F.F.F.

It all started, as these things often do, with a joke.

I was CTO of a financial firm with all the warmth and ethics of a crypto Ponzi scheme wrapped in a navy-blue tie. Travel was part of the gig. Not glamorous travel, no business class champagne or crisp white sheets, just airport lounges that smelt of beige, and hotels that forgot what city they were in.

We had a handful of general admin staff, ruthless time-warriors in cardigans, who booked our travel. You emailed them your needs and, without further interaction or acknowledgement of your humanity, you'd find yourself on a flight manifest.

One Tuesday afternoon, sleep-deprived and high on sarcasm, I sent them a request:

“Please book me on the first flight to Melbourne tomorrow. Any airline. Book it under FS Forbes (the F is for Fantastic).
Cheers,
Sam.”

And that was it. The email equivalent of a raised eyebrow and a smirk to myself. I printed the confirmation when it came through, folded it neatly into my jacket pocket, and thought no more of it.

Next morning. Pre-dawn. Brisbane Airport, haunted by blinking machines and half-awake travellers. I strode up to the Qantas counter, presented my ID, and declared:

“Ticket to Melbourne. FS Forbes, or Francis Samuel Forbes.”

The attendant tapped. Frowned. Tapped again. A pause.

“Sorry, sir. There’s no ticket under that name.”

I leaned in. Explained. Mentioned the admin team. Offered a winning smile.

She frowned again, less apologetically this time. I handed her the printout from the admin, confident it would resolve things.

She read it. Blinked. Then tilted her head with a weary sigh.

“Sir... the ticket is under Fantastic Forbes. That’s what the booking says.”

She showed me the screen. There it was. Like something from a dream you try to forget:
FANTASTIC FORBES – MELBOURNE – 05:30

I laughed. She didn’t.

“Unfortunately,” she said, slipping into that firm, airport-legal tone, “without a ticket that matches your ID, I can’t let you on this flight. Even with the email.”

And that was the moment I stepped through the looking-glass into the land of Kafka.

What followed was a bureaucratic pilgrimage through Qantas middle management. She called someone who in turn, called for Barbra the ‘Verification Manager, Ticket Identity Escalations Division’, who appeared waring a lanyard with real purpose, and ordered me through to the back office. My luggage was forgotten, my coffee went cold. I was marched through grey corridors that smelt like printer toner and despair.

Every new person I spoke to had to read the email again. Each one blinked at "the F is for Fantastic" like it was some kind of security code. Some laughed. Most didn't. One manager, clipboard in hand, asked me if this was “a known alias.” I half expected ASIO to be summoned.

“Why did you write that?” someone asked.

“Because I’m an idiot,” I replied. At least that part was clear.

Eventually, miraculously, someone up the chain, possibly weary from the sheer absurdity of it all, stamped their bureaucratic blessing and whispered the magic words:

“We’ll print the boarding pass... but change the return ticket. And next time—don’t be clever.”

With minutes to spare, I sprinted to the gate, nearly dropping my jacket, my email, and what was left of my dignity. I boarded the plane just as they were closing the doors.

And there, strapped in at 34,000 feet, I began to laugh. First quietly. Then uncontrollably. The sort of laugh that turns heads and makes flight attendants check on you. It was absurd. It was entirely my fault. It was... perfect.

And so, Fantastic Forbes was born. Not from glory. Not from greatness. But from one too-clever line in an email to an admin girl with a sense of humour and access to Amadeus.

The nickname stuck. It followed me around the office like a glittery ghost. People emailed me as “Fantastic.” Someone stuck a sticker on my monitor: “Fantastic or nothing.”

Honestly? I deserved it.

FSF