In Ireland for Irecon, part 2

Originally published October 20, 1995, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1144

Concluding my trip to the Emerald Isle…

Sunday, September 17: In reading the newspapers, I’m fascinated by the hot topics of debate in Ireland.

For instance, there is intense discussion over an amendment to the Irish constitution. While in America we have heated debates over a woman’s right to an abortion, in Ireland what’s being argued is the concept of amendment the constitution so that people have the right to get a divorce. Yes, that’s right: in Ireland the constitution specifically forbids divorce.

People against the amendment argue that it will destroy the underpinnings of Irish society. That allowing divorce is tantamount to encouraging divorce. Encouraging people to walk away from marriages rather than try and work through difficulties, and that the fabric of society will unravel (kind of like in the United States, I guess) if this amendment is allowed to pass.

Proponents say that passing the amendment will simply give a legal acknowledgment to that which already exists. Families live apart, with both parents unable to move on from bad relationships because they’re still legally tied to their separated spouses. Family units exist in limbo: Unable to go forward, unable to go back.

That will only be slightly mollified by the amendment. In order to qualify for divorce, the unhappy couple would have to live in separate domiciles for four years. So let’s say you’re married for a year and you realize it was a hideous mistake. You’re still tied to the person for four times the length of the marriage in order to get rid of him. To say nothing of—for instance—a wife trying to get away from an abusive spouse.

Sounds like a wonderful situation.

In other news, there’s some local ire over an incident wherein, at 4 AM an ambulance at a hospital five minutes away from a circus took nearly half an hour to respond to a call. The nature of the call: A guy had his arms ripped off by a tiger.

Now… I feel badly for the guy. It would be inhuman not to.  But consider: This guy, described as an animal lover, took it into his head that he wanted to pet a tiger. So at 4 AM he trespassed onto circus grounds, climbed over a barricade surrounding the cage, climbed over a second such barricade, and stuck his arms into the tiger cage. Whereupon the irritated cat, sensing a threat to his territory, responded with brutal force.

The point is, my sympathy only goes so far. What did he think was going to happen when he trespassed on the animal’s territory at 4 AM?

When the hospital was contacted, apparently the dispatchers thought it was a joke. Quick, come to the circus, a guy tried to pet the tiger and got his arms ripped out. They figured that somebody was (you should pardon the expression) pulling their leg. Who in hëll would be that freakin’ stupid?

If this happened in the states, the guy would probably be calling a lawyer right now (although someone else would likely be dialing) preparing to sue the circus for not taking sufficient preventative steps.

Two barriers weren’t enough; they should have been electrified. Perhaps sentry sites with machine gun turrets could have prevented a misguided animal lover from committing a potentially suicidal act.

There might also be discussion about killing the tiger. Well, seems to me the tiger had more brains. You don’t see the tiger climbing out of the cage, walking out onto a highway and staring down an approaching truck saying, “Take your best shot, sucker!”

Ah well.

The convention is more lightly attended than the previous day, which is not great since it was underattended on Saturday.

Fionnula Flanagan proves to be a no-show. Not only am I disappointed, but Robert and I wind up doing the charity auction. It’s a small crowd, which doesn’t bode well.

But we play aggressively off each other, milking the audience for all it’s worth, and we manage to drum up over a thousand pounds for the charity.

Of particular note is a young group of guys who are going to be putting on a Babylon 5 convention called “Jumpgate,” as they put their heads together to bid on various items.

There are three young ladies seated behind them, who I take to be their girlfriends. The dynamics are interesting to watch; their pride is on the line with every bid. They do snag a Babylon 5 script, but when they lose out on a signed Deep Space 9 bid they get an ovation from the sympathetic crowd anyway in admiration of their public-spiritedness.

Considering the money raised is more than was raised last year, and with a smaller number of people, we take a certain degree of pride. But it’s a two hour auction, and by the end of it we’re both beat. I keep waiting for Fionnula Flanagan to come running down the aisle, shouting, “Okay, I’m here, I’m here! We can start now!”

But she never does.

On the other hand, the convention wasn’t paying for her to come out, so I guess you get what you pay for.

Monday, September 18: I’ve called Aer Lingus and they have at least four seats available in Premiere class, so I should have no problem getting the promised upgrade seat going back. Just to play it safe, I put on my other dress shirt and my lucky necktie, along with my sporty vest. As I enter the lobby, the desk clerk manages to hold her adoration in check. Strong-willed people, these Irish folks.

At the airport, boarding is scheduled at 1:10 for the 1:35 flight. The Aer Lingus rep tells me that I have to check back at 1:10 about the upgrade. I’m confident, however. I’ve called down to reservations and the four seats are still there. It seems unlikely that they’ll all vanish at this late date. Anny Wise, the convention organizer, is confident as well. There seems no reason for her to hang around, so she wishes me a good trip and leaves.

I come back at 1:10, as requested. The Aer Lingus rep, who had been polite when Anny was around, is now brusque. Sorry. They can’t seat me in Premiere.

“The seats are there,” I point out.

“We don’t have catering set ups for them,” he tells me.

“No problem,” I say. “I won’t eat.”

“No, we can’t do that.”

“Okay, I’ll eat the food from coach. I don’t care.” I just want to sit in the more comfortable seat, wherein I’ve got elbow room, I can open up my computer and work. And, bottom line, I have mild claustrophobia. Not to the degree that I have panic attacks, but enough that I try to avoid being closed in if I can help it.

“No, we can’t do that,” says the Aer Lingus rep… the rep of the airline who talked the convention into using them because they guaranteed first class treatment all the way. “It’s either all or nothing.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say. I’m standing there arguing and meantime I haven’t cleared customs, haven’t gone through security… nothing, because the desk is outside that area. I’m suddenly in danger of missing my flight. “You’re saying that it’s more important for Aer Lingus to upset a passenger than to provide a promised seat.”

“We can’t give you a seat in Premiere. It’s our policy.”

“What is the big deal with the catering? Come on. Look, I’m wearing a nice shirt and tie; I’m not in violation of the dress code…”

His eyes narrow. I’ve hit it. “Well, sir,” he says brusquely, “you’re expected to wear dress pants, dress shoes and a jacket.”

Not that anyone at Aer Lingus, when they were busy making promises, told me that. It’s incredible. Whose benefit is this for? The passengers? They’re going to be busy looking at their reading material, or out the window, or at the movie. They’re not going to be looking at me.

The Aer Lingus rep stubbornly won’t budge. The success or failure of Premiere Class service apparently hinges on the concept that someone wearing jeans and sneakers must be kept out of a promised seat.

I start to argue more, and then check the time. I’m going to miss the flight.

I wind up in coach.

In cramped quarters, I make it a policy not to tilt my seat back, in order to provide the person behind me with as much space as possible. The guy seated in front of me doesn’t have the same policy. He promptly puts his seat all the way back so that he’s in my lap… and then goes to sleep for the entirely of the six and a half hour flight. I feel like I’m in the command module of Apollo 13.

I figure I’ll try to go to sleep too. This is thwarted by the guy behind me who gets up every half hour, like clockwork, to go to the bathroom. He rises from his seat by the expedient of grabbing the headrest of my seat and using it to haul himself to his feet. Every time I start to doze we hit another half hour, and my head snaps back as he yanks himself up. A couple of times he manages to snag my hair and pull it for added fun.

I only ever hear him utter one word the entire trip. It’s after we’ve arrived, as we’re waiting for them to link up the jetway to exit. He’s standing behind me; I’m still seated. I sneeze. Even though I’ve covered my mouth, he yells, “Germs!” And then he coughs. I feel the spray from his cough splattering on my head.

I love coach. I’d’ve been just as well off boxing myself up and shipping myself FedEx.

So if anyone reading this is ever invited to a convention in Ireland and is being guaranteed Premiere Class seats on Aer Lingus, be aware of two things: (1) Their promises mean nothing, and (2) dress is anything but casual.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He thinks O.J. did it. Then again, O.J. would’ve gotten a Premiere seat.)