonders why, writes Phillip Adams.

Man has always dreamt of flight, but one wonders why. Think of enduring long-haul trips in Economy. Look at what happened to Icarus, who lost more than his luggage. And I’ve had too many unpleasant experiences – a crash-landing at the old Essendon airport in a small seaplane, copping two lightning strikes in close proximity to my seat as the Qantas captain announced we were above the Vatican (this a few day after the publication of my heretical book Adams Versus God) and an almost fatally flawed take-off in China in the company of the polyamorous Jack Thompson and both of his lovers.

Then there was the time flying from Vienna with Barry Jones. He resisted going on board because of a premonition the plane was going to crash. BOJ spent the flight palpitating while I slept like the proverbial baby. I’ve had far more reason for panic on Soviet passenger jets run by the dreaded Aeroflot. I recall passengers coming on board clutching live chickens as hand luggage, and trying to light their samovars in the aisle.

I don’t fly in planes any more because of personal issues with that Joyce fellow. (Alan evicted me from the Chairman’s Lounge.) Having given Qantas the “Spirit of Australia” slogan I have been demanding its return and threatening to sue for breach of copyright. Instead I’m building a Hindenburg in our barn, following some instructions on YouTube. What could possibly go wrong?