This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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I am, above all else, a pragmatic man. A man of logic, eschewing superstitious or religious beliefs with the casual disdain of one who – quite frankly – knows better. So, when our Barbados holiday was oh-so-very-nearly ruined last spring by the ashy ejaculations of an Icelandic volcano with an unpronounceable name, I was not to be found scaling its lava strewn slopes with a Hull virgin (a rare thing indeed) slung over one shoulder as a sacrificial offering to placate the great volcanic gods. Oh no. I took it on the chin and, as it happened, the volcano was silenced in its own good time – albeit at the eleventh hour – and we were able to fly out for our hols.
And so it was, with only days to go before our December flight to CPT - my 40th birthday present-to-self - that I carefully scanned the most up-to-date geological and vulcanological data available to me, and I was happy to report to the Family mdvipond that any repeat of last April’s ash cloud was – scientifically speaking – highly unlikely. Thank god for that.
But then, of course, on the 18th December, it snowed. More specifically, it snowed on London; from a Northerner’s perspective, an area of the country whose populace greets even the slightest sprinkling of the white stuff as if the next Great Ice Age were upon them. Residents of Jeddah, it seems, would be less surprised to see snow fall on that fairest of cities than would your average Londoner on theirs. Rank panic, paralysed public transport and Daily Mail headlines wailing about ‘Frozen Britain!!’. Mind you, Heathrow did take a good 7 inches (insert smutty gag here) in a relatively short period of time, so we prepared ourselves for – at the very least – news of disruption and delays.
This was Saturday, though, and we weren’t due to fly until Monday night, 20th December. It had stopped snowing and the forecast, whilst cold, suggested that the worst was behind us. After boasting about their recent investment in the best and most up-to-date snow equipment available to mankind, we assumed the powers-that-be at Heathrow would have matters in hand, and by the time of our flight everything would be running like clockwork.
Of course, history now tells a distinctly different story. Whilst I started out feeling quite sympathetic toward BAA’s straggly haired young ‘spokesman'. Looking like Ross Nobles' love-child, the poor soul appeared to have been wheeled out in front of the cameras after losing to the other office juniors in a game rock/paper/scissors. However, I became more frustrated and increasingly depressed each time his spotty mug popped up the BBC News channel.
“We’ve had over 7 inches of snow,” he bleated. "These conditions are unprecedented," he mewled. "It's the responsibility of the airlines to de-ice their planes," he lied.
So, come Sunday we found ourselves in a rather familiar position to our Barbados trip, whereby we were merrily packing bags and cases, cancelling milk deliveries and arranging cat-poo-shovelling duties without knowing whether we were actually leaving the country or not. Little Ross, the work-experience spokesman from BAA, was looking more frazzled and sounding less convincing every time we saw him. Footage from Heathrow showed huddled masses of unfortunate travellers sleeping on the floors of the terminals in the hope that flights would resume, making the place look more like a refugee camp in a third world country or - worse still - Hull on a Saturday night, than a major international airport. Things were not looking favourable.
Having said that, there was cause for some low-key optimism in that we were able to check-in online for both our MAN-LHR and LHR-CPT flights on Sunday night, and we took to our beds that evening in the hope that we might yet see our luck hold out and we’d be on our way the next day.
All such hopes were dashed when I checked my emails at half 6 the following morning. Both our BA and VS flights were cancelled and, as far as I was concerned, so was Christmas. I’d already paid upfront for one of the two hotels we’d booked, and the other would be charging me at least a night’s stay for crying off so late in the day. Car hire, table mountain tickets and a boat trip had also already been paid for, and whilst I was hoping that our travel insurance would cover us for a proportion of our outlay, I was sure we’d end up pretty heavily out of pocket somewhere along the line.
I was already aware that re-scheduling with VS was going to be nigh-on impossible, especially considering we were on reward fares, which were going to be a real bugger to re-book and would no doubt clash with Tizer’s return to school. To make matters worse, the hotel rates I’d got had been snagged way back in the summer; to make new reservations now would cost twice as much. Of course, there was also the miserable prospect of no 40th birthday-celebration-trip, an enforced Christmas in frigid old Blighty and the small matter of telling a 5 year old girl for the second time in eight months that she wasn’t going on holiday. My mood was dark, to say the least.
Tizer cried for about half an hour, which wasn’t a great deal of fun (“But I want to swim in the pool on the roof!”), but then seemed to accept our misfortune in a surprisingly stoic fashion, inviting her dolls to a picnic on the landing instead. I informed my parents – who’d been facing a quiet Christmas on their own with half a bottle of Mateus, a couple of crackers and a turkey crown – that our plans had changed. My father did a particularly poor job of hiding his delight at our predicament (or, at least, at the prospect of having his only grandchild at home for the festive season) and within the hour had ordered a 16 pound goose and half a crate of Penfold’s Koonunga Hill, so at least Christmas dinner was sorted.
This only served to make my dark mood, if anything, even darker. Let’s just say that I’m not the biggest fan of the stodgy food, excessive booze and dreadful TV that shape Christmas in the UK. In fact, this was one of a number of reasons I’d opted to escape to the Southern Hemisphere for the duration, hoping to avoid the turkey sandwiches, turkey risotto, turkey trifle and endless adverts for shabby, cut-price sofas.
But where, I hear you cry, was the ever-resourceful, the über-practical Mrs V in all of this? Well, whilst Tizer and I were wailing, gnashing our teeth and hosting impromptu picnics at the top of the stairs, Mrs V had been on the ‘phone to Virgin. Admittedly, she’d been on hold for over an hour or so, but this had given her opportunity to send the hotels we’d booked in South Africa an email or two. The net result? Well, if we were happy to let Tizer commit ‘assisted truancy’, and could live with two extra days in the Western Cape, then everything was back on for the 2nd January. The hotels had availability for the new dates and would even be good enough to honour their original rates, bless their hearts.
Of course, the issue of neglectfully allowing young Tizer to play truant gnawed at our conscience a bit. School was already closed for the holidays, so we couldn't even check with them for permission. I turned to to the one place I always turn when my moral compass goes astray: V-Flyer. Nothernhenry - father to a darling daughter Tizer's age - said it would be okay (but then he's long been a rum one, often found behind the bike shed having a cheeky fag), but once honey lamb informed us in her matronly tones that all would be well with Tizer's education and moral fibre, we emailed school to let them know that they'd be one short in class (albeit temporarily) come the new year.
And so – the mdviponds were going to Cape Town! All they had to do was get the oldest and most miserable member of the household through Christmas week and before you can say Robert is your father’s brother, they’d all be on Pinotage and bobotie in the sun!
Relieved and grateful, I did my best to enter into the festive spirit, but going out to buy a Christmas tree you never really expected to have to buy, five days before the big day is still pretty depressing (and, might I add, costly). We stocked up on cheap chocolates and enough booze to pickle a rhino, dutifully decorated the World’s Most Expensive Christmas Tree, and counted down the days until we’d be enjoying summer in the Southern Hemisphere…
Come the morning of the 2nd of January, the weather was fine - if a little cloudly - and the temperature was quite mild for the time of year. According to the Leeds Institute of Vulcanology, volcano activity was negligible, as was the chance of earthquakes along the M1 corridor. MI5 informed me that they were unaware of any imminent security threats, and the Foreign Office were able to confirm that there were no signs of civil unrest in Cape Town. Looked like things were finally going our way. Online check-in had been a breeze (although for some reason we only managed Seq. Nos. 8, 9 & 10). So, tentatively, we hit the road.
We were heading directly for Heathrow, not seeing much point in re-booking our BA flights from MAN. The timings had never been to great, and the return flight had got even tighter than it was originally, so we booked with the nice people at Purple Parking for their valet service. Four hours, an entire bag of Jelly Babies and a service station sandwich that cost almost as much as our Christmas tree later, and we were officially 'darn sarf'. We pulled up outside T3 as instructed where we were met by a cheery man from Purple (although Tizer was a little disappointed that he wasn't actually purple). We unloaded our luggage, handed over our keys, and then hoped, as our car was driven away, that the cheery man driving it actually worked for Purple Parking.
Setting such worries aside, we stepped into a beautifully illuminated - almost Virgin branded - T3 and straight up to an empty Upper Class check-in. Our seats - 7, 8 and 9K - were confirmed, a jolly chat about the weather and our delayed trip entered into, paperwork changed hands and before we knew it Tizer was doing a surprisingly good job of inserting her boarding pass into the wall-mounted barcode reader to gain access to the private security channel. We had it all to ourselves, and the only real cause for concern was that after removing my rather chunky-buckled belt, my traditionally Roomy Travelling Trousers stayed up unaided, which was clearly testament to yet another gluttonous and sedentary Christmas.
We needed some South African currency, but balked at the queue at the Travelex counters immediately after security. I was most glad that we did, because we spotted a completely deserted kiosk just round the corner from the Clubhouse entrance, where we quickly sorted ourselves out with some 'Rand'. Tizer wanted to opt for the lift up to the Clubhouse itself and, despite this being her fourth or fifth visit, was mightily impressed that said lift had a sofa in it. Reclining demurely upon it, she seemed rather disappointed when the lift doors re-opened a mere 10 seconds later. I think she was expecting a slightly longer trip and, perhaps, a selection of canapes and maybe the offer of a manicure.
We were welcomed warmly into the Clubhouse and had no choice but to seat ourselves by the swinging chairs as Tizer was already ensconced in one of them before we'd even put our bags down. We joined her, ordered drinks (first mojito of the day for me) and calculated that, even with our stop for currency, it had taken us less than 20 minutes to get from dropping off the car to the Clubhouse. Pretty impressive, and testament in part to Purple Parking, which I reckoned was a cracking service for the money, assuming we got our car back in two weeks time that is. Not so good if we didn't...
It was about half 5, so we had a good 2 hours to kill before we were in danger of being called for our flight. I took Tizer for a tour of the Clubhouse, indulging in a quick game of Galaxians (in my opinion, vastly superior to Space Invaders), then heading upstairs to watch the planes for a bit. Put it down to some kind of perverse masochism on my part, but despite the fact that ours was a late-ish flight and the menu in the Clubhouse looked mighty tempting, I still wanted to eat on the plane. As I say: perverse masochism. So, we indulged in some rather tasty bits and pieces from the deli and shared them out between us rather like a Clubhouse picnic, washed down as it was with a glass or two of Champagne delivered by particularly attentive waiting staff.
We headed for the gate at the first call; experience shows that there's no point being forced to rush with a 5 year old in tow. I spied Sleeping Beauty waiting for us on the tarmac, which Tizer was delighted with, asking if we could fly home on Cinderella. I swear that Disney is rotting the kids brain. No K-id (or whatever they're called) packs offered at the gate, which was disappointing, especially when one considers that Virgin rate these glorified satchels as fair compensation for depriving child travellers of Flying Club miles. Still, we were on board and turning left; this wasn't the time to be churlish about such things. This was the time to hand over my jacket, accept another glass of Champagne and reflect on the fact that I was, for the second time in a matter of months, on a flight that I thought I'd never be on.
Upper Class was mostly (if not completely) full. It seemed a few families or groups hadn't managed to get seats together, which is always a pain, as much for me as for them as they will insist in to-ing and fro-ing past my suite or - worse still - shouting across me to their travelling companions. I also noticed that I wasn't alone in having picked up a bit of a cough over the Christmas period. In fact, as people settled down and the plane pushed back, it struck me that the cabin sounded not unlike a TB clinic circa 1920. Hopefully, a little 'medication' would be on hand soon and, as we took to the air and the crew sprang into action I accepted said medication in the form of a BS&TWL. Not, I admit, in the same league as a T10&TWL, but still very pleasant all the same. Incidentally, I'm assuming there's a glossary of these vitally important acronyms somewhere on V-Flyer - if there isn't, dear reader, you'll just have to work them out for yourself... Dinner orders were also taken, which was good to know as it was now turned 9 at night and I was becoming rather peckish.
Mrs V and I ordered dinner, but Tizer - who'd stuffed herself quite impressively with pork pie, hams and cheeses in the Clubhouse - had changed into her PJs, had her bed made up and was presented by a very pleasant crew member with a steaming mug of warm milk. Watching all of this made me feel rather sleepy myself, but I'd be buggered if I was going to sleep through the entire flight, so I decided to exercise the little grey cells with a game of Trivia Challenge on V-Port. Disappointingly, no one else was playing, and I couldn't cajole Mrs V into joining in based on some myth she's concocted about me crowing unbearably when I win. In my book, that's called being a poor loser. Tizer, I'm happy to report, was away with the fairies in next to no time, which makes one wonder what the crew had put in her milk. If any of them are reading this, could they let me know what it is please, 'cause it seems to work a treat.
Dinner seemed to be on its way, so I chose a movie to watch before it showed up (better than getting buttery-garlic-bread-fingers all over the V-Port controller, I find). To start: a trio of prawns. I know, I'd normally go for the warm-and-gloopy soup option, but for an unfathomable reason some fool had decided it was a good idea to put beetroot in it which is, in this pseudo-gourmand's humble opinion, a crime against soup. The prawns were very nice in a retro kind of way. It was essentially a prawn cocktail with - get this - three prawns in it (didn't see that one coming). This was followed by a pretty good fish curry. Perhaps a teensy bit slimy, but very tasty and the rice was good. Mrs V also had the prawns - she too had three of them, which was reassuring - then a chicken dish which she claimed was so good it was almost comparable with the Upper Class cuisine of yesteryear. Praise indeed. All courses were complemented by a white wine which, of course, I've forgotten the name of but which was very pleasant.
After the shock of discovering back at security that I no longer needed a belt to keep my Roomy Travelling Trousers around my increasing girth, I forewent desert, but did pick through a bit of cheese, just to be polite. Another glass of the nice white wine rounded dinner and the movie off nicely. The film, incidentally, was 'Cyrus', a slightly dark and mostly improvised comedy/drama about an unlucky-in-love 40-something who stumbles across the perfect woman, only to discover that she lives with her kooky and slightly creepy 21 year old son, who takes in instant dislike to the newcomer in the household. Funny and discomforting in equal measure, warm 'n' fuzzy in the end - this reviewer gives it 4 stars.
Mrs V was bedding down for the night, as was the majority of the cabin, so I decided to take a stroll down to the back of the bus. A mostly full flight, by the looks of things, which was hardly surprising considering the number of cancellations there'd been in the run up to Christmas. I made my way back up the plane and found myself at the bar, which was a nice but not entirely unexpected turn of events. I wasn't there for a 'sesh' though, just to top up on water and grab one last glass of wine to take back to my suite for a bit of 'Family Guy' before bed. After changing into my own PJs (I still can't pretend to feel comfortable in those not-always-freshly laundered, poly-mix sleepsuits) I settled back in my seat only to discover that dear old V-Port had gone on the blink. It was trying to work, but kept stopping, starting and going all 'pixely' which, for a man who's experienced more than his fair share of V-Port problems, was a new one on me. I mentioned it to the nice lady FSM who appeared relatively if not entirely concerned and told me she'd re-boot the system, although I don't think she ever did and, if she did, it didn't work.
I considered booting up the Mac to watch something, but it'd been a long day and sleep was getting the better of me, so I made everything suitably horizontal and was out like the proverbial light. I woke, I guess, about a couple of hours later and noticed three things: Firstly, we seemed to be bouncing about in a fair bit of turbulence, although the seat belt sign hadn't gone on as yet; secondly, the cabin no longer sounded like a TB clinic, but more akin to a hospital ward from the darkest days of the Crimean War. Coughs, wheezing, snoring and strange disjointed moans accompanied by smells of a clearly bodily nature filled the increasingly fetid air. I wouldn't have been surprised to see one of the crew moving down the aisles in a Victorian frock, checking on her ailing charges by the light of a gas lamp held aloft in one hand.
The third thing was, my bladder was full. Full to bursting. Now, I wish this had been the first thing that'd come to my attention, as this final realisation just happened to coincide with a familiar electronic 'bing' as the seatbelt sign came on. Oh crap. Nothing to do but sit it out and hope that the turbulence would abate soon. Lying there, seemingly amongst the dead and the dying, I did what I could to try and ignore the protests of my bladder and perhaps go back to sleep again. However, when I did drift off, I was plagued by images of trickling brooks, the sound of meandering streams and, at one disturbing point, a sparkling, cascading waterfall. I'm not sure whether anyone has ever 'wet the suite' on a Virgin flight, but if they have it's not a club I want to become a member of anytime soon. Thankfully, after what seemed like an eternity, the seatbelt signs were extinguished and I made a far from gracious dash for the forward loos.
Relieved, I returned to my suite, but needed to resort to the earplugs from my comprehensive and luxurious amenity pack in order to drown out some of the worst of my fellow passengers' emissions. Still, I didn't sleep massively well; I have an irrational fear that those tiny little yellow earplugs will somehow make their way so far into my ear that they'll become irretrievable, lodged there for all time. I kept having to re-postion them, concerned that they were worming there way into my inner-ear and ultimately, my brain... As I say: irrational, but there you have it.
I must have finally fallen asleep for an hour or so, as I woke to find that he cabin was smelling less like death and more like breakfast. The toilets were free, so I freshened up and changed into a clean shirt. A bit of advice to the wise - if you find a spare hanger in one of the wardrobes (once the crew have hung all the other passengers jackets up, that is) stick your shirt on it for a crease-free arrival at your destination.
Feeling relatively freshly pressed, I returned to my suite to find a keen young FA positively straining to take my breakfast order. She looked a little less keen when I asked if they were equipped to make espressos on this flight (I guess it must be a bit of a faff), but she confirmed that she'd be happy to provide me with a much-needed caffeine hit.
It's not always the case that I can face breakfast on a flight. It's often seems that they're serving it when your body is expecting lunch or supper or gin instead, but the nice thing about the Cape Town flight is that it really was breakfast time. So I ordered the blueberry pancakes (after all, there was still a little room left in my Roomy Travelling Trousers) and they were delish.
The rest of the family were up and about by now, Tizer having had a good 10 hours sleep. They munched on fruit and croissants and looked perfectly content. V-Port was still playing up though, so I spent a half hour reading and gazing out of the window at what I think must have been a desert somewhere in Namibia. Truly a most barren, inhospitable and featureless of terrains. A bit like Hull, but with sunshine.
The First Officer told us we'd soon to be making our descent and to look out for some cracking views of Cape Town and Table Mountain from the right side of the plane. And a few minutes later, there it was! A stunning vista of the mountain, the city and Robben Island laid out before us.
We landed and were disembarking remarkably soon afterwards. Immigration was a bit of hike, with Tizer leading the way having had more sleep, it turned out, than mine and Mrs Vs' efforts put together. Ours must have been the only flight in at the time, because Immigration was deserted. We were through effortlessly and had our cases within minutes. A further hike to Avis car rental, and thence to our hotel, the stunning Cape Royale (more of which another time).
I found that despite the lack of sleep on the plane the 2 hour time difference, and the fact that it's an overnight flight, leaves you feeling more than able to tackle a full day in Cape Town on arrival. The weather was simply stunning and we managed a really pleasant afternoon by Tizer's much vaunted 'pool on the roof', reflecting over a spot of lunch that Leeds to Cape Town (or winter to summer as I liked to think of it) were really only a relatively stress free 24 hours apart. The flight was a good one, the crew pleasant and efficient and the food pretty good by recent standards. Nothing that could be done about sleeping in a dormitory with 40-odd other snot-filled individuals, and an awful lot better, I imagine, than the comparable experience further back down the bus.
And that's that. Apologies as ever for the overly wordy TR and the delay in posting it. The former can't be helped and the latter was due to a very poorly MacBook Pro. Some pics, a return TR and maybe even a 'Western Cape Report' will follow in due course. Thanks for reading.
Last edited by mdvipond on 29 Jan 2011, 20:20, edited 2 times in total.
. Does it affect day to day business here? Nope.
. Broken Mac? Pah! Lame excuse IMHO 
.
. Although I continue to wonder what newbs will make of the Hull references 
Nothing against you of course HL, but if you did happen to suddenly turn in to Mr Schafernaker I can assure you I would be suggesting, or more accurately, demanding, monthly or even daily, mods meetings 
so things do carry on here (even if aeroplanes get cancelled). ALL the sidewalks and roads have been cleared here already this morning (so there are now huge embankments of snow everywhere).
