It was just another day on the Toronto Pearson Airport tarmac — bags being tossed like Olympic shot put, radio chatter louder than a Bingo hall on half-price pierogi night, and two ramp legends doing what they do best: standing around pretending to “supervise.”
Enter: Al BruceHorney and the late great John Brodeur. Two die-hard Montreal Canadiens fans whose bloodstream ran pure Molson, maple syrup, and old Forum hot dog water. These weren’t just Habs fans. These were les ramp gods. Al once canceled a Calgary-bound cargo flight because it coincided with a Canadiens playoff game. John wore his lucky Guy Lafleur jersey under his safety vest — year-round. Even in July. Even in cargo hold #3.
But on this particular day at Gate 124, fate (and Air Canada flight 423 from YUL) was about to give them more than a full load of golf bags and one angry emotional support iguana.
The doors open… and out steps the Ghost of Forum Past: GUY. FLIPPING. LAFLUER. Hair as golden as a Zamboni driver’s dream. Flowing like it was still 1977. Even the wind machines used for Beyoncé videos would’ve bowed in shame.
Al dropped his headset. John choked on a half-chewed piece of Timmie’s Boston Cream. One bag agent actually fainted into a pile of lost luggage labeled “YEG.”
“Mon dieu…” whispered Al. “It’s The Flower.” “Tell me I’m not hallucinating again like that time we towed the lav truck into the pilot lounge,” said John.
But no — it was real. Guy was there. Cool as ever. Dressed in a vintage Habs warmup jacket that hadn’t aged a day.
“Bonjour, les gars,” Lafleur nodded, like a god descending upon mortal tarmac. “Any chance I can get a cart ride to Terminal 1?”
Al, channeling years of professional ground handling decorum, replied with the poise of a true ramp legend: “Hop in, mon capitaine. We’ll get you there faster than a Leafs first-round exit.”
So off they went. Three legends. One golf cart. No brakes.
They cut across taxiways. Dodged a 777 like it was a Boston Bruins defenseman. Security tried to radio in a “rogue cart,” but someone yelled, “It’s Guy Lafleur!” and the entire control tower just stood up and saluted.
By the time they got to Terminal 1, people were cheering. Rampies were waving marshalling wands in tribute. Even the squirrels in the de-icing units paused in reverence.
Lafleur stepped off, patted both of them on the back and said, “Merci, mes amis. You guys are the real legends.”
John looked at Al. Al looked at John. And together they whispered the most sacred words a Canadiens fan could ever say:
“We can retire now.”
And they did — one to a cabin in the Laurentians, the other to the big tarmac in the sky. But both forever remembered as the ramp rats who met God… and He wore number 10.
In the mid-1980s, around ’84 or ’85, a peculiar incident unfolded in Zone 4 of the bustling airport. This tale begins with a routine load sheet for a Boeing 727 flight that was about to embark on its journey. The flight’s crew was ready, the aircraft was prepped, and the cargo bay was awaiting its designated cargo. Little did anyone know, this particular day would become etched in the memories of those involved as an episode that drove them all to the brink of madness. The load sheet was, at first glance, pretty standard fare for a Boeing 727. Three carts of mail were to be stowed in compartments 31, 32, and 33, while a staggering 40 bags of various contents were designated for compartments 41 and 42. As the crew worked diligently to load the aircraft, a figure by the name of Roy, a former loading agent who was apparently convinced he was still part of the crew, loomed on the sidelines. With an air of authority that seemed misplaced, Roy would periodically intervene, his deep monotone voice cutting through the hum of activity. “Ahh, I’ve changed the load configuration,” he would intone, his words sending shivers down the spines of those who had been working meticulously to ensure everything was in its right place. Panic would ripple through the crew as they dreaded what would come next. “Remove the mail and put it up front,” Roy would decree with a sense of conviction that defied his supposed retired status. The crew’s collective groans and exasperated sighs were drowned out by the shuffling of feet and the clatter of cargo as they rushed to obey the whims of the self-appointed authority figure. It was as if Roy had become a phantom orchestrator of chaos, rewriting the rules as he saw fit. Days turned into weeks, and the story of this bizarre encounter spread like wildfire among the airport staff. “Remember that time in ’84 or ’85?” they would begin, the shared glances and knowing smiles encapsulating the collective frustration that had been the result of Roy’s “load configuration” capers. The crew members referred to those moments as the “worse bid ever,” a label that would forever be associated with that time in Zone 4.
There was a time in Toronto when television reception was less about entertainment and more about engineering.
If you wanted to watch TV, you needed two things: a television set and the patience of a saint.
Perched on top of the TV were the famous rabbit ears—two metal rods sticking into the air like the antennae of a confused insect. Some houses went one step further and had an antenna bolted to the roof, pointing toward some mysterious location in the sky that Dad insisted was “the direction of Channel 11.”
And then came the day Toronto got cable television.
It was a technological revolution.
No more rabbit ears.
No more rooftop antennas.
No more standing behind the television holding one arm in the air while Dad yelled:
“DON’T MOVE! THAT’S PERFECT!”
You could finally sit down.
Maclean’s Wired converter boxes began appearing in homes, and suddenly television looked like something from the future.
The cable guy would arrive, run a cable into the house, connect the converter box and explain the complicated new system.
“Just turn the box to the channel you want.”
That was it.
No more getting up every five minutes to change the channel.
Of course, this created another problem.
The remote control hadn’t completely taken over yet.
So the kids were still needed.
“Hey, Johnny!”
“What?”
“Change the channel.”
“I’m doing my homework.”
“You can do your homework after the show.”
“But I’m watching this!”
“Not anymore. Change it to Channel 5.”
And Johnny would get up, walk across the living room, turn the dial and return to the couch.
Two minutes later:
“Johnny!”
“What?”
“Go back to Channel 9.”
Eventually, every kid in Toronto realized that the real purpose of childhood was apparently to be a human remote control.
But cable was different.
Suddenly there were more channels than you could imagine.
Instead of the same handful of stations, there were channels devoted to news, movies, sports and programs you had never heard of.
And the picture!
Beautiful.
No snow.
No ghosts.
No horizontal lines rolling across the screen.
No picture that looked like it had been transmitted through a thunderstorm.
You could actually see people’s faces.
Television had gone from:
“Can you see it?”
to:
“Holy crap! Look at that picture!”
The whole family gathered around the television like they were witnessing the moon landing.
Dad was impressed.
Mom was impressed.
The kids were thrilled.
And the rabbit ears?
They were finally retired.
After years of being twisted, bent, adjusted and occasionally slapped, they were tossed into a drawer—along with old batteries, mysterious electrical cords and that one screwdriver nobody knew what it belonged to.
Cable television changed everything.
Suddenly, staying home on a Friday night didn’t mean watching whatever happened to be on.
You actually had choices.
Of course, eventually we got more channels, bigger TVs, colour televisions, cable boxes with more buttons, remote controls, digital cable, hundreds of channels and eventually thousands of things to watch.
Today we complain:
“There’s nothing on.”
Back then, we had five or six channels and somehow thought television was fantastic.
And maybe that’s the funniest part.
We didn’t need 500 channels.
We didn’t need streaming.
We didn’t need a smart TV.
We didn’t even need a remote.
We had a television, a cable box, a couch and a kid who could reach the dial.
And when the picture got fuzzy?
Nobody called technical support.
Dad simply walked over to the TV, smacked the side of it and said:
The Toronto base of the major Canadian airline buzzed with the energy of the late 1980s. The air was thick with camaraderie and the spirit of adventure that came with working in the aviation industry. Among the tight-knit cabin service crew, there was a well-liked fellow who was about to embark on a new chapter of his career, transferring to Winnipeg. The news of his departure prompted a group of his colleagues to organize a send-off that would go down in the airline’s history.
The chosen venue for this extraordinary farewell was Gate 80, home to the cabin service ready room. With determination and a touch of ingenuity, the crew members transformed the otherwise mundane space into a clandestine nightclub. Curtains were hastily drawn across the windows, shielding the room from the prying eyes of curious onlookers. The team posted vigilant guards at each door, ensuring only those with the right credentials could witness the unfolding spectacle.
In those pre-9/11 days, security was notably lax, manned by commissionaires whose eyesight may have seen better days. A simple flash of the Restricted Area pass proved to be a golden ticket, allowing entry to the exclusive celebration within. It was in this atmosphere of secrecy and nostalgia that the legend of Gate 80 took flight.
One enterprising individual had hatched a plan to elevate the send-off to unprecedented heights. Armed with a mischievous grin and a devil-may-care attitude, he managed to smuggle in two exotic dancers from a local gentlemen’s club. Remarkably, the only credentials required for their entry were a nonchalant display of an Export A green cigarette pack – a passport to an evening that would be talked about for years to come.
As the dancers sashayed into the room, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. The departing colleague, the unsuspecting guest of honor, stood dumbfounded as the impromptu nightclub transformed into a stage for an unexpected performance. The music throbbed, and the exotic dancers, undeterred by the unusual setting, proceeded to give the lucky guy a private show.
The room was filled with laughter, camaraderie, and a sense of rebellion against the ordinary. For a brief moment, the mundane world of cabin service was forgotten as the departing colleague found himself at the center of an unforgettable celebration. The cheers and applause reached a crescendo as the dancers concluded their routine, leaving behind a room brimming with joy and mischief.
And so, as the departing fellow boarded his flight to Winnipeg, he carried not only the memories of his time in Toronto but also the legacy of Gate 80 – a story that would become a cherished part of the airline’s folklore, passed down from one generation of airline workers to the next.
In the midst of World War II, as the tides of battle raged across the European continent, there was a Canadian family who had given all they could to the war effort. The four Sullivan brothers, born and raised in a small town in Nova Scotia, had enlisted to serve their country. The Sullivans were an inseparable group, with a deep bond that went beyond blood. They had grown up together, played together, and now they would fight together.
Their story began when the news arrived, delivered by a telegram, to their family’s doorstep. The telegram, with its official crest and somber message, brought both pride and anxiety to the Sullivan home. Three of the brothers, William, James, and Michael, were fighting on the front lines of Europe, serving in the Canadian Army. They had endured the horrors of battle and had become seasoned soldiers, their experiences etched deeply into their souls.
But the telegram bore the news that their youngest brother, Thomas, was missing in action. The family knew that their youngest sibling had been serving with a reconnaissance unit, and his whereabouts had become a mystery on the battlefield.
News spread throughout the tight-knit community, and a sense of collective concern gripped the town. The Sullivans’ neighbors and friends knew that they had to do something to help bring Thomas back home. They approached the local military authorities and made an impassioned plea to find their missing brother.
A determined Canadian captain, John O’Malley, took up the challenge. He knew the dangers of war and the unyielding spirit of soldiers. Captain O’Malley selected a small team of skilled soldiers, including a medic, a sharpshooter, and a communications specialist, all of whom hailed from the same town as the Sullivans. The mission was clear: locate and safely return Thomas Sullivan.
The team of Canadian soldiers embarked on their perilous journey across the battle-scarred landscapes of Europe. The path to find Thomas was fraught with danger, as they encountered fierce battles, faced enemy forces, and witnessed the devastating effects of war. Along the way, the team’s resolve was tested, but their shared determination to reunite the Sullivan family kept them going.
As they ventured deeper into enemy territory, Captain O’Malley’s leadership and the camaraderie among the soldiers mirrored the unity of the Sullivan brothers themselves. Each member of the team demonstrated immense courage, selflessness, and a dedication to their mission.
After weeks of tireless searching, they finally found Thomas, injured but alive, in a makeshift field hospital. The joy that surged through the team as they reunited Thomas with his brothers mirrored the joy that would soon reach the Sullivan family.
The Sullivans’ story became a symbol of the unwavering spirit and camaraderie of Canadian soldiers during World War II. It was a testament to the determination and sacrifice of not only the Sullivan brothers but also the soldiers and families who stood together during a time of great adversity.
The town welcomed the returning heroes with open arms, and the Sullivan family was once again whole. Their story, reminiscent of “Saving Private Ryan,” became an enduring legend of courage, sacrifice, and the indomitable Canadian spirit that prevailed in the face of war’s darkest hours.
During the unprecedented times of the pandemic, the world underwent a radical transformation that left everyone reeling. Speculations arose as to whether this was an act of God or a mere twist of fate. Regardless, the impact was undeniable. Restrictive measures were implemented across the globe, leading to empty sports arenas, shuttered restaurants, and a ban on social gatherings. Airline flights came to a standstill, and couples eagerly planning their weddings were forced to put their dreams on hold. It was an utter mess that seemed insurmountable. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, people found themselves questioning if there was an end in sight to this turmoil.
Then, a glimmer of hope emerged from the realm of science and medicine. Dedicated scientists and researchers made a breakthrough by developing a vaccine that could potentially curb the spread of the virus. The news spread like wildfire, and people eagerly lined up for their shots, longing for an end to the pandemic nightmare. Slowly but surely, as the world received its vaccination doses, a sense of cautious optimism began to blossom.
As life tentatively resumed, the once-desolate cities gradually opened up their doors. Sports arenas, long deprived of the energy and enthusiasm of their fans, gradually welcomed back spectators. Airlines, once grounded, took to the skies once more, signaling a rebirth of the travel industry. It was a glimmer of normalcy, a sign that the world was regaining its footing.
Personally, I had retired right at the onset of the pandemic. In those trying times, I found solace in organizing get-togethers with my friends, always adhering to the strict guidelines of social distancing. We would meet for coffee, utilizing the drive-thru options, ensuring that we stayed within the safety of our respective cars. Occasionally, we would gather in parking lots, organizing tailgate coffee meets, allowing us to enjoy each other’s company while maintaining a safe distance. On some occasions, we took turns entertaining one another in the confines of someone’s backyard, always mindful of the necessary social distancing measures. It was a challenging period, but we had no other choice if we wanted to continue connecting with our friends and loved ones.
As more and more people received their vaccine doses, time became a catalyst for positive change. The world seemed to be inching towards a brighter future. Doors that were once closed began to swing open, gradually revealing a world that had been dormant for far too long. Sports arenas regained their vitality as fans streamed back into the stands, cheering on their favorite teams. Airlines experienced a revival, with flights once again filling up with eager travelers. The gradual resurgence of normalcy brought a glimmer of hope to hearts weary from the hardships of the pandemic.
During this time of transition, an individual working at Air Canada, conceived a brilliant idea. With the reopening of restaurants and bars, She saw a perfect opportunity to gather retirees and active employees, bridging the gap between past and present. Thus, she initiated the “Covid Retirees Get Togethers” during the summer of 2021. This concept provided a tremendous relief, allowing people to reconnect, reminisce, and cherish the good old days. It was also a chance to reunite with friends and colleagues who hadn’t been seen in many years. The gatherings quickly gained popularity and became a resounding success, occurring multiple times a year.
Although the worst of the pandemic had subsided, it was essential to acknowledge that Covid-19 remained a threat. The World Health Organization (WHO) had downgraded it from a pandemic to an epidemic, but the virus was still a reality that demanded caution. Nonetheless, the lifting of restrictions brought a sense of liberation and joy.
Humans, not accustomed to hibernating within the confines of their homes, craved interaction and socialization to thrive in the world. The Covid Retirees Get Togethers served as a beacon of hope, reminding everyone of the resilience of the human spirit and the power of community.
As the years passed, the world gradually healed from the scars of the pandemic. Vaccination efforts continued, and medical advancements provided new treatments and preventive measures. Society adapted to the new normal, integrating safety precautions into everyday life. People learned to coexist with the virus, understanding that vigilance was necessary to protect themselves and others.
The Covid Retirees Get Togethers evolved over time, becoming cherished traditions that celebrated resilience, friendship, and the triumph of the human spirit. Each gathering was an opportunity to reconnect, share stories, and offer support to one another. New friendships were forged, and old bonds grew stronger with every passing year.
Beyond the retiree community, the world gradually regained its vibrancy. Restaurants buzzed with laughter and conversations, as people savored the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with loved ones. Bars echoed with the clinking of glasses and the joyous camaraderie of friends celebrating life’s milestones.
Sports arenas came alive once again, echoing with the deafening cheers of passionate fans. The energy and excitement returned, igniting a renewed sense of unity and collective spirit. Airlines soared through the skies, connecting people from different corners of the world, reminding them that they were part of a vast and interconnected global community.
Life was forever changed by the pandemic, leaving a lasting impact on society. Lessons were learned, priorities were reshuffled, and gratitude for the little things in life deepened. The hardships endured during those challenging times only served to strengthen the bonds of humanity and ignite a newfound appreciation for the power of togetherness.
In the end, the story of the Covid Retirees Get Togethers symbolized the indomitable human spirit. It stood as a testament to the resilience, hope, and unwavering belief that even in the face of adversity, people could come together, overcome obstacles, and create lasting joy and connection. And as the sun set on another successful gathering, the attendees reveled in the warmth of their shared experiences, grateful for the chance to be together after weathering the worst of the storm.
Captain Gart Williams was a seasoned pilot for a major New York City airline. He had grown tired of the constant hustle and bustle of his career, as well as the overbearing demands of his boss, Oliver Misrell, who had become increasingly irritable since the loss of a major account. Misrell lectured Gart about the importance of being persistent, but Gart was too frustrated to listen and ended up insulting his boss.
Unable to find peace at home, Gart often found himself dozing off on long flights. One day, during his daily commute through a snowstorm, Gart fell asleep and woke up to find himself in a small, vintage airplane. The sun was shining brightly outside, and Gart realized that he had been transported to a small airport called Willoughby in the year 1928.
As he explored the airport, Gart discovered that it was a peaceful and charming place where he could finally slow down and live life to the fullest. When he returned to reality, he asked his fellow pilots if they had ever heard of Willoughby, but they had no idea what he was talking about.
That night, Gart got into an argument with his wife, who was selfish and cold-hearted. She made him realize that he was nothing more than a money-making machine to her. When he told her about his experience in Willoughby, she mocked him and said that he was born in the wrong era, as his dream was to live in a simpler time.
The following week, Gart fell asleep on a flight again and found himself back in Willoughby. This time, he made the decision to leave his briefcase on the plane and stay in Willoughby permanently. The townspeople welcomed him with open arms and Gart felt like he had finally found his true home.
Sadly, when Gart’s co-pilots tried to wake him up from his nap, they discovered that he had passed away. Gart’s body was taken to a funeral home called Willoughby & Son. In the end, Gart had found peace and happiness in a world that he had always dreamed of, but it came at the cost of his life.
You ever notice how corporations always “apologize for the inconvenience” after they screw you? “We’re sorry for the delay in your pension deposit.” Yeah? Well I’m sorry you’re a bunch of overpaid monkeys pushing buttons you don’t understand!
Here’s the news, folks: AC didn’t pay their retirees on time. Yeah! People who busted their asses for 30, 40 years so the plane could leave on time… and now AC’s like, “Oops! Computer glitch!”
A glitch? A glitch?! You know what a glitch is? When your microwave resets to 12:00. Not when someone’s rent doesn’t get paid. Not when Grandma has to choose between dinner and her cholesterol meds. That’s not a glitch. That’s a corporate stroke caused by laziness and incompetence!
And the best part? Some people still haven’t gotten their money! We’re a week in! They’re sitting by the mailbox like it’s 1953 waiting for a war letter! Except this war’s between them and some accountant in a swivel chair who hasn’t hit “SEND.”
These people—these retirees—they lifted your bags, loaded your cargo, de-iced your planes in a blizzard at 3AM, and you can’t figure out how to pay them on time? What are you using, a fax machine powered by hamster wheels?
And you know what? AC never delays a charge on your credit card. Try buying a $9 bag of pretzels on the plane—BOOM, instant charge. But your pension? That’s stuck in the Twilight Zone. “Submitted… processing… maybe… who knows?”
And don’t give me that “technical issue” crap. “Technical issue” is corporate code for “We don’t care enough to fix it until someone sues us.”
You want a technical issue? How about a technical knockout from every retiree you just screwed over?
I say this: If you can’t pay people what you owe them on time, then get out of the airline business and go open a lemonade stand. Because at least lemonade stands have some integrity.
But you won’t. Because you’ve got bonuses to protect, executives to pamper, and retirees to ignore. Ain’t that the way it always goes?
So here’s your message from the people, AC: pay up, shut up, and stop blaming the keyboard.
The joint operation between American and Russian Special Forces had been a success. They had captured General Radek, the dictator of a rogue neo-Soviet regime in Kazakhstan that had retained its nuclear weapons, threatening war. Three weeks later, U.S. President James Marshall was attending a diplomatic dinner in Moscow, Russia. He praised the operation and insisted the U.S. would “no longer negotiate with terrorists”.
Marshall and his entourage, including his wife Grace and daughter Alice, were preparing to return home on Air Force One. Members of the press had also been invited aboard, including six Radek loyalists disguised as journalists, led by Egor Korshunov.
After takeoff, Secret Service agent Gibbs, a mole, enabled Korshunov and his men to obtain weapons and storm the plane. They killed many of the other security and military personnel before taking the rest hostage, including Grace and Alice. Marshall was raced to an escape pod in the cargo hold while pursued by Korshunov’s men, but they were too late to stop the pod from ejecting.
Korshunov breached the cockpit and slayed the crew, narrowly preventing the plane from making an emergency landing at Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. A squadron of F-15s escorted Air Force One as Korshunov had it piloted towards a Radek-loyal airbase in Kazakhstan.
Unknown to all, Marshall had hidden himself in the cargo hold instead of using the pod, and he stealthily observed the loyalists. He covertly killed some of Korshunov’s men and used a satellite phone to communicate with Vice President Kathryn Bennett, letting his staff know he was still alive and aboard the plane.
Korshunov assumed that it was merely a Secret Service agent that was in the cargo hold, so he contacted Bennett and demanded Radek’s release, threatening to kill a hostage every half-hour. Marshall and military advisors devised a plan to trick Korshunov to take Air Force One to a lower altitude for a mid-air refueling, buying time for the hostages to parachute safely off the plane.
As a KC-10 tanker docked with Air Force One, Marshall helped to capture another loyalist and escorted the hostages to the cargo hold, where the majority parachuted to safety. Korshunov discovered the deception and forced Air Force One to break the connection with the tanker, causing the fuel to ignite and destroying the tanker. The consequent shockwave disrupted the escape process, and Korshunov was able to stop Marshall, Chief of Staff Lloyd Shepherd, Major Caldwell, and Gibbs from escaping. Some of the hostages and the captured loyalist fell out of the plane without parachutes to their deaths.
With the president and his family under his control, Korshunov violently berated Marshall for killing his men and forced him to contact Russian President Petrov and arrange for Radek’s release. Bennett was urged by Defense Secretary Walter Dean to declare the president incapable under the 25th Amendment, thus overriding Radek’s release, but she refused.
While Korshunov and his men celebrated the news of Radek’s release, Marshall broke his bonds and killed Korshunov and his remaining henchmen. Marshall then rescinded his order to release Radek, who was subsequently shot dead when he attempted to escape.
Marshall and Caldwell directed the plane back to friendly airspace, accompanied by the F-15s, only to be quickly tailed by a second batch of Radek loyalists in MiG-29s. Marshall was saved by one F-15 pilot who sacrificed himself to intercept a missile. The resultant explosion damaged the plane’s tail, and they started to lose altitude.
As Air Force One safely lands, President Marshall is greeted by Vice President Kathryn Bennett and his staff. Marshall thanks everyone involved in his rescue and expresses his condolences for those who lost their lives. He then addresses the nation, announcing the successful capture of General Radek and the thwarting of the terrorist plot. He also pays tribute to the sacrifice of the F-15 pilot and the parajumpers who risked their lives to save his family and his team.
In the aftermath of the crisis, investigations are launched to uncover how the loyalists were able to breach Air Force One and whether there were any other moles in the government. Gibbs’ treachery is exposed, and he is posthumously court-martialed and dishonorably discharged.
President Marshall is hailed as a hero for his bravery and leadership, and he continues to serve as the President of the United States, vowing to never negotiate with terrorists again. He also takes steps to improve the security of Air Force One and the safety of the presidential entourage.
The memory of the harrowing ordeal stays with Marshall and his family, but they are grateful to have survived and to have witnessed the courage and sacrifice of those who risked their lives to save them.
(Or: How to Lose Your Luggage and Your Sanity in One Gaelic Shift)
It started quietly enough. A major airline at Toronto Pearson needed new ramp crew. Some genius in HR decided to partner with an overseas recruiter who said, “We’ve got strong lads from the Highlands, eager to work!”
Enter the Scottish Ramp Rats — six burly baggage handlers from Glasgow, Inverness, and somewhere so remote even Google Maps gave up.
Here’s the thing: they’re fast, they’re strong, they’re loyal… But nobody understands a damn word they’re saying.
Scene: Gate 142 — 5:00 AM A confused ramp supervisor approaches the Scots, all clad in reflective kilts (don’t ask), as one of them hurls a suitcase like it’s the caber toss at the Highland Games.
Supervisor: “Hey, hey! That’s a fragile item!” John “The Hurler” Hill:“Och aye, it’s just a wee bauchle o’ a bag, nae bother!” (Translation: “Relax, it’s just a beat-up bag, no big deal!”)
Dugald Carmichael climbs into the tug, muttering: “This wee beastie’s got less torque than me gran’s mobility scooter!” (Translation: “This vehicle is underpowered.”)
Supervisor: “Can you guys tow the 737 to Bay 160?” Stuart Allan:“Aye, jist lemme finish ma Irn-Bru an’ we’ll gie it a bash.” (Translation: “Sure, once I finish my orange soda, we’ll give it a go.”)
By Day 3, the entire ramp was in chaos.
One rookie rampie asked for help loading ski bags. William “Haggis” Hughes: l responded with: “Lad, I’m no yer beast o’ burden. Dinna fash yersel’, I’ll help efter me fag break.” (Translation: “I’m not your personal mule. Relax, I’ll help after my smoke break.”)
Later, a flight delay announcement was made over the radio. The Scots retaliated by piping in bagpipe hold music over the PA system. Eight ramp agents quit. One grew sideburns and joined them.
THE FINAL STRAW: When a jetbridge wouldn’t extend, the Scots handled it the only way they knew how — by lifting the bags through the first-class window “like ye tossin’ sheep at the fairgrounds.” (Translation: That’s actually exactly what they meant.)
Eventually, airline management gave up and assigned them their own bay with a translator — a retired Air Canada pilot who once dated a girl from Dundee. He now wears a “Scot-to-English” dictionary on a lanyard.
Closing Quote from John Hill: “This job’s pure dead brilliant, Nae coos tae herd, an’ I can punt bags fur miles. Beats diggin’ peat!” (Translation: “This job is fantastic. No cows to herd, and I get to throw luggage all day. Better than farming!”)
