Welcome to the RSL with Wings:

A Bogan’s Paradise in the Sky

Flying from Sydney to Bali on a budget airline is an experience somewhere between public transport and a wildlife documentary. It is less about reaching a destination and more about surviving an airborne social experiment.

As I settled into my seat, I quickly realized I was not on an ordinary flight but rather inside a floating RSL on Mad Monday. I had never seen bogans happier. Perhaps it was the altitude, or perhaps the unique thrill of knowing that this was the one venue in which they could not be forcibly removed. They embraced it with the gusto of a man who has just discovered an all-you-can-drink promotion.

The Bogans Take Over

At some point, an entire group of them commandeered the plane. Not in the conventional sense, but by sheer presence. They moved about with a disregard for seatbelt signs, personal space, and conventional aerodynamics. The flight attendants, presumably veterans of this particular war zone, had long since abandoned any hope of order.

Among the passengers was one lone American, witnessing the chaos unfold with a look of dawning horror. You could see him mentally revising his understanding of Australians from laid-back beach lovers to high-volume anarchists in real time.

The Art of Parenting, Bogan-Style

One father allowed his child to repeatedly slap him in the face, enduring the tiny fists with the stoicism of a Buddhist monk. Then, with a single, barely perceptible raising of his own fist, the child fell silent. It was like watching an ancient and highly effective form of sign language. The message was clear: I know we are in public, but at some point, we will be alone.

A Medical Marvel

One man managed to sleep through the entire flight. This was a Jetstar seat—the same seat in which I spent six hours shifting every three minutes to prevent deep vein thrombosis. I had taken a heavy dose of something allegedly medicinal and still could not doze off. This man, however, was an enigma. Unconscious from takeoff to touchdown, he only stirred upon landing, at which point he opened his eyes and muttered a single, reverent word: Bali.

I don’t believe he was merely tired. I believe he was recovering from a five-day cocaine bender and had entered a coma of necessity. The entire passenger manifest envied him.

A Farting Epiphany

Somewhere over the ocean, I had an unsettling realization: I had farted at least 17 times. Initially, I found this amusing, but then I did the math. I counted the rows, remembered that we were in a sealed metal tube with recirculating air, and began to contemplate the life choices that had led me to this moment. I also thought about the poor airport employee whose job it was to open the cabin door upon arrival. What sins had they committed in a past life to deserve such a karmic punishment?

Stockholm Syndrome in Seat 22B

At one point, an awkward mid-air incident unfolded. A man, perhaps inspired by an overly optimistic view of romance, seemed to believe that being confined in a metal cylinder with a woman for six and a half hours constituted the ideal conditions for a relationship. She did not share this perspective. After some hushed but firm words with the flight manager, a well-coordinated seat swap was executed, proving that if airlines can’t always guarantee safety, they can at least facilitate emergency break-ups.

A Game of Chance

I refused to pay for seat selection out of principle. After all, I had already been swindled out of $12 for a sandwich that defied classification, $5 for a coffee that should have paid me, and another $5 for a bloated can of stale, vaguely sour cream and onion-flavored Pringles.

Instead, I rolled the dice, letting fate determine my seat. Fate, as it turns out, has a wicked sense of humor.

I found myself placed between two friends who had strategically booked the aisle and window seats, hoping for an empty middle seat. Instead, they received a human fart barrier who brought an eye mask and taped his mouth shut in public. They had gambled. They had lost. The house always wins.

The Final Descent

As we landed, the unmistakable scent of vapes filled the air. The flight attendant’s voice crackled over the PA:

Please remain seated until the airplane reaches the terminal. Sir, once again—please stand down.

Bali, I had arrived.