The 24 stages of a business class flight
A flat bed, three glasses of champagne and an unshakable sense of superiority
Apologies to anyone related to me, married to me or who thought we had a lovely time together that day. The greatest moment of my life was, unequivocally, 30 January 2012 — the day I took my first ever business class flight.
I couldn’t stop giggling. Flying was a familiar activity for a nice middle-class millennial boy from North London. But to do it in comfort? It felt like coming home to the same house, only to find that everything inside had been lavishly upgraded.
In repose on a flat bed at 35,000 feet, watching The Lion King en route to a South African safari with my beloved grandparents, Jo and Willie, I concluded, age 21 — life has peaked. And, frankly, I was right. Every time I have done it since (almost always with points), the experience has been a similar delight — but nothing compares to your first time.
With that, here are my 24 stages of a business class flight:
T-minus one month: You diligently research the in-flight menu.
T-minus one week: You determine your transportation to the airport. If it’s a taxi, you periodically modify the booking for five minutes earlier for peace of mind.
T-minus three hours: You feel smug as you queue in the shorter business class check-in line. You express quiet regret that you did not consume your entire 48kg luggage allowance.
T-minus two hours, 55 minutes: You feel anxious as you queue in the just-as-long-if-not-slightly-longer premium security line.
T-minus two hours, 40 minutes: As you pass duty-free, you mentally note in your gratitude diary that there but for the grace of god you don’t work in a windowless, low-ceilinged, perfume-choked glitter box dealing with a constant flow of tired and half-cut passengers.
T-minus two hours, 30 minutes: You enter the heaving business class lounge and jealously scan for an empty seat. Apparently, they let anyone in these days.
T-minus 60 minutes: You prepare to board first, but are outraged that economy class passengers with ‘status’ are permitted to do so alongside you.
T-minus 55 minutes: You turn left and they turn right, towards the Shadowlands, that desolate place where Mufasa warned Simba never to go.
T-minus 45 minutes: You consider how hard to go on the pre-flight champagne. Not for health reasons, but taxation purposes. Generally speaking, the good stuff does not arrive until after takeoff, because airlines usually have to pay excessive duties for corks that are popped on the ground.
T-minus 40 minutes: You determinedly scroll through the entertainment system. By law, every airline must offer six non-consecutive episodes of The Big Bang Theory and The Shawshank Redemption.
T-minus 30 minutes: You peruse the in-flight menu and experience a mild panic as it transpires that three of the four meal options are different to what you had seen online.
T-minus 20 minutes: You check out the amenity kit. You decide what is to be treasured (not much) and what could be re-gifted at a push (the moisturiser, maybe?).
T-minus five minutes: You quietly judge any fellow passengers who take their shoes off prior to takeoff.
T-minus 30 seconds: You pat yourself on the back for selecting a true window seat, not the ones that make you feel like you’re sitting in the aisle. You watch takeoff via the tail camera anyway.
Hour zero: Don’t order the fish. Fish is always dry on a plane. You order the fish. It’s pleasant, but a little on the dry side.
Swordfish (Live and Let Fly) Hour one: You feel momentarily incandescent at the passengers in first class. Just who do they think they are? More money than sense. They’re probably miserable anyway.
Hour two: You feel the most aggrieved you have ever felt since Mike Riley last refereed at Old Trafford, as several premium economy passengers have the gall to use the business class toilets. Are we not living in a society?
Hour three: You wonder how on Earth Andy Dufresne put the picture of Rita Hayworth back after he escaped Shawshank State Prison through the tunnel?
Hours four to seven: You sleep a bit. But in a flat bed, even mild turbulence over land feels as if you are plunging towards a watery death
Hours eight to nine: You watch the moving map with the sort of emotional numbness that only soldiers returning from The Somme will understand.
Hour 10: You have breakfast, even though it is still the middle of the night in your city of origin and effectively your third dinner of the day.
Hour 12: You go to the toilet, just for something to do. The floor is soaking wet and at this stage of proceedings, you know it isn’t water.
Hour 14: You’re torn. You don’t want a bus gate on arrival, but there may be a business class-only bus and wouldn’t that just be marvellous?
Hour 15: The plane comes to a halt. You rise and stare bleary-eyed at your fellow passengers. You’ve been through a lot together. And you did it in all moderate comfort.
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