EK Resignations
Join Date: Aug 2004
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haha Mali - classic, bit scary, but classic all the same!
Me personally, I think I'll stick with the tennis coaching!
But on a more serious note, are perhaps the lack of credible responses here indicative of the way the scene is going? ie the big downward spiral?? Is there such a thing anymore as the ideal number?
All this talk of looming pilot shortages doesn't seem to be producing the goods as far as improving T&C's are concerned. So why is that then? Is it because as a combined proffessional group we are continually shooting ourselves in the foot as we scramble over the carcass of our bretheren to get to the front of the queue?
Enough ramblings, off to google I go to type in tennis coaching....
Me personally, I think I'll stick with the tennis coaching!
But on a more serious note, are perhaps the lack of credible responses here indicative of the way the scene is going? ie the big downward spiral?? Is there such a thing anymore as the ideal number?
All this talk of looming pilot shortages doesn't seem to be producing the goods as far as improving T&C's are concerned. So why is that then? Is it because as a combined proffessional group we are continually shooting ourselves in the foot as we scramble over the carcass of our bretheren to get to the front of the queue?
Enough ramblings, off to google I go to type in tennis coaching....
Last edited by Dixons Cider; 18th Feb 2006 at 17:36.
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411A and Ironbutt, I should have clarified, the employment ban is for the 747-400 only.
There is no militancy in the limited industrial actions, the battle is in the courts. The vetoing of a C scale will benefit new joiners ( 45% less pay ), as well as current pilots. So it is not entirely self-serving.
A group of pilots are doing their best to uphold conditions. What's interesting is that the spiteful remarks on these pages come from an old has been 411A ( well known in Fragrant Harbour for his bitterness toward CX pilots ) and Ironbutt57, who in the swansong of his career is unusually, banished to Gulf Air.
There is no militancy in the limited industrial actions, the battle is in the courts. The vetoing of a C scale will benefit new joiners ( 45% less pay ), as well as current pilots. So it is not entirely self-serving.
A group of pilots are doing their best to uphold conditions. What's interesting is that the spiteful remarks on these pages come from an old has been 411A ( well known in Fragrant Harbour for his bitterness toward CX pilots ) and Ironbutt57, who in the swansong of his career is unusually, banished to Gulf Air.
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As pilots i think we all are looking for the utopia-settling into a new job is fine and dandy whilst it lasts, but then the smoke clears and every company is just the same as each other-apart from their size.Have been lookig for it for years and still not got there--but still looking
Will continue but there comes the time when you just gotta give up
VTSP
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There is a lot work around. Most things must be better what you see goes on at EK. Just took a drive around town today and its absolutely dangerous on the roads (not only SZR). For the money (or lack of it) we get I would look elsewhere. What are the chances of being here for the next 10 yrs and NOT experiencing road rage, an accident (God forbid), being treated like a robot (as AAL says we are used to fatigue) and whinging about it without any change, being cheated by rising costs, VAT, wondering if your family is ok on the roads when you are on a layover......absolutely NIL! Leaving EK and living in the UK or Aust and flying 5 on 2 off, family happy, together, normal driving (to a degree) and home in your own country......doesn't seem so bad, does it? Would you rather work a few extra years making up the difference as opposed to playing russian roulette with work and my family's lives in this place. To tell us that we are guests in this country, they don't seem to be very good hosts. Good luck guys!
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And if, God forbid, you do have an accident here in the UAE, best of luck with the medical treatment you and your family MAY receive. With recent experience of the "high quality" medical treatment available here, I can honestly say you are in God's hands unless you are lucky enough to afford evacuation and treatment elsewhere. It is not only the pilots who are feeling the pinch and taking their skills elsewhere. GP's are fine in my opinion, but specialist care is frighteningly deficient.
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Thanks for the thoughtful replies. I really appreciate it.
FF: Some very good points that I'd forgotten. Thank you...
Chinny: I'm really looking for a company that respects it's workforce (not smoke blown up my jacksie, but just decency). Being appreciated is a basic human need. If I'm told that I won't get paid the same as a direct entry Capt because i'm already working for EK; that tells me a whole lot.
Dusty:I tried not to laugh.
Thanks again guys. I'll close the post soon if nothing else comes up.
Appreciate all that took time out
Regards
Keith
FF: Some very good points that I'd forgotten. Thank you...
Chinny: I'm really looking for a company that respects it's workforce (not smoke blown up my jacksie, but just decency). Being appreciated is a basic human need. If I'm told that I won't get paid the same as a direct entry Capt because i'm already working for EK; that tells me a whole lot.
Dusty:I tried not to laugh.
Thanks again guys. I'll close the post soon if nothing else comes up.
Appreciate all that took time out
Regards
Keith
Whatever happens,.. happens!
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Keith, I can tell you that I have looked around for several years now, I have learned to tell green grass from grass that is painted green, there is a lot of the latter and not much of the former.
Going sideways,(doing the same thing somwhere else) is not very attractive unless it is an improvement in the environment that you are doing it in. Every employer wants to get the most bang for their buck so they maximise what they can get out of you, I don't care if it is in Mumbai, Luton or Nigeria.
My recipe for survival; find somewhere reasonable (according to your requirements) stay and accumulate some seniority, find other business activities that bring in some cash and can be done whilst you're exersicing the privileges of your Pilots licence. Invest visely and design an exit strategy before you go crazy.
Going sideways,(doing the same thing somwhere else) is not very attractive unless it is an improvement in the environment that you are doing it in. Every employer wants to get the most bang for their buck so they maximise what they can get out of you, I don't care if it is in Mumbai, Luton or Nigeria.
My recipe for survival; find somewhere reasonable (according to your requirements) stay and accumulate some seniority, find other business activities that bring in some cash and can be done whilst you're exersicing the privileges of your Pilots licence. Invest visely and design an exit strategy before you go crazy.
Join Date: Oct 2004
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..and still they leave
Went to another farewell function last night. Yet another friend leaving the sandpit. I just can't get over how many friends and collegues have either resigned, planning to resign, or are actively seeking jobs elsewhere. All experienced line drivers, TRIs or TREs. So how does EK management continue to ignore the crisis?..oh but of course from the horse's mouth resignation percentages are actually coming down..yeah right.
..and then you hear stories about AS refusing a Capt permission for the jump seat to get back for work..then checking to see if he made the flight, and pulling him off his duty when he got to DXB because he wouldn't be rested.
...and then the story about the Brit CAA commissioned report about Emirates, its out of control expansion..where they are getting all their pilots from..why TC spends his time choosing the 1st class chocolates and signing approvals to employ the latest 21 yr old hostie from Bolivia instead of looking at the problems evolving around him.
..I mean what's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day."
And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres.
And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streetswhere they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'."
And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...
Now the EK management test is to figure out where the genuine complaint finishes and the Monty Python quote begins. A box of TC's chocolates and promotion to some SVP position for the winner.
..and then you hear stories about AS refusing a Capt permission for the jump seat to get back for work..then checking to see if he made the flight, and pulling him off his duty when he got to DXB because he wouldn't be rested.
...and then the story about the Brit CAA commissioned report about Emirates, its out of control expansion..where they are getting all their pilots from..why TC spends his time choosing the 1st class chocolates and signing approvals to employ the latest 21 yr old hostie from Bolivia instead of looking at the problems evolving around him.
..I mean what's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day."
And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres.
And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streetswhere they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'."
And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...
Now the EK management test is to figure out where the genuine complaint finishes and the Monty Python quote begins. A box of TC's chocolates and promotion to some SVP position for the winner.
Ode to Ed and Al...
How sweet to be an Idiot,
As harmless as a cloud,
Too small to hide the sun
Almost poking fun,
At the warm but insecure untidy crowd.
How sweet to be an idiot,
And dip my brain in joy,
Children laughing at my back,
With no fear of attack,
As much retaliation as a toy.
Courtesy of M.Python
How sweet to be an Idiot,
As harmless as a cloud,
Too small to hide the sun
Almost poking fun,
At the warm but insecure untidy crowd.
How sweet to be an idiot,
And dip my brain in joy,
Children laughing at my back,
With no fear of attack,
As much retaliation as a toy.
Courtesy of M.Python
Guest
Posts: n/a
And then what?? Or better where???
Just to illuminate the 'forumers', but where all those resignees go??I mean let's say you are in the late 30' s early 40's with no Cmd experiance on the 777/A340, whAT DO YOU DO? START FROM THE BEGINNING FOR CATHAY or "cargoking"?/
Just curious.
Just curious.