This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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So, leaving the hang-glider sulking ominously in the corner of our dining room with strict instructions not to host any parties in our absence, we loaded bijou-push-chair, our three, frankly enormous suitcases, miscellaneous hand-luggage and two large, be-flowered maypole garlands - yes, maypole garlands - into the thankfully cathedral-like interior of my father's car, loaned to us in his absence, as by this time the lucky bugger had already been on his jollies for the best part of a fortnight.
The maypole garlands weren't, you'll be far from surprised to hear, destined for our final destination (although their appearance on the white sands of a Caribbean beach would, I'm sure, garner more than a few curious glances from passing holiday-makers and locals alike). the-now Mrs mdvipond and I are both embroiled in the organisation of our village's three-yearly maypole festival, and the garlands had to be dropped off at our esteemed chairman's gaff for a photo-call with the Yorkshire Post later on that week (we were hoping for a pretty slow news day). It made for a tight squeeze, but we'd soon handed them over - with strict care and feeding instructions - and were on our merry way.
On the occasions that my parents go out on their hols ahead of us we've developed a fiendishly clever scheme for getting all five of us to and from the airport in the same car: I drop the Senior Ponds off at MAN, then drive home and forget about them for two weeks. Then, we drive ourselves back to the airport, park up in the short stay car park (diligently noting exactly where we've parked) and head off for our flights. Once we meet up with ma and pa in sunnier climes, we hand over the car park ticket, a detailed map showing the exact location of the car and pair of cyanide pills just in case things turn nasty. With a bit of luck, they fly back a week later, locate the car and drive home. It costs less than 80 quid for the week, which works out an awful lot cheaper and considerably more convenient than taxis or long term car parks - the latter of which inevitably involves the services of some kind of highly unreliable and irregular minibus that's sure to smell of stale 'shake 'n' vac' and have sticky seats.
Having been unable to snag the requisite Z fares from MAN as we did last year, we had to revert to flying from the 'chav-hub' otherwise known as LGW, which meant doing the hop down there with BA and spending a night at the Hilton.
MAN Terminal 3 ain't all that bad, and even having to spend well in excess of 20 quid on three sparsely filled sandwiches and a couple of beers, it still wasn't enough to diffuse my 'holiday mood', which was starting to creep slowly over me like the effects of a particularly well mixed martini. A short and thoroughly bearable delay was followed by a short and thoroughly bearable flight down to t'Big Smoke (as we are wont to call our fair country's capital from oop North).
mdvipond jr., less used to a standard economy seat than most (the spoilt little tyke) played that annoying 'peek-a-boo' game that children of a certain age always - annoyingly - used to play when sat in front of me on such flights, peering through the gaps between the seats with unsuppressed delight. Thankfully, the couple behind us were more than happy to play along - the saps - and once we'd landed and were waiting for the doors to open, they asked jr. her name; she coyly responded, with a smile and a cute cock of the head to expose an errant dimple. Bless. They then asked her where she was heading to on her holiday, to which she retorted to said couple and - to be fair - everyone else waiting to get off the plane, 'I'VE GOT POO IN MY BOTTOM!'. As fascinating as this revelation no-doubt was to the rather nice couple, our fellow passengers, crew, captain and - quite possibly - air traffic control, it was, as the saying goes, a little more information than any of us really needed.
Quickly disembarking before our darling princess could start to release her foul ordure, we collected our luggage, trekked across the 1970's-shopping-centre-inspired decor of LGW and, discarding with tradition, chose not to bother with twilight check-in. We'd done online check-in the previous night - securing the highly desirable combo of 6A/6K/7K; in UC, it now seems more trouble than it's worth decanting toiletries and the following day's clothes into hand luggage - especially when jr. can sometimes demand three costume changes before breakfast most days - just so we can dump our cases the eve before our flight.
Swiftly enough we found ourselves in the relative calm of the Hilton's Executive Lounge, complimentary G&T in hand. I had time enough to check the goings-on on V-Nerd, laugh hysterically at the photos of an extremely downhearted looking Neil on his way to MCO in Y (still brings a smile to my face even now) then take a stroll over to the terminal for our tradition pre-flight treat of dinner at Pizza Express. I know, it's hardly The Ivy, but they do turn out a rather nice pizza. All rather academic really, as it was closed for refurbishment. Damn and, might I add, blast. I'd got myself all set up for an American Hot and a Peroni and found it pretty hard to hide my abject disappointment at the microwave style pizza I was forced to eat next door at Frank & Bennys' (truly an awful, awful establishment).
We couldn't get back to the Hilton soon enough; we popped jr. to bed and managed one last drink in the lounge, took it in turns to walk the entire length of the hotel to take a lift 4 floors down so we could smoke half a cigarette each, then tucked ourselves up for a relatively early night.
Dawn broke, grey and damp, and we were packed, paid up and on our way out of the Hilton only half an hour behind schedule (quite something for us, I can tell you). The check-in area was the usual maelstrom that LGW seems to specialise in and the entrance to the UC section was almost lost in a tangle of tensa tape and dawdling, directionless Y passengers, some of whom didn't even seem to be travelling with VS. We squeezed our way through the detritus and were pleased to find only one other couple in front of us at the UC desk. A particularly cheery check-in agent greeted us, although she seemed a bit confused when she discovered that we'd already done OLCI (well have you seen the queue for bag drop, dear?), but she happily confirmed our seats, printed out those lovely purple boarding cards and gave us an invite to the Clubhouse. One of the cases was a tad overweight - we were pretty close to the limit on all three cases, to be fair - so a frenetic re-opening of luggage and reallocating of shoes by the-now Mrs mdvipond was required whilst I smiled in what I hoped was an endearing and disarming fashion at the queue behind us.
Panic over, and all relevant paperwork in hand, we set course for fast-track security, which we wasn't too bad, maybe taking a quarter of an hour or so to get through. Bijou-push-chair was considerably more compliant in being passed through the X-ray machine than its much more unruly predecessor, which often delighted in wedging itself half way down the conveyor, to the immense annoyance of the security staff who had to retrieve it. From there we fought our way through the melange of nylon and Elizabeth Duke jewellery which was all but barring our way to the lifts and, ultimately, the sanctuary of the Clubhouse.
But we made it, relatively unscathed, to the welcoming sight of the Clubhouse doors. We waited behind an American gentleman at the reception desk whilst he tried to explain to the lady in charge that his American Airlines silver card was good enough to get him into the American Airlines lounge so why the heck - darn it! - wasn't it good enough for Virgin? This appears to be an increasingly familiar scenario wherever weve travelled recently, with someone always trying to blag their way into an executive lounge (be it airline or hotel). The poor women who man these desks must spend more time having to turn people away than welcoming them in. Unfortunately, American Blagger wasn't taking 'no' for an answer and this was starting to chip seriously away at my sausage sandwich and champagne time, so I by-passed the desk and went to find us a table in the Clubhouse, much to the-now Mrs mdvipond's consternation.
It was pretty much packed, but I managed to find a table that was just being vacated and settled myself in. the-now Mrs duly followed behind me, with American Blagger having finally accepted defeat and gone off to McDonalds to try and convince the manager that his silver card entitled him to a free Big Mac and fries. With bacon and sausage sarnies promptly and pleasantly delivered we settled in to kill the half hour or so before the flight was called. I have to say at this juncture that the sausage sandwich was something of a sad disappointment; the sausages they're using seem to be on a par with what one might expect from Nettos, with more sawdust and grizzly bits than anything actually resembling meat. After two mouthfuls I managed to unearth a large lump of hard gristle the origins of which I didn't even want to contemplate, and promptly ditched the rest of the sandwich in favour of a chocolate cookie the size of a toilet seat, which was delicious and seemed like a fair swap.
I was just about to indulge in a second toilet-seat-cookie when our flight was called, which was probably for the best. We saddled up and exited the Clubhouse - passing a gentleman at reception who was (I think) trying to use his Tesco Clubcard to upgrade his EasyJet flight for return UC tickets to Tobago - and took the long hike out to Gate God Knows Where to find Ruby Tuesday waiting resplendently for us. It was a while since we'd been on a 747 and, say what you like about the 346, you really can't beat the front section of UC on a jumbo.
At the gate, priority boarding was as it should be - in effect - and mdvipond jr. was presented with her first ever Virgin kid's pack - an auspicious moment indeed. They're quite cool actually - pens and games and comics n stuff - all in a funky little satchel style bag. jr. seemed duly impressed anyway, and led the way towards the plane. I handed our boarding cards to the crew on the door, but jr. was ahead of us, toddling on board and - yes, you've guessed it - instinctively making a left turn as she got onto the plane. Such presumptuousness! I tell you, once she turns 5 and has to start paying for her own fare, she sure as hell better get used to turning right...
Our trio of seats in the nose of the plane was waiting for us and we quickly settled in. Champagne was delivered, jackets were taken and everything was good in the world. We'd pre-warned reservations that we would like to give the new UC child seat a go and the crew confirmed, perhaps a little reluctantly, that there was one on board for us. When the FA started to fit it to the suite, we realised the reason for their initial reluctance: either the seat is an absolute bugger to fit, or the FA who was trying to fit should probably ask for her application to appear on the Krypton Factor back. Boy, did she struggle! I offered my services (which, considering I was born with two left hands was akin to me suggesting I assist in an operation or two down at our local brain surgery unit) but she manfully declined, turning in the end to her male counterpart who and I dont want anyone to get all Germaine Greer on my ass here fitted seat to suite in about 5 seconds flat. Go figure.
The seat is really rather funky actually, done out in signature VS purple leather, with a double harness car-seat style fitting. jr. took to it instinctively; the only real problem I foresaw in the whole deal was if she wanted to convert her suite into a bed at any point in the flight. After all the palaver with fitting the damned thing I dreaded to think how we would manage with taking it on and off, and where wed be expected to stow it.
Never mind that, we were airborne, more-or-less on time, and it was time to do the Great Tanqueray Test. Regular readers of my Drivel Reports will perhaps recall my liking (liking? Too weak a word lets try 'lust for) Tanqueray No. 10 and tonic, with ice and a wedge of lime otherwise known as The Perfect G&T. So often VS fall down on one or more of these basic constituents; no No. 10 on board, (so make do with Bombay Saphire); diet tonic (god forbid); no (or not enough) ice; and, bug-bear of bug-bears, lemon instead of lime. Without hammering on too much about it, on this particular trip, they failed. Tanquery? Check. Ice? Plentiful. Tonic? Reassuringly full-fat. But wait just one cotton-picking minute whats that insipid yellow thing, lazing limply like a Hull-ite in a Magaluf swimming pool, doing in my premium, aged gin? Ah well, as that fat American bloke once said, two out of three aint bad.
Dinner orders were taken. For the pseudo gastronome, the menu now offers not just any soup oh no but soup-of-the-day. Perhaps going one step further and calling it soup du jour would complete the jump from J class offering to the sort of thing you might be lucky enough to find on a laminated Little Chef menu. Either way, thats what I plumped for, with the-now Mrs mdvipond opting for the asparagus and jr. deciding she might give the childs meal ago (some kind of mystery meat in breadcrumbs if I recall rightly).
All of the really big decisions out of the way, I settled in to watch I Am Legend, with a muscle bound Will Smith starring as the only living resident of a zombie filled Manhattan. Really good, actually, though it would probably look an awful lot better on a bigger screen. And perhaps if theyd moved the location to Hull? That way they could have saved a fortune on zombie costumes and make-up.
The much vaunted potage arrived and whilst Im still not sure to this day whether it was meant to be sweet potato or pumpkin it was most resolutely warm and gloopy. The-now Mrs deemed her asparagus wrapped in a postage-stamp-sized piece of parma ham as passable. jr., meanwhile, decided that whatever it was that was masquerading around her plate as a breadcrumb covered dinosaur, it was just plain unnatural and wouldnt entertain it in the slightest, opting instead to help us out with our more grown up offerings and a yoghurt (mostly all at the same time, which surely cant taste all that good).
For the main course wed both opted for the Sumatran salmon and king prawn curry which was very pleasant indeed. the-now Mrs mdvipond pointed out that hers would have been all the nicer had it actually had some Sumatran salmon in it, but the sauce and single king prawn she got were perfectly acceptable and quite tasty. The salmon (or lack thereof) was complimented by a pretty decent Australian chardonnay. I then rounded things off very nicely with cheese and port, before embarking on a customary wander back through Y with jr. to raise the moral of the troops.
It was half empty, to be fair, with most people spreading out over two or more seats. PE was pretty full though, both on the main deck and upstairs, a venture that jr. rather enjoyed as the crew kept giving her sweets each time she went up there.
Returning to the pointy-bit, the very pleasant FSM came over to introduce himself, shake our hands and ask if everything was good for us with the flight so far. Its always a lovely touch, costs nothing and happens far too infrequently in my opinionated opinion. He really took the time to chat with us (and with each of the other UC passengers) and appeared to be genuinely interested in what we had to say with regards to food, levels of service, cutbacks etc. etc. The rest of the crew were great too offering a pleasant, friendly service, whilst still finding the time to indulge jr.
Treating myself to another glass of Chard (as we learnt to call it whilst in Oz) I retired to my suite to watch The Dewey Cox Story with the rest of my family bedding down together in 7K (the prospect of removing the child-seat from 6K was just too daunting). The film was a cracker, a spoof biopic of a country singer and his rags-to-riches-to-drug-hell-and-back life. Funniest thing Ive seen in a while, as is often the case on these flights; I often wonder how much a part the laissez-faire consumption of gin, wine and port has to play in my appreciation of some of these movies...
Post film, and with jr. and the-now Mrs mdvipond stirring, we went to sit at the bar for another glass of wine (apple juice for jr.) and got chatting to a fascinating young man - camp as Christmas with a penchant for champagne - who worked for Virgin Management Ltd., a company apparently charged with bringing all the different Virgin brands together. Great idea, I pointed out, especially if it meant miles earning opportunities for Virgin mobile, media, train and finance customers. He agreed with me wholeheartedly, but did point out that hell would freeze over and Leeds would get promoted before that ever happened. He was no sap when it came to his opinions on UC though, having a fair old moan about slipping standards, rising fares and limited reward seat availability. Oh, and he was bloody brilliant with jr., taking her off for a tour of the plane so that the-Mrs and I could relax with a drink or two. Kudos to you sir, and may we share an UC cabin again sometime!
To be fair, it was getting dangerously close to becoming one of those UC bar drink-fests (see my Drivel Report from our recent SYD-HKG flight to see how awry they can go...), and I was quite relieved to be saved from myself by the appearance of the tea service. Sarnies, cakes, and a nice espresso (the tea on planes is just too awful to contemplate) and we werent far off from our descent into what the captain informed us was tropical 86 degree heat with a gentle easterly breeze.
The approach scooted us down the West Coast (I waved at the Senior Ponds as we passed over but they chose to ignore me), swinging a tight left and plonking ourselves gently onto the tarmac at Grantley Adams Airport.
We bade our farewells to a fine crew and an outstanding FSM, were third in the line for immigration, had our cases and the bijou-push-chair off the conveyor and loaded up by the awaiting red-cap in less than a minute and were stood outside having that cigarette that makes your heart race and the world go round in what must have been record time. Our car arrived just as I was putting my ill-advised cig out (when your vision starts to go dark around the edges, thats when its best to stop) and whisked across the by now familiar Barbadian mixture of ramshackle chattel houses and fields of swaying sugar cane to Treasure Beach Hotel.
Warmly greeted by Senior Ponds and staff alike, we had to concede that this had been one of our best VS experiences in quite some time. The only real moan? Well, the food, I suppose; Im fortunate enough to remember when UC grub was good by restaurant standards, not just in comparison to Y food. But, with rising costs for the airlines I cant really see that improving in my lifetime, not unless were all prepared to pay an awful lot more (and I, for one, am not).
I do hope that wasnt too long. Return Drivel Report will follow in due course, I promise. Please dont send Neil around to camp out (no pun intended) on my doorstep again property prices are falling fast enough and well be into negative equity if people ever find out that the East Yorks Types are moving in.
