Virgin Flyer (South Africa 1)

(Originally written November 2008)

There’s an apocryphal story that Karl Marx once arranged to meet Lenin in Paris, when the latter was studying there. Lenin went to pick up his friend at the station, and he was amazed and not a little worried to find the co-author of “The Manifesto of the Communist Party” climbing out of a first class carriage. “Karl, Karl,” he cried, “What do you think you’re doing? It’s a betrayal of every principle we stand for! Does the phrase ‘grinding your heel in the face of the bourgeoisie’ ring any bells?”

Marx was baffled for a moment; then he explained. “Vladimir Illych, is it possible that you have misunderstood everything? Come the revolution, pal, the rubbish we get rid of - this, we keep!”

In the same spirit, then, let me make this clear. Come the revolution, comrades, we get rid of cattle class. Virgin Upper Class, though, (and I can’t stress this too highly to any future politburo members) we keep, and we defend mightily what we have and hold. Here’s why.

I’m told that the car will arrive at 14:10. It doesn’t, it’s five minutes early. The Volvo limousine glides down the road just as I’m locking the front door, having lugged my Unfeasibly Large Trunk onto the pavement, together with its matching cabin case and my weighty rucksack. Weighty, because it contains all the paperwork I need for six weeks of consultancy in South Africa, my vital laptop and the even more vital external hard disc that contains the antidote to a hard day at the office – lots of music. And before you wonder why I was outside my house five minutes early, it was to have a last gasper before the hell of no smoking for eighteen hours.

“Are you from Virgin?” I ask. “Yes, sir” replies the suited and booted driver. “There’s no hurry, we’ve got plenty of time.” Privately, I doubt this, because passengers on the 18:00 to Johannesburg are requested to check in three hours beforehand, and I doubt we can cover the seventy-odd miles to Heathrow in fifty minutes – but I’m assuming he knows his job better than I do. As he hefts the ULT into the boot, I mention that I’m concerned about the weight of it, what with Virgin imposing a strict limit of 30kg. “I think you might just get away with it” is the opinion of my chauffeur. Realising that he’s probably picked up more cases than an expert barrister, I drop into the leather rear seat and relax.

It’s the start of the most pampering experience I’ve ever had.

“May I have your passport, sir?” No you can’t, the photograph doesn’t look anything like you, you won’t fool anyone with it. Oh, right, just to check it, go on then. He taps details into what I’d assumed was a satnav… “Right, that’s you checked in, Mr McCulloch.” Oh, the wonders of modern telecommunications! As we drive off Portsea Island, I’m much impressed, it’s a big car with plenty of legroom, the driver is happy to chat, and he arrived early… cripes, so early that I didn’t get the last gasper! Can we stop somewhere, anywhere will do, but I gotta have that last one! Of course we can, and my driver suggests a lay-by just before we join the M3 – “That’s probably your last opportunity, sir.”

By the time we get there, we’ve discovered a shared love of guitar-driven music, he’s dropped the “Sir” and we’re talking as old pals do. He plays a Telecaster, I play a Strat (stop that laughing!), a mate of mine used to be guitar tech for Metallica, he’s spent a couple of days with some Metallica roadies (“You wouldn’t believe…” – “Oh yes I would…”), he knows who Fairport Convention are, back in the Eighties he was a member of GBH – ask your Dad – he’s been bottled at Reading Festival, opened for Eddie and the Hot Rods, yes indeed he will download Folkcast and he can maybe contribute some music too, he’s passed me the latest Joan Baez CD with a recommendation to buy it, coo, I say, she’s covered a Steve Earl track, what excellent taste, blimey, do I know of Steve Earl he says, he’s a good friend, did I know Steve’s married country singer Alison Moorer, must be the triumph of hope over experience, what with her being his seventh wife…

As we approach Heathrow, we’re onto the ‘Is Richard Thompson a genius or what?’ question, and luckily we agree on the answer.

Virgin Atlantic have their own private entrance to the airport, and here’s an attractive woman in Virgin uniform opening the door. “Hello, Mr McCulloch, good to see you” she says with a warm smile, as if I am such a regular Upper Class passenger that I’m known by name. “May I have your passport?” No way, if the driver had little chance, you’ve got none, frankly. Oh, so that you can organise a boarding pass… go on, then. I’m worried about the weight of my case, I mutter… “Stop worrying” remarks a Virgin porter, as he swings the ULT from the boot. “20 Kilo, no more.” And so it proves to be.

Boarding pass issued, I’m escorted to the dedicated Virgin security check where the usual X-ray equipment is installed, as are three security staff with nothing to do but wait for my arrival. Seconds later, I’m told to find my way to Departure Lounge H. “Just think of it as H for Heaven.”

It isn’t Heaven. There’s a noticeable lack of archangels, cherubim and quires, and the announcements are made by humans rather than the Metatron. That aside, though, the Virgin Upper Class Lounge is pretty damn fabulous. Would I care for something to eat from the hot or cold buffet? I would, a snackette of smoked salmon with a half pint of prawns would be just the thing. Some white wine to go with it, maybe? They have a Pinot Grigio, an oaked Chardonnay, an unoaked Chardonnay, a champagne, a… whoa, back up there, champagne will do just nicely.

Swallowing the last morsel of smoked salmon, I decide to walk around the lounge, just to make sure that there’s nothing I’m missing out on. Why don’t you walk with me? Just to the right of the entrance is the concierge, ready to offer assistance, and beyond her are racks of magazines. Past that is the treatment centre, where the stressed traveller can get a massage, a haircut and any number of beauty treatments (“Keep walking, sir, there’s nothing we can do for you…”), and now we’re at the bar, which dominates this side of the lounge. At a guess, if you want it, they’ve got it. Beers, wines, spirits, liqueurs, they’re all here, together with several bar staff who are keen to demonstrate their art. Don’t worry, we’ll return to them after the tour.

On the other side of the lounge is a huge screen showing a film, but for those who would like a more personal experience, there are electronic headsets that, when donned, will show the latest James Bond film. (Am I the only one, I wonder, who thinks that any film title that includes “Quantum of Solace” should be preceded by the words “Harry Potter And The ”? No matter.) Moving on, there’s a pool table, several video game machines, and aha! We must be in the children’s area, because here’s a unit that is filled with all kinds of sweets. Beyond that is the office area, screened by a glass wall, and looking like a well-appointed study. Floor to ceiling bookcases line the room, with what look like useful reference tomes, and there are laptops and printers available. You can use your own laptop anywhere in the lounge, of course, and take advantage of the free Wi-Fi, but the office area is for those who need a quiet environment.

Next to the office is the restaurant, serving anything from eggs Benedict to a three course meal, and here’s the cold buffet. And beyond that is the concierge, where we started, so it must be time to go back to the bar. I’m in the mood for a cocktail.

Now these lads can knock up any number of mixed drinks, and they even know the difference between a Martini and a Gimlet. However, they also reckon they can make “the perfect” Manhattan and I’m something of an expert on that particular tincture. When I left college, many years ago, with the imprint of the Principal’s boot fresh on my hind quarters, I was employed by a hotel as a cocktail barman, and my Manhattans were reckoned to be particularly fine by my customers. (I might add that my St. Raphael Roll Yer Eyeballs were also much appreciated by chaps hopeful of a romantic conclusion to the evening, it being compared only to Rohypnol for the effect it had on the object of their affection. Recipe supplied to low types and cads on application with the usual fee. But I digress.)

The trick with a Manhattan is to use both sweet and dry vermouths, to avoid the Martini brand due to it being a bit sudden, to forget the Maraschino cherry and to avoid Jack Daniels entirely. A JD mixed with sweet Martini is a toothsome concoction, especially if a cherry is plunged into it, but a Manhattan it ain’t, despite what many books will tell you. So come on, chaps, let’s see what you can do. “Certainly, sir – where are you sitting?” Well, there’s a fair old choice… there’s stools at the bar, there’s lots of armchairs, sofas, heavily padded seats with footrests and even an Eames Classic or two… I indicate a comfy chair and settle into it. A minute or so later, my Manhattan arrives. Well, no cherry, so five points immediately, now for the taste…

I can report that they do, indeed, know how to make the perfect Manhattan, and that, despite any previous claim to proficiency, I do not. Gaw, it was lovely.

As I’m finishing my cocktail, a gentle voice confides that the 18:00 to Johannesburg is ready for boarding. Making a mental note to get to the Upper Class lounge a little earlier next time (a few days earlier should do it), I strap on the heavy rucksack and grab the cabin bag. As I walk to the gate, it occurs to me that nobody has bothered to weigh them.

“Hello Mr McCulloch” says a smiling member of the cabin crew. “You’re upstairs.” Upstairs? Oh yes, this is a 747, and the upper deck is reserved for us lucky buggers who are going to get a bed for the night. “Can I get you a glass of champagne?” enquires another smiling one, as I’m struggling off the rucksack and wondering where to put it. Hmm, they say you shouldn’t drink too much on a plane, what with the pressurisation and that, but it’s too late, my mouth has already said “Yes, please!” Meanwhile, another polite person has whipped away my bag and rucksack to stow them, no doubt also making a note to tell the captain to give it a bit of extra welly on the starboard jet on take-off, what with there being a fat bloke with heavy baggage in seat K10.

Seat K10 is unlike any airline seat I’ve ever seen. On the face of it, I recognise the major elements of a seat – there’s a padded area to stick your bum on, and there’s a backrest – but there’s also a footstool, and walls that screen one from all but the heads of other passengers. Set into the left wall are a series of buttons that control the angle of the seat, from quite severely upright to staring at the ceiling. My inner child could play with them for hours, and my outer child plays with them for several seconds until exactly the right degree of ease is achieved, i.e. as laid back as it’s possible to get without spilling the champagne as I drink it.

The seats face diagonally into the cabin, which means that the window is just over my right shoulder, and there are only two rows, so nobody is disturbed if anyone wants to get up and walk around. Oh, and here’s a present! A “sleep pack”, containing toothbrush and toothpaste, flight socks, earplugs and a sleep mask, rolled inside a handy bag to carry away the booty. Gosh, here’s another bonus item! A member of cabin crew is distributing black bags containing “sleep suits”, whatever they are. She’s expertly sized the passengers and is handing out packs marked “Small”, “Medium”, “Large” and “Push hard on the loud pedal if we’re to achieve takeoff speed with this one aboard”. Well, that’s what mine said, anyway.

I buckle up the leather-padded seatbelt – honestly, there are certain London clubs where you’d have to pay quite large sums for this treatment – and await takeoff. Hang on, we’re not done yet… “I’ve got some goodies” remarks a Virgin lady. She has, indeed, but most people don’t remark on them quite so publicly. “Help yourself.” Hello, things are really looking up… oh, I see, she’s proffering a basket filled with pens, lip balm, Polo mints and shaving requisites. Virgin pen, anyone? I’ve got lots!

Eventually, the 747 is pushed out and begins to taxi to the runway. I always like take-off, so I adjust my seat in order to look out of the window. Minutes later, I’m enjoying lifting off from Heathrow in a position I never thought I’d see it from – laying near-prone on my side.

We climb over southern England, and the seatbelt light is switched off. People get up and start moving around as I consult my entertainment guide to choose what film to watch. It’s not going to be easy, because there’s hundreds, and there’s TV shows, radio programmes, music channels, CDs and even videogames to play on the screen that folds out of the right hand wall. I have a game of “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire”, and fail to become one.

I glance up, and am alerted to a worrying turn of events. The cabin appears to have been invaded by black-clad Ninja warriors. They’re everywhere… oh, hang on, this must be the sleep suit we’ve been issued with. Maybe I should change out of my suit and House of Lords tie. (I wear the tie when flying so that I’m picked for any upgrades that might be going, and in retrospect it was an insane idea to wear it on this flight. I mean, the only possible upgrade would be to pilot.)

The sleep suit consists of a thin black T-shirt, and trousers made from the same material. They are the most comfortable clothes I’ve ever worn, and they’re another freebie. I’m wearing them as I write, and I daresay Richard Branson wears them at every opportunity.

Back at the seat, a smiling one perches on my footstool. “I’ve got spiced nuts”, she says. No, I don’t give in to the obvious response, but I can’t help giving her a Certain Look. She can’t help herself, she tries to contain it, but I’m not helping much either, and body-shaking laughter engulfs us both. As we recover, she gives me what all men will recognise as the Naughty Reproving Look, explains that spiced nuts or crisps are on offer with the pre-dinner drink, and what would I like? I’ll take the nuts and a Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic, thanks. And for dinner? Well, the honey-roasted parsnip soup looks inviting, as does an African dish of lamb, and the apple pie with custard sounds good. She notes down my order… “Now, wine?” “Fair enough. Pleeeease can I have the soup, lamb and pie?” “No, fool, what do you want to drink with dinner? And anyway, that joke doesn’t work in reported speech.” I settle on a dry white with the soup and a fruity red with the lamb.

Dinner is served on the table that pops out of the right hand wall, on proper china plates with proper metal cutlery, and on a tablecloth, too. The salt and pepper shakers are rather fun, being little plastic aeroplanes with feet where the wheels should be. As I’m admiring them, I notice that stamped on the underside of the feet is the message “Pinched from Virgin Atlantic”. As my soup dish is removed, I ask “Do you get many of these pinched, then?” “Oh yes, ever such a lot. Shove them in your bag if you want.” So I do. At this rate, I’m going to be taking half the plane with me when I disembark. (Seriously, how much do you want for one of these seats, Richard?)

Dinner is consumed as I listen to two episodes of “I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue” on some rather superior noise-cancelling headphones. Now, would I care for some cheese? Do you know, I would… but which one? “Shall I bring a selection?” Yes, that would probably be best. “And some port?” Oh, why not? “Coffee?” Uh, no… because coffee is my biggest temptation to smoke, and I really wish you hadn’t mentioned it…

For it is now that the demons that have been lurking in the background, whispering in my ear and nudging me with their tiny arms, the demons I had tried my best to ignore, rise up and tear at me with their claws.

I want a fag. Oh, man, do I ever want a fag. How much do I want a fag? Put it this way, I’m prepared to sign over my house and all that is in it if the flight crew will allow me to open a door and walk out onto the wing in order to have one. Time to chew some gum, chum.

I know the powerful hold that nicotine exerts on me, so I’m doubtful that nicotine-laced gum will replace a full drag on a Marlboro, but gum is all I’ve got, so I give it a go. A few chews to release the flavour, recommends the instructions, then shove the wad in your cheek.

Well, who knew? After a minute or so, I’d quite like to smoke, but it’s become a choice, rather than a “holding the captain at gunpoint” affair. I don’t want to give up, but if I did, gum might well be my route to a snout-free future. And now, with the demons shrunk to entirely manageable proportions, it’s time for more pleasure!

Firstly, I think I’ll see where I am, so I call up the in-flight information and realise with some surprise that we’re somewhere over Algeria. In fact, if it wasn’t dark, I’d be looking down on the Sahara Desert. This 747 is certainly quicker than the FlyBe prop-jobs I’ve been used to on the weekly commute to Glasgow. Now for the film.

Back goes the seat, yes thanks, a brandy or two will go well with “Indiana Jones and The Crystal Skull”, and later, so will several Jack Daniels with Coke. I can’t recommend the film, but I’ll happily recommend the brandy. To close the evening’s entertainment, a couple of episodes of “Family Guy”, a final look at where we are (somewhere over the Democratic Republic of Congo, but as DRC is the size of Western Europe, that’s not much help) then I’m ready to go to sleep. It’s going to be an early start tomorrow – the plane lands at 07:10 and South Africa is two hours ahead of the UK. So let’s make the bed.

Standing up, I press another button on the control panel (yes of course there was an instruction manual, what do you think I am, a techie?) and with certain complicated moves, the seat and footstool turn into a six and a half foot bed. A light mattress goes on top, I go on top of that, and finally a duvet is unfolded and spread over. Well, the pillow could have been a little firmer, and the mattress a little less firm, but as my eyes close I reflect that I’m a damn sight more comfortable than the folks in Economy… Sleep claims me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be starting our descent into Johannesburg in twenty minutes and I’ll be switching the seatbelt light on, so if you need to move around, you ought to do it now” explains the Captain. Move around? Does that mean I have to get out of bed? I suppose it does… yes, and change back into the suit. Breakfast choices are made from a large selection of cereals, fruit, breads, spreads and cooked items. I’d love to say that I went for the full English, but I’ve never been a fan of black pudding early in the day, so I go for the bacon roll (“Tomato or brown sauce, sir?” Ohhh, the service is very, very good) and some toast with Frank Cooper’s Oxford marmalade. Is there any other?

The 747 drops through the low cloud that has obscured the ground, and all at once, outside it’s Africa. My knowledge of the continent being mainly gained from The Beano and BBC nature programmes, I’m slightly disappointed by the lack of jungle, elephants and pygmies, but I see a palm tree, so that’s all right.

We land, we taxi, we disembark, and I’m once again a plain ordinary traveller in an airport, and as we all know, that is never a particularly pleasurable experience. No private Immigration or Customs channel for Virgin Upper Class here at Jo’burg, we queue with all the rest. Still, there’s the prospect of a Virgin limousine to my hotel in Pretoria to cheer me as I wait.

It’s about 30 minutes to clear Immigration, where I’m issued with a six month Temporary Resident Permit (coo, I think that means that I live here!), then more walking before I reach Customs. I’m hurrying through the green channel when I’m hailed by a Customs Officer – “Excuse me, boss, can you come with me?” Great, just what I need… a random inspection. I follow him to a side room. “Anything to declare, boss?” No, not a thing, and I know better than to make jokes about not having any cocaine, guns or diamonds. “I think you have…” he says, pointing to a board that explains what may be imported to South Africa free of duty, his finger hovering specifically over the line that reads “200 cigarettes.”

Did I mention that I’m carrying a transparent plastic bag with a pack of 600 Marlboro in it?

The Customs Officer is perfectly happy to deal kindly with the winner of today’s Most Useless Smuggler award. He dispenses with any fine and simply charges me the relevant rate of duty, which is still much less than the British price of Marlboros. Speaking of which, my hell is nearly over – no more than 100 yards away is the Arrivals Hall, and beyond that I can see glass doors to the street, where smoking is allowed! I’ll just find my driver and explain that I need a few minutes to change some money and um, “get some fresh air”, then we’ll be off to the hotel, where I’ve arranged to meet the other members of my team by the pool. Actually, my plan is to be in the pool, with a large beer when we meet, quite possibly chain-smoking.

As it happens, I can’t spot my driver immediately, but nicotine frenzy drags me to the street. Oh, goodness me, but that’s better. Back in the Arrivals Hall, I still can’t find my driver, but there’s quite a crowd… better change some money while I have the chance. £50 swiftly becomes 689 Rand, and now I’m ready to go. I still can’t see anybody holding a board reading “Mr McCulloch”, but there’s certainly fewer people… “Can I help, sir? You look in need of some assistance” asks a friendly chap holding a clipboard. I explain my problem, and he looks serious. “I haven’t seen any Virgin limousines this morning… but Avis usually provide the cars for them, we could check at the Avis desk.” Yes, let’s. We start walking and I start getting warmer, then very much damper when we walk outside, where it’s not excessively warm, but very humid. Back into the airport by another entrance, then more walking, this isn’t the welcome to Africa I was hoping for.

The Avis desk can’t help, beyond confirming that yes, they provide cars for Virgin Atlantic and no, there is nothing booked in my name. Well, shall we try the Virgin desk; no doubt they can sort something out. Perhaps they could, if they were open, but there’s a sign informing me that they will remain closed until 16:00, some eight hours away. Naturally, I don’t have a phone number for Virgin – in fact, I don’t even know if my phone works here. My new friend can’t help me any further, I press 20 rand on him, and he walks away. Right, one last check in the Arrivals Hall, then.

One long and damp walk back, and it’s becoming ever clearer. I’m in a country that I know very little about, at an airport I don’t know, with unknown transport links… and I’m going to have to get myself from Johannesburg to Pretoria under my own steam.

Let me, therefore, add a note to my opening statement. Come the revolution, comrades, it’s Upper Class for all. Whoever was responsible for mucking up my transfer from airport to hotel, however, will be dragged in front of a People’s Court, swiftly convicted and strung up by their giblets.