This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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I know the vast majority of cognisant, sane folk would probably edit that to never host (nor attend) a Eurovision Song Contest party period but we just cant help ourselves. Nothing we can do about it; its a strange and compelling hunger for the kitsch and the bizarre, for anti-British, pro-Eastern European voting and for the sage and wise words of the Eurovision Grandmaster himself Sir Terry. As the credits rolled he summed this years contest up beautifully, saying: Well, its been yet another fantastic evening not musically, of course....
But I digress all too soon. Earlier in the day we had tried and failed to check-in online. We were, as ever, travelling with our darling daughter, the over-indulged, jet-setting toddler we like to call mdvipond jr., and the VS website took no time at all in informing us that infants travelling to the US cannot be checked-in online. Please check-in at the airport.
Now, you see, this bothers me because, (a) weve done OLCI before when travelling to the States with jr. without any problems at all and - perhaps a little more pertinently - (b) we werent going to the States; we were going to Barbados. We phoned FC to see if things could be sorted. The lady at FC informed us, in a manner so condescending the she could have won the Patricia Hewitt Award for Condescension, that, infants travelling to the US cant be checked in online. Not never. No how.
Yes, replies the Mrs., but were not going to the US'... You can probably guess the rest, as we quickly entered into computer says no territory.
After a brief lesson in rudimentary geography she transferred us to UC reservations, who advised that we should try doing OLCI in Mrs. mdviponds name instead of mine. This worked, after a fashion, allowing us to input dates of birth and passport nos., before falling at the last fence and advising us to try again later. Most frustrating. After a few more doomed attempts I gave in and decided to go to Update Your Booking to see if, at the very least, we still had our pre-requested seats. We didnt our seat selection was None, so we contacted reservations once again to find out what the bejesus was going on. They had no idea, but contacted the rather ominous sounding Heathrow Seat Allocation and got us our beloved 6A & K back.
I then and Im willing to admit that I was being just a tad foolhardy here tried OLCI one more time. Same result, to the extent that when I went back to Update Your Booking our seats had disappeared again. Can anyone see a pattern forming here? I got back onto the nice lady at reservations, who once more got our seats back and suggested - in the politest and most patient tone possible - that I leave OLCI the hell alone. Instead, she kindly said that she would e-mail the check-in desk at MAN to let them know we were definitely flying and not to release our seats, meaning that we could arrive and hour before the flight. Result.
And so, it was the morning after the night before and we were wending our weary, thick-headed and furry-tongued way the wrong way (its a Yorkshire thing) over the Pennines. For this year, dear reader, we were due to sample the downtrodden delights of MAN, the black sheep of VSs UK departure airports, deemed to be the proverbial Ugly Duckling to the more swan-like apparitions of LHR and LGW. Or rather like the ginger one out of Girls Aloud.
It being a Sunday, and pleasantly congestion free, we made the Leeds to MAN roadtrip in little over an hour, and Mrs. mdvipond dropped me outside departures with our luggage. Now, whilst Id had a slight inkling when loading the car earlier that the cases seemed both heavier and more numerous than usual, I had, at the time, put it down to the effects of the previous nights activities. By the time wed reached the airport, however, I quickly became aware that Mrs. mdvipond had made the very best of the UC baggage allowance. You see, we normally fly from LGW or LHR which means we have to catch a connecting flight with BMI or some-such giving us a weight limit only slightly greater than Kiera Knightlys lunch box (or Kiera Knightly herself, whichever is heavier).
This time, though, it was UC all the way and Mrs. mdvipond had done a sterling job of using as much of the rather generous allowance as she could, apparently filling any gaps within the cases with bricks for good measure. As she drove off to park the car I was left outside departures with a mountain of weighty luggage the like of which had probably not been seen at an airport since Tony Blair set off on his Vanity Farewell World Tour. And he didnt have a badly packed unruly hang-glider to contend with (jr.s Bugaboo stroller, for the uninitiated, specifically designed to be slightly larger, or, at the very least, a slightly different shape, to any car, taxi, check-in facility or security x-ray machine. Mothers think they are the proverbial knees of the bee itself; fathers, ie. those who have to man-handle the damn things, tend to disagree albeit quietly).
I managed to load this ensemble onto just two luggage trolleys a task fit for any budding Krypton Factor contestant and proceeded to check-in, experiencing only two luggalanches (a word, Im proud to say, of my own making derived from the words luggage and avalanche) and one occurrence of running over my own jacket. I waited patiently in front of check-in where Mrs. mdvipond and jr. soon joined me, and noted that another family were checking into UC with exactly the same unruly hang-glider as us. The other over-tired looking father seemed to notice this at the same time and he and I exchanged comradely, world-weary half-smiles, whilst I could have sworn that I saw the two unruly hang-gliders sidling up to each other and sniggering, almost inaudibly, in a particularly smug manner
Check-in was great, 6 A & K had been held back for us as promised and the whole process was quick, friendly and efficient. The unruly hang-glider was despatched via the oversized baggage desk (possibly planning, as it slid insidiously trough the rubber curtains, to spend the flight in the hold smoking, playing poker and telling vulgar jokes with its newly found compadre). Security was so quiet that we didnt realise wed not used fast-track until we were through the other side. mdvipond jr. spoilt things slightly by hurling her juice cup to the floor immediately after he mother had tasted it to prove it wasnt going to go bang, causing a rush of ladies with mops and yellow signs to descend upon us. Not one of them was quick enough for jr., though, who managed to get both hands into the resultant puddle afore a single mop could touch it. Ah well, on to the infamous Escape lounge to clean her up.
The Escape Lounge at MAN is by no means a Clubhouse, but its nowhere near as bad as some folk have claimed on this site and others. Children arent generally admitted to sample its hallowed leatherette chairs and luxury cheese-and-biscuit selection unless theyre travelling UC, and the steely-faced lady on reception became even steelier-faced when she saw mdvipond jr. toddling alongside us with blackcurrant juice slowly soaking up the arms of her cardigan. To be fair, on production of our invites she managed a half decent attempt at pretending to be pleased to see us, and we settled ourselves down in front of the obligatory plasma TV with a Becks and a copy of the Sunday Telegraph, and let Countryfile and the dulcet tones of John Craven waft over us. This was marred just a tad by the piped muzak playing throughout the lounge, which appeared to be a Kenny Gee Lite version of the hits of Elton John (Lion King period).
After a relatively uneventful hour during which I nipped off to the salubrious smoking room for a cig, jr. filled her nappy in quite spectacular fashion and we discovered that the Manchester version of The Politics Show is presented by none other than Lord Tony of Wilson our flight was called and we dawdled down to gate number something-or-other to find dear old Jersey Girl awaiting us. Priority Boarding worked spot on, and we were settled into 6 A & K and merrily stowing our luggage into the overhead lockers above row 8 before you could say first-come-first served. For those not in the know, neither rows 6 nor 7 on the 747 have overhead lockers, so it becomes necessary to nick room in lockers further back. To be fair, we only stowed mine and jr.s bags, letting the FA take Mrs. mdviponds case off the to her mystic confines of her wardrobe.
Champers was duly delivered and I double checked that I had my in-flight must-haves to hand Bose QC2s, book, iPod and settled down to peruse the menu and films on offer. The menu, as Id previously been warned on this esteemed website, was the same-old, same-old Best of British. The films were a slightly better proposition, managing to offer more watchable movies than one could fit into an 8 hour flight. Meanwhile, mdvipond jr. carried out an inspection of her mothers suite, removing the headphones, safety card, menu and in-flight entertainment guide before sitting back to pensively chew the sick bag.
We were about forty minutes late taking off, but once we did the seat belt signs were off sharpish and drinks orders were duly taken Tanqueray 10 and tonic with ice and a wedge of lime (and they actually had limes on board for once, bless em. Possibly to waylay the effects of scurvy?). The snooze-packs-in-a-shoe-bag were also delivered with a selection of other items pens, tooth brushes, lip balm placed on the bar. The whole thing works OK, but I still dont see why they moved away from the OB packs (other than for the obvious motives of bean-counting and profiteering).
I ordered the soup and the tikka masala which, all things considered, were very nice indeed. Mrs. mdvipond and jr. dined together at 6A, with my dear lady opting for both starters the soup and the hot smoked salmon and my darling daughter tackling, with gusto, a child sized portion of sausage and mash. Mrs. mdvipond enjoyed hers very much and Im assuming the same can be said of jr. based on the food left on plate:food on jr.:food on suite:food in jr. ratio.
Whilst the ladies ate at their respective seat and ottoman I donned the old QC2s and indulged myself in my first film of choice, Happy Feet: the story of a young penguin whose skill for dancing belies his tone deafness in the singing department, a situation which causes him great embarrassment among his fellow, strong voiced and tuneful penguin brothers. Very entertaining and highly amusing, but since when hasnt a dancing penguin been funny after a beer or two, champagne, a couple of gins and a glass of rather good Sauvignon Blanc? Oh come on! Dont give me that look, weve all been there!
Lunch was completed by a nice big wadge of ice cream with an over-sized chocolate button. We were fortunate insomuch that there were a couple of empty suites, so we took advantage and bedded jr. down in 6A (with mercifully little fuss) for a power-nap whilst Mrs. mdvipond settled into the vacant 7K. I stretched my legs and took a saunter down through the cheap seats and back. It was a pretty full flight in both Y and W with an awful lot of aisle-dwellers making my stroll a little more difficult down the back.
I returned to the sanctity of the UC cabin, ordered another ten-and-tonic and waited for the next round of films (not for us B & S travellers the delights of on-demand entertainment). A few of my fellow pax were doing the same and gathering around the bar. It was at this point that I realised a slight difference between the MAN and LGW flights, that being that we were, as far as I could tell, exclusively Northerners in UC. A hard core of two or three middle-aged chaps (blazer/polo neck combo, bottle-blonde wives, chunky gold jewellery) were taking it turns to regale the rest of the cabin with just how much money they chucked about to stay at Sandy Lane (Barbados hotel of choice for such luminaries as Michael 'calm-down-dear' Winner).
We mustve spent 14 grand for our room, mustnt we luv? bragged bottle-blonde.
Aye luv, summit like that, replied her proud husband, who looked as if he may have recently mugged Jimmy Saville for his jewellery collection.
A room, ya say... queried a third gent, sporting Eddie Jordan designer specs and matching goatee, but without carry it off, we usually go forra suite. Ocean View.
Well, its a right BIG room, added bottle-blonde defensively, and this is our seventh holiday so far this year, int it luv?
Aye, luv, that it is.
And so on
As luck would have it, the films were starting again so I quickly escaped the North West Bragathon semi-finals and opted for the Bond movie, Casino Royale. My word, its a dark old Bond this one, with a distinct lack of gadgets and one-liners (shocking). Nowhere near as far fetched as usual apart, perhaps, for the bit where he realises hes having a cardiac arrest and attempts to revive himself with his in-car defibrillator. Thats got to be a heck of a drain on your car battery, hasnt it? That aside, it was a cracking film, enhanced by the delivery of ice-creams half way through no Butterkist or Kiaora though. Mrs. mdvipond watched the same and mdvipond jr. continued her journey through the lad of nod in 6A, snoring quietly.
By the time Bond had saved the day (but lost the girl), mdvipond jr. was starting to rouse so I allowed her to join me in stretching our legs down the back of the bus. There now appeared to be more people in the aisles than in seats in Y (children lying in the ailes with colouring books?) making progress slow for daughter and I, and also for the poor FAs who appeared to be trying to serve afternoon tea. Realising a similar but hopefully slightly more refined ceremony was probably taking place in the pointy bit of the plane, jr. and I cut short our expedition through Y and headed back for tea. How British. We werent to be disappointed sarnies, cakes and scones were being doled out upon our return, but I foreswore a cuppa and went for a slightly more invigorating double espresso which actually came as two single espressos in two separate cups. Hey, when youre a caffeine junky you take it where you can get it, and after consuming the best part of a weeks recommended alcohol units in the space of a day, the coffee was a welcome pick-me-up.
We were soon commencing our decent into BGI, so washed up (ie. stuck head in sink) and got back to our suites just as the seat belt sign came on. Unfortunately, no visa forms had been loaded on the flight so we were made aware that thered be a chappie handing them out at the bottom of the steps and that wed need to grab one and fill it in pronto before Y pax caught up with us and made immigration a nightmare. I managed to shoulder mdvipond jr. and all of our hand luggage whilst Mrs. mdvipond hurriedly filled in our visas and customs form on my back. Hardly ideal, but it did mean that we were third or fourth through immigration (along with bottle-blonde and husband who were loudly informing the immigration officer, Ill ave you know were company directors! for some reason). Our luggage was off sharpish, even unruly hang-glider seemed to be playing ball and came off the outsize baggage conveyor with barley a whimper. A kindly Red Cap expertly loaded our cases onto his trolley without even the slightest hint of a potential luggalanche. Truly a consummate professional in his field.
Outside, Archie winner of the Slowest Taxi Driver in Barbados Award 1986 through 2006 was waiting for us, loaded our bags into his car a headed off for Treasure Beach Hotel without ever getting out of second gear. His nomination for the 2007 award is assured.
Great flight, MAN nowhere near as bad as Id feared and, for us where-theres-muck-theres-brass Northerners, much easier than hanging round with all those Southern Softies at LGW. A manicure? In an airport lounge? Itll never work. Theyll be wanting massages next...
