A BETTER SORT OF CLUB CLASS
Digby Anderson argues that
airlines should cater for those who just want to be left alone
IT'S 13 HOURS-plus flying between Lon- don and Kuala Lumpur. I'm sorry, KL. Travel literature says that 'everyone' refers to Kuala Lumpur 'affectionately as KL'. Musing about this odd inference (why should abbreviation be assumed to be affection?) would be a pleasant way to pass the first of these hours. And then, the plea- sure of a good read and a doze.
Not a chance. The first interruption comes almost immediately. A lady comes down the aisle offering everyone a tepid, damp, rather thin flannel on the end of a pair of tongs. The second is when the northerner seated nearby buries his face in his flannel and makes a noise like a sea- lion showing off. Coming up for air, he nudges his wife: 'This is the life, eh? I said, this is the life.' She unfolds her flannel, Carefully wipes her fingers and wrists, then shoves it up her jumper sleeve to wipe inside her elbow; then there is a major con- tortion which rocks the seat in front, as she scrubs the back of her neck. The child in front starts crying.
There's another interruption as the flan- nels are eventually collected. The airline has managed to turn the safety demonstra- tion into two interruptions. First, there is the loudhailer announcing the safety film. Then there is the film, ending, lest anyone should have slumbered off, with a blow on the alarm whistle. Then a relentless succession: headsets being distributed, announcements about the 'movie', mes- sages from the captain about speed and feet, orange juice and more orange juice in Plastic glasses. As the seat-belt signs go off, the first of many chaps passes in a sort of lavatory-conga. It's about as peaceful as Euston station on a Friday evening.
Soon there will be drinks. There are dif- ferent drinks systems on different airlines. Some give you very little so that you have to call them asking for more, thus increas- ing the number of interruptions twice per drink (once to ask, once to receive), until the thimblefuls either exhaust or satiate. Others, notably British Airways, are more instantly generous. Their staff appear to have been trained to spot a man who likes a glass and offer a proper amount at once with a cheerful, 'Would you like another, sir, perhaps three?' This means less work for the servers and less interruptions. How- ever, even they insist that one's generous ration of claret be obtained from dozens of mean, dwarfish bottles which then clutter up the place, overflow from the pouch in front and onto the seat where they slip under your bottom, and wake you up very suddenly when you stretch in the middle of the night. Why they can't dispense with the whole show and let customers bring their own claret in proper bottles, I don't know. This, though, they explicitly forbid.
This particular airline — an Eastern one — is slow with its thimbles but quick with `clinner'flunch'. Oh, I had forgotten anoth- er interruption earlier when `menus' were handed out. Indeed I may have got several interruptions in the wrong order: they sort of blur together. The food is disgusting no worse than other airlines, but somehow one expects better from fine culinary cul- tures such as theirs. I suppose it's catering for the British. Again, it would be much better if everyone brought his own lunch, then the masses could eat cold chips and the rest a dozen oysters, a little cold par- tridge and some Stilton. The food fuss is even less excusable on shorter flights. I recall a London to Geneva one which insisted on mounting the major interruption of lunch during an 80-odd- minute flight. Who are these persons who can't go three or four hours without being fed? It is no better in business class. Airline thinking seems to be: 'The more you pay, the more good things we have to interrupt you with,' whereas everyone knows the only reasons anyone goes business class are to have a bit more room and get away from the tattoos.
For quite a long while after the meal one is left surrounded by debris. This sits on trays which sit on other trays fixed into the seats. All of which means no one can move. That is good because it gives a little peace, but bad because, as soon as the debris is cleared (another interruption), the person furthest from the aisle in each row, his bowels excited by the warm cardboard chicken and tasteless coffee, scrambles over the intervening passengers, squeezes past the debris-collection cart and surges off to the lats.
The film is one long interruption. When it is over, there is some peace. Three hours before arrival the riot lumbers into life again: more bloody orange juice, more tow- els, ghastly omelette floating in warm water and worse fish, debris and the bowel-conga. It's a much longer one this time since each lavatory occupant engages in prolonged washing, and ceremoniously changes his mauve and yellow shiny track-suit for a red and green one. Then there is the proces- sion for the distribution of landing docu- ments (which could easily have been given out at check-in), and the repeat procession for the several persons who did not get theirs first time because they were doing the track-suit routine in the lavatory. Duty-free', like 'safety' is two interrup- tions, even three sometimes; an announce- ment, procession for orders and even a film. As one crawls wearily off the plane, Hornblower almost untouched, the north- erner says, 'They do look after you, don't they?'
What is needed is a new ultra-economy class, Garbo Class (or 'GC', as we would affectionately sell it), one where we are left alone. No stewards of any kind, no food or drink distributed (we bring our own), no film, no music, no headsets, no flannels, no orange juice, safety explained on a sheet, no landing document distribution, no duty- free. Just peace and quiet; not exactly silence, but the sort of quiet one gets in the libraries of the better clubs.
Previous page
