When Boeing first introduced its 747 in the late 1960s, it presented a future of luxury flying. A spiral staircase led to a swanky lounge area that looked like a super cool bachelor’s lair, where you spent long trans-continental flights chatting up fellow jetsetters while swirling ice in martinis.
Assume the brace position
Of course three decades later we know the reality is a little different. For most of us the spiral staircase, which leads to business class, is merely a cause for envy as are herded into cattle class areas resembling a student squat with seats barely more comfortable than stolen milk crates. And the closest we ever come to bar chat at 38,000 ft is going to galley to beg for a Bundy and Coke from uncaring Qantas stewards who prefer we sleep all the way from Hong Kong to London.
So it was with much scepticism that I viewed similar presentations from Airbus Industries about its giant A-380, which showed an airborne dream world of bars, gyms, massage rooms, cinemas and private bedrooms that will allow you to join the mile high club even of you’re not a contortionist with a penchant for fucking in filthy toilets.
First thing I thought was, nah, they’ll just shove more seats in the gargantuan bus of the skies. Sadly I was right. French airline Air Austral will be stuffing 840 seats in its all-economy superjumbos and it won’t be the only airline to do so.
While many see this as an efficient, environmentally friendly way to transport people around the world, I see nothing but rough skies ahead.
Think all the shit that comes with long-haul flying and double it. Twice as many screaming kids, twice as many fucktards who will storm the gate door when the flight is called forgetting the marvels of ticketing means there will be no shit fight for the best seats and that the plane ain’t going nowhere without them.
There will be twice as many fools who reckon 21ABCD actually says 34EFGH and will actually think you’re being unreasonable when you ask if they can get out of your seat.
There will be twice as many greedy people filling overhead lockers with Krispy Kreme donuts meaning you’ll have to walk half a kilometre to find a place for your bag, twice as many spivs in suits arguing with cabin crew about using their mobile phones and laptops on take off, and twice the chance of suffering concussion from a backpack strapped to the back of an idiot with poor spatial judgement (true story, once on a Virgin Blue flight a woman did that to me and when I yelled “Ouch, watch it would you?” it turned out to be the lovely Sigrid Thornton – the bitch).
The chances of sitting next to a fat bastard who has over-active sweat glands and no sense of personal space will double, as will the likelihood of being subjected to advice about the real estate market, the-next-big-thing racehorses and where to find the best prostitutes in Macau.
Then when you get to the other end you’ll have landed with three other 840 seat A-380s meaning you’ll have to queue up behind the entire population of Tenterfield to clear immigration and customs.
My advice is when you next book your next flight choose an airline that flies 350-seat A-330s or 777s.