Yo, Adrian!
I don't know what's harder - flying Air India economy with food poisoning so severe it could bring a grown man to his knees, or trying to take down Ivan Drago. Both involve an outrageous amount of inner turmoil, self doubt, unprompted kick offs at least once every 20 minutes, overbearing sweat and an unexpectedly shocking amount of raw egg I didn't ask to see. Everyone always says "it's the journey, not the destination", but in this case I'm not convinced I agree. The destination in question in this short tale was Birmingham airport after two weeks of causing mischief in India for the first time, and I fought through absolute fucking hell to get there.
So there I was, one of the tens of thousands of passengers having a really bad day at Delhi International Airport. Giving myself a pep talk and shaking like a leaf, I boarded what I can only describe as my own personal hell with wings for 8 hours in the sky. No air conditioning, no hope, just a woman and her will to survive. I wedged myself into a broken seat that kept coming loose and genuinely prayed that its sudden movement wouldn't make me shit myself. If you've never flown with these bad boys, I prompt you now if you dare to peek at some reviews on line. Just like Drago, Air India chose violence. 86% of their reviews are one stars, and I've taken the liberty of saving some of my favourites to share with you:
I'd accepted my fate. This was happening. There was no way out of this if I was to survive. I did my big girl breathing and forced myself to concentrate on something other than the impending sense of death creeping up on me, and the unidentifiable drops of liquid that kept hitting me on the head (and sometimes in my right eye as a cold treat). It wasn't antibiotics that got me through that flight, my friend. It was a unadvisable amount of Indian whisky and two men I will always hold dear in my heart. First, a meek Indian gentleman who swapped seats with me so I could have a working telly (The wifi signal on that flight may have been dead, chivalry certainly was not). The second? The Italian Stallion himself.
Mr Rocky Balboa.
Let's get in to it.
Look, for someone who has already talked a lot of shit about Air India, I'll give them credit where credit due - if you manage to get an entertainment system that works on one of their flights, it is pre loaded with the ALL of the Rocky films. Before that cursed flight took off I thought Rocky was just a film about boxing. I couldn't have been more wrong.
The Rocky franchise is noted on many prestigious lists, and I admit I was late to the party. I can now only insist that I fully understand the hype. Time Out ranked the first Rocky film as number one their list of the "50 Best Sports Movies of All Time". I rank it number one as getting you through the worst flight ever imaginable.
It was around the second film that that the man who let me use his entertaintment system regretted his choice. I'm not sure if it was because the whiskey started taking the lead when it came dancing to the absolute bangers that make up the rocky soundtracks, or the inconsolable banshee-esque crying I did on his shoulder when the coach died. I may or may not have asked him to hug me. May or may not have had a go on my emergency vape in the clogged toilet to take the edge off what had turned into a cinematic rollercoaster. The cherry on top of this pain soaked rigmarole was turbulence deciding to show up, just as wee Mickey the coach gave our main man A pep talk. It was perfect. Mother nature was there, rooting for me and Stallone together.
As the both the plane and my temperature started to go down, so did Drago. I did it. Rocky did it. The now petrified (and quite frankly traumatised) gentleman next to me did it. We all did it. I legged it to immigration like Stalone ran up those steps in the first one. Whilst boxing glory didn't await me, a smoking area and a cold bottle of water did.
I'll be praying for you if I'm the type of person you come to wisdom for - but I will tell you this: the next time you're fighting for your life before a bumpy flight with a cheap airline, you'd be wise to blast 'The Eye of the Tiger' in your headphones as the seatbelt sign goes on. Book your flights with joy and a sense of adventure, and book as many as you can, as frequently as you can - in the words of our darling Apollo Creed, there is no tomorrow.
Thank you Mr Stallone, I owe you one. By the time your next film comes out, I hope to be watching it in buisness class.
x