This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
Ground Staff
Food & Drink
Entertainment
Seat
Cabin Crew
Its always struck me that two weeks in the Caribbean is never enough. Over the years, when weve reached the inevitable end of our fortnights 'vacances', we invariably find ourselves pining, longing, for one more week. We tried staying for seventeen nights one year, and the effect was just the same. Well, I can now confirm that after three blissful weeks of basking resplendently in the Bajan sun we were still left feeling that we needed just seven more days, then we would be satisfied, sated, replete, so to speak, and ready for home. The moral of which, I believe, is you cant have too much of a good thing. Hardly surprising, but there you have it.
Wed certainly had a jolly-holly, despite the middle week leaving your courageous correspondent all-but prostrate with a leg and foot swollen to the size of a small Zeppelin. It was originally thought that it might be a jellyfish sting, but was soon diagnosed as an infected insect bite. Just in time, as it happened, as I was getting dangerously close to following our Uncle Scrooges suggestion for treating jellyfish stings something I dont believe Ive done since I was about three (and even then on a purely involuntary basis) and I wasnt relishing the thought of trying again aged 38.
Rest assured, a course of antibiotics, an oversized and frankly unnecessary bandage and a few days sitting on my sun lounger with my leg in the air (sterling beach-side drinks service from Mrs V must be noted here) and I was right as rain. Once back on my feet we made up for lost time: a submarine trip, a visit to the wildlife reserve to see monkeys eat and tortoises hump (no, really) and a superlative trip out on the Silvermoon catatmaran.
I must have been pretty chilled come our last night, because I didnt even freak when I discovered that we wouldnt be able to complete online check-in as it opened due to a dinner reservation (although I did try to find out if the restaurant had wi-fi, which it didnt). Still, we were back at the hotel and checked-in for the following days flight about 2 hours after it opened, so no great shakes there.
The MAN flight back from Barbados is a pretty late departure 20:40 to be precise but as the delightful folk at Treasure Beach were happy to let us keep our suite on until we left, who were we to care? It gave us the best part of an extra days holiday. Wed booked a car (of the over-air-conditioned and cavernous variety much loved by the Family mdvipond) for about 6 o clock so after a host of good-byes to guests and staff alike and one last dance for Tizer with Michael the barman (sans music), we found ourselves BGI-bound soon after the hour.
Arriving at the airport, our driver took it upon himself to park on the opposite side of the road from the drop-off zone, which meant that our menagerie of cases was going to have to be hauled down one over-sized kerb, over said road, and up the equally vertiginous kerb at the other side, all in 85 degree heat. Not to worry, one of those ever-eager skycap chappies will be over to help us. Or so we hoped.
As it happened, four burly skycap chappies watched with vaguely disguised amusement as we struggled to man-handle our luggage, piece-by-piece, betwixt one kerb and the other whilst trying to make sure Tizer didnt hurl herself in front of a taxi. Once everything was safely on the other side, then they rushed forward to help with our cases. Two words: forget it. I could spy Upper Class check-in some hundred or so yards across the concourse, and there was no way that any work-shy skycap was going to get a tip for that when wed just done all the hard work ourselves. Its often been said that a Yorkshireman is like a Scot whos had the generosity beaten out of him, and I sometimes relish in proving this adage true. So, eschewing the helpful offers of the skycaps, we once again employed our One Man & His Dog approach to luggage herding with Tizer proving indispensible in the role of Dog.
A cheery security representative, looking ever-so-slightly bemused as we approached, quickly grabbed one of the larger cases from Tizer and guided us straight up to UC check-in, which was very kind of her. Check-in was quick and painless and the agent efficient and pleasant in that theyre-not-really-being-surly-its-just-their-way style that many Barbadians have. You get used to it after a while, and they don't really mean anything by it. I think it probably comes from having to deal with obnoxious Americans on a daily basis.
In stark contrast, the gentleman checking passports and boarding passes prior to security was a delight (although he did confess to being Antiguan rather Barbadian). And security itself was deserted and an absolute breeze due, Im sure, to the late hour of our flight. We collected the rum n cigs wed bought earlier in the holiday from the appropriate Duty Free desk and made our merry way up to the executive lounge.
Its a nice lounge, with a decent selection of food including corned beef sandwiches which Tizer and I gorged ourselves on, much to Mrs Vs disgust and all the usual beers and spirits. I poured myself a large Tanqueray (not 10) and tonic and surveyed the rest of the lounge lizards. I quickly surmised that as we were just about the only flight still to depart that evening, everyone in the lounge must be on VS078 with us. This allowed me to appraise my fellow passengers-to-be before we even got on the plane. So, who did we have? There was pair of business travellers, plugged into their laptops, a well-to-do-looking couple drinking Evian (very sensible, I thought, taking another slurp of gin) and two families with, seemingly well-behaved children a bit older than Tizer.
Then there was the middle-aged married couple who settled on the sofas adjacent to us. Him: grey-haired, heavy set, overly-loud Hawaiian shirt, sweating profusely with a face like thunder. Her: silver-blonde, sour-faced and chuntering slightly too-loudly for polite company.
This is the last time you and me are coming on holiday together, Ill tell you that for nothing.
Fair nuff, he replied.
Youre selfish. Selfish. Thats what you are. The most selfish man Ive ever met. Do you hear me?
I hear you. He clearly wasnt biting, and this was only making things worse.
The last time! Dya hear??
I. Hear. You. Sounding tense now. Maybe he was going to snap. I hoped so.
Im not really one for Coronation Street far from it in fact but when its a toss up between this or CNN playing incessantly to itself on the various TVs around the lounge, the Corrie Characters were winning hands down. My entertainment came to a crashing halt, however, when Tizer piped up with: Why is that old lady telling that man off? in that carrying kind of voice that only a three year old can truly master. Well, that put pay to my fun as the Corrie Characters stopped in mid-flow to give daughter dear and subsequently my good self an icy stare before settling into an ill-tempered silence. Shame, Id loved to have known what hed done to deserve such a berating.
However, the silence was not to last long. There was an unpleasant noise coming down the corridor that led into the lounge. Familiar, yet grating; chirpy, yet annoying. I realised too late what it was. Oh dear god: Scousers! They appeared one by one through the lounge doors, a whole bloody brood of em, possibly three generations although as with people from Hull or some of the squarer states of America its often hard to tell. There were nine of them all told: a baby, four slack-jawed children of various ages, and four adults of intermediate age, one or more of who seemed to be assuming but only just the role of responsible parent/guardian.
And there could be no doubt about it they were on our flight. How could the gods be so cruel? What had we done to deserve this? Was I to have survived near fatal gas-gangrene of the leg the previous week only to be dealt the blow of spending the next 10 hours of my life with the Chav-Scouser Family From Hell? They spread themselves over the remaining two sets of sofas, slung their knock-off Louis Vuitton bags (complete with Sandy Lane tags - they must have loved them there) across the floor and commenced to chirrup away between themselves:
Ey, this is grrreat innit?; Ere, our Beth, tekka a looook at this lo; Ey, da, you wanna a beer or wo?
I have, dear reader, nothing against those who hail from the fair city of Liverpool. Theyre an OK bunch, by-and-by. But this lot were like the bastard spawn of the redundant cast of Brookside crossed with the worst elements of the Kop on a Saturday afternoon. And it wasn't just me who'd noticed them. Well-to-do-looking couple had already pulled their hand luggage closer to themselves and the solo business travellers were hastily putting their laptops away. The Corrie Characters were now holding hands and staring on with barely suppressed trepidation.
When boarding for our flight was announced the majority of passengers all but bolted for the door, with the Chav-Scousers in hot pursuit; but we had to take Tizer to the loo before we were able to head downstairs. This meant that we were at the back of the modest queue for a very well marked Priority Boarding lane which - as long as they held the massed ranks of Y passengers back until I'd boarded - was fine by me. Then a sound to strike an icy stab to even the hardest man's heart:
'Bing-Bong' - 'Would passenger mdvipond please make themselves known to a member of staff at the departure desk?'.
What now? Hadn't I suffered enough? Short of having left Tizer sat on the toilet (I checked - no still with us) I couldn't think of any reason short of a death in the family why I should be 'Bing-Bonged' like this.
We squeezed and 'excuse-me'd' our way to the front of the queue and made ourselves known to a VS agent. She explained that they had a small problem that they were hoping we could help them with: they had a family with a baby who'd like to sit together and our seats were splitting them up. She pointed out, very reasonably and politely, that we didn't have to move and that she'd take us onto the plane first to see which seats they would like to reallocate us to.
I wasn't immensely impressed, but had briefly wondered if this might happen when selecting our seats (back in July!). We'd gone for 1 & 2A and 2D, and I was aware at the time that 1D was a bassinet position, but as we were leaving it free Id hoped that it wouldn't be an issue.
We were led onto the plane by the agent (boarding at the forward door, so deprived of our 'turn left') to be confronted by the family in question. It was, of course, the Family From Hell - the Chav-Scousers - and they already seemed more than settled in our seats. If fact, two of them were so relaxed they appeared to be having a pillow fight. The agent's smile tightened as she showed us to seats 4A and 4 & 5D. They were fine, really, but Mrs V quite rightly felt pretty put out by the situation pointing out that we'd selected our seats 10 months ago. The agent was very understanding and - by now having to raise her voice over the boisterous Chav-Scousers - reiterated that we didn't have to move, it was our choice, but it was so that the Family From Hell could sit together.
And then, the agent's day got much worse. Whilst the Chav-Scousers were still relaxing into their seats, entirely oblivious of the goings-on around them, the lady in 7D stood up: 'Well', she said, 'if this is all about sitting with family, I've been split up from my husband and would like to sit with him'. All of a sudden, it was like that famous scene from 'Spartacus'. The gentleman in 6A stood and said he'd like to sit with his wife and daughter. A lady from the K side of the cabin was on her feet to say that if musical chairs was the order of the day shed like to be seated with her partner.
It was at this point that I expected the agent to burst into tears, have a spontaneous nervous breakdown or, at the very least, storm off the plane, but she did a sterling job of placating almost everyone - us included.
To be fair, Mrs V and I had had time to confer during the Spartacus moment and had realised - setting pride aside - that we were much better off moving and allowing the Chav-Scousers to sit together than we were - god forbid - in staying put and finding ourselves amongst them. So it was settled, and an exceptionally relieved VS agent was finally allowed to disembark from the plane.
Sensing the coast was clear, the crew who had hidden in the galley throughout the seating debacle ventured out into the cabin. Theyd done a marvelous job of making themselves scarce whilst the lone VS agent sorted the seating out. This was because either (a) its not deemed as part of the cabin crews job or, (b) they were avoiding the situation and being thoroughly unprofessional. I stand to be corrected either way. As for the Family From Hell - not once did they acknowledge the mayhem they caused, and not once did they offer as much as an apology or a thank-you which, joking apart, stinks.
Incidentally, another bonus of moving seats was that Chav-Scouser baby had now redecorated one of the original suites with the contents of his/her stomach, which one of the brood were mopping up with aid of a pillow cover. Sleep suits had just been dolled out to them too, with which one of the younger girls was delighted.
Grreat, she beamed, holding up the sleep suit. A trackie!. Her companion, however, was less impressed, claiming that shed expected the suit to be an all-in-one affair. Why shed think VS would supply romper suits to business class passengers is beyond me, but perhaps that's something to consider next time Neil flies in UC...
Take-off was a comparatively swift and quiet affair after all the fuss that had ensued previously. Tizer had been popped into her pyjamas before hand so that we could bed her down as soon as the seat-belt sign went off. Drinks orders were taken. I asked if there were any limes on board and was told certainly, sir, but was still far from surprised when my T10&T arrived five minutes later with a sickly slice of lemon. I didnt really care; the fight had gone out of me and to the credit of the FA serving me when I ummed and ahhed indecisively to the offer of crisps or nuts, she gave me both.
And then something quite unexpected, possibly even miraculous happened: all the Chav-Scousers quietly got into bed! Praise be to God, Allah, Vishnu or whatever deity takes you fancy they were tucked up tight and fast asleep in minutes, bless their white, terry-towelling socks! Id had visions of pillow fights through the night, bawdy drinking sessions and arm-wrestling at the bar or midnight forays to see if they could nick the hub caps off the plane wheels; but they were all - each and every scally out for the count. Was the crews apparent reluctance to come out of the galley just a ruse? Could they, perhaps, have been doctoring certain passengers drinks? I guess well never know...
Mrs V was sat with Tizer, who was now tucked up in bed but proving less able to get to sleep than your average Liverpudlian. Dinner orders were being taken, and Mrs V asked if hers could be held back until daughter dear had become a denizen of the Land of Nod. No problem. I ordered the spicy roast veggie soup and the navarin (what the hells a navarin?) of lamb.
A second T10 was delivered and another plate of nuts, so I settled back to watch a film. Yes Man, with Jim Carey. Very funny, slightly gross (the bit where the old lady takes her teeth out put me right of my nuts, so to speak). My soup arrived: ah, back to form - warm, gloopy(ish) and very tasty. Mrs Vs starter a prawn salad came out at the same time, but Tizer wasnt quite away with the fairies yet. She politely asked the FA again if she could wait until our little girl was asleep. Of course. No problem.
The lamb followed, and it turns out that navarin is a poncey word for stew. And a very nice stew it was too. As ever, not what I remember from the good old days of UC food, but at least by sticking to slow cooked style dishes theres less room for mucking them up. They also brought out Mrs Vs salad again but as Tizer was still awake my good lady, with a patience she seldom shows at home, indicated to the not-yet-slumbering three-year-old and sent the FA, once more, back to the galley. I know theyre always keen on night flights to get everyone fed, watered and bedded down, but some of us do still need the freedom allegedly offered by the Freedom menu.
I enjoyed a nice Viognier with the soup (really nice, one of my faves) and I think a Spanish red with the lamb. Also very good. Dinner was brought to a close with a plate of pleasant cheeses and I jest not a tumbler full of port. I commented to the FA on the generosity of the measure and she told me, in no uncertain terms, that at least it would help me sleep. Christ why dont they just chloroform us when we first board and have it done with?
Tizer was finally asleep, Mrs V was already tucking into her main course of grilled chicken (rated as OK) and my film came to an amusing if slightly shmoltzy end. I woozily got up to stretch my legs (the port may not have sedated me yet, but I was certainly aware Id had half a pint of the stuff). I only got as far as Mrs Vs suite, as shed just taken delivery of her own cheese platter of which I was still peckish enough to partake. We had a chat with the very pleasant couple in the next two suites now reunited thanks to the Spartacus moment and invited them up to the bar, but they declined and, most wisely, took to their beds.
No to be deterred, Mrs V and I propped ourselves at the bar, joining another couple of passengers who seemed to have been there since shortly after take-off. Another couple of glasses of red was all I had in me, and we were bidding everyone a slightly tipsy Gnight and tottering off to change into PJs and thence to bed. The port must have worked, cause I was out like a light and got a solid three hours before breakfast smells and cabin movement woke me. Mrs V was rousing too, but Tizer and the Scousers were still fast asleep. Not being one for breakfast so soon after cheese, port and red wine, I had a couple of large espressos in fast succession which quickly made me feel vaguely human again.
Tizer woke as we were passing over a green and sunny Ireland and, once she was changed out of her pyjamas, we secured her back in her seat, packed up iPods and QC2s and prepared for landing, which was reassuringly uneventful. We taxied for ages though, and I realised we were heading for a remote stand a first for me in over 10 years of flying VS. What did impress me wasnt just the usual priority disembarking for UC passengers, but the fact that we were given our own bus back to the terminal as soon as we were all off. Nice touch.
Swiftly through immigration, cases off the baggage carousel inside three minutes and we were soon reuniting Tizer with her waiting Grandad.
So, a good flight? Had it not been for the stress caused with the Chav-Scousers and their game of musical chairs, it would have been close to excellent. To be fair, the VS agent at BGI had handled things exceptionally well and the Family From Hell did turn into the Family Who Didnt Make A Muff for the vast majority of the flight. The T10&T was, as ever, lacking lime (but what the hell, next flight itll be lacking T10!), the repeated attempts to force dinner on Mrs V were wearing and the food itself could still be a lot better than it is. But yes, a good flight indeed.
Nothing booked for the foreseeable now, but 300K miles in our FC accounts are burning a proverbial hole in the virtual pocket. What to do, what to do...
