No Frills, No Mercy: A Turbulent Tale of Low-Cost Carriers

The history of low-cost carriers is not a gentle glide through blue skies. It’s more like a hard landing in a storm, with someone trying to sell you scratch cards while the cabin crew wrestle a trolley loaded with pre-packaged sandwiches and regret down the aisle. If you’ve ever found yourself wedged between two stag parties, questioning life choices while paying extra for hand luggage and, possibly, your dignity, then congratulations. You’ve flown low-cost, and lived to tweet about it.

Low-cost carriers, also known as budget airlines or no-frills airlines, have fundamentally reshaped how we travel by air. These carriers took what was once a luxury reserved for the elite and threw open the cabin doors to the masses. And they did it not by adding features, but by stripping everything back to the studs and then monetising the studs.

It all started with an idea that felt laughably radical in an industry once built on silver service and complimentary nuts: what if flying could be as cheap as a pint of lager in Prague? Enter the Americans, and more specifically, a chain-smoking Texan named Herb Kelleher. In 1971, he launched Southwest Airlines with a business model that bore a striking resemblance to a bus route with wings. No meals, no entertainment, and absolutely no frills. Bring your own snacks, your own patience, and try not to stretch too much, lest you risk cramping into the person next to you.

Southwest’s genius lay in brutal simplicity: point-to-point routes (none of that precious hub-and-spoke nonsense), quick-as-a-flash turnarounds, one aircraft model to rule them all (hello, Boeing 737), and a total absence of faffing about. They sold punctuality, reliability, and affordability with a wink. Suddenly, the skies weren’t just for executives and oil barons. They were for your mate Dave flying to Vegas with a twenty in his pocket and dreams of roulette glory. They were for your nan, in leopard-print leggings, jetting off to Phoenix with a boiled egg in her handbag.

The model worked. Worked so well, in fact, that it crossed the Atlantic and made landfall in a soggy pub in Dublin, where Ryanair—then a struggling regional carrier—was about to become something altogether more outrageous. In 1995, under the gleefully chaotic leadership of Michael O’Leary, Ryanair took the Southwest blueprint and spray-painted it in neon graffiti. What followed was less evolution and more a glorious act of aviation vandalism. O’Leary slashed fares so low they made accountants weep, introduced fees for everything short of blinking, and effectively turned the aeroplane into a flying vending machine with wings.

Airports got in on the joke. Prestwick was suddenly rebranded as “Glasgow”—a charming fantasy, if you enjoy hour-long bus rides through the rain. “Frankfurt-Hahn” showed up on boarding passes even though it was spiritually, and geographically, closer to Belgium. People bought flights for 99p, only to spend fifty quid getting from the airport to where they actually wanted to be. It was part farce, part genius.

EasyJet soon joined the brawl, swapping O’Leary’s pub-banter brutality for British politeness and a nice shade of orange. Based out of Luton, the airline painted itself as the approachable cousin in the world of discount aviation. Slightly better legroom, marginally friendlier customer service, and fewer publicity stunts. If Ryanair was a loud night out, EasyJet was a brisk weekend hike with a reliable thermos.

Then came the avalanche. The 2000s brought a boom so intense it made even the most grounded airline executive giddy. Germanwings, Vueling, Norwegian, Wizz Air, and a dozen others joined the scrum. Air Berlin had its moment. Volotea sounded like a shampoo brand but flew actual planes. Every corner of Europe, from the Baltics to the Balearics, was suddenly a Ryanair or Wizz Air destination, served by a fleet of brightly painted jets and even brighter boarding queues.

These airlines unlocked a new lifestyle. Budget flights transformed travel from a rare luxury into a weekend whim. Londoners popped to Marseille for moules frites. Mancunians hit up Budapest for ruin bars. Brits rediscovered their ancestral claim to every sun lounger between Málaga and Malia. We stopped asking whether we should fly, and just asked how cheaply. And as the demand exploded, so did the routes, with low-cost carriers connecting unlikely pairs of cities like Bournemouth and Brno, or Eindhoven and Timișoara.

Of course, the model had its drawbacks. Safety wasn’t the issue—planes are planes—but the passenger experience became an Olympic sport in endurance. Armrests became contested territory. Carry-on rules turned into Kafkaesque rituals. Snack offerings resembled the aftermath of a vending machine apocalypse. And let’s not even talk about the toilets.

As fast as some airlines rose, others combusted mid-sprint. Who remembers Flybe? Or MyTravelLite? Or Zoom? No, not the video call empire—an actual airline that vanished before most people could spell it. Fuel prices surged. Economic wobbles struck. Some carriers expanded beyond reason. Others simply folded under the weight of their own branding. One week they were selling seats, the next they were gone, like a mirage in the airport’s duty-free aisle.

And then came the reckoning. A generation raised on £9.99 fares began to feel queasy about what it all meant. Carbon emissions entered the chat. Climate activists called out frequent flyers with slogans, hashtags, and airport sit-ins. The Swedish gave us “flygskam“—flight shame. Suddenly, that spontaneous trip to Naples didn’t feel quite as charming when paired with a rising sense of eco-guilt.

COVID-19 landed like a meteor in this world of cheap wings and plastic trays. Planes were grounded, borders slammed shut, and passengers discovered the spiritual art of waiting for refunds that never came. Many thought this was the end for budget airlines. Yet somehow, miraculously, they emerged blinking into the post-pandemic light. Perhaps more bruised, but also more defiant.

Ryanair doubled down with new aircraft orders, aggressive pricing, and enough insults to fill a tabloid front page. EasyJet leaned into flexibility, offering travel vouchers with the kind of resigned cheerfulness you’d expect from a British rail operator. Wizz Air expanded like a purple-coloured octopus, grabbing at Eastern European markets and anyone willing to pay €15 for a window seat. Norwegian, once a long-haul dreamer, downsized to focus on not collapsing again.

Through it all, the spirit of low-cost carriers remained unchanged. Ruthless, cheeky, and profoundly democratic. You didn’t need a platinum card or a tailored suit to board. You just needed to be able to hit the “book now” button fast enough before the prices changed.

Culturally, the shift was massive. European cities that once counted their tourist visits in handfuls now groaned under the weight of lads in matching t-shirts and Instagram influencers balancing on cobblestones. Budget airlines didn’t just offer transport. They redefined holidays. They turned travel into a game of timing, luggage Tetris, and dietary compromise.

Even the airports evolved—or devolved, depending on your view. Terminals sprouted like budget-friendly mushrooms. Entire airports were built or rebranded to service the whims of low-cost giants. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve spent three hours at an airport where the only dining option is a vending machine that eats coins and gives despair.

Yet for all this madness, people kept flying. They still do. Because travel, even chaotic, uncomfortable, borderline masochistic travel, remains irresistible. It’s the promise of something different. A new street to wander. A new pastry to mispronounce. A blurry photo at sunset. All accessible with a few clicks and a boarding pass that cost less than your cab to the airport.

So no, the story of low-cost carriers isn’t a polished one. It’s scrappy, loud, and riddled with baggage fees. But it’s also hopeful. Because buried beneath the crushed knees and overpriced sandwiches is a revolutionary idea: that flight should be for everyone. That the skies belong to plumbers and students and teachers and pensioners, not just suits in first class.

Low-cost carriers might not offer caviar or silk-lined seatbelts, but they deliver something arguably more valuable: access. Access to opportunity, to exploration, to connection. And whether you love them or loathe them, one thing’s clear—they’ve changed aviation forever.

No frills. No mercy. And absolutely no refunds. But every now and then, when the seatbelt sign clicks off and you look out the scratched little window, it feels a bit like freedom. Even if someone just kicked your seat from behind.