Class

Watch the skies.
Today is the day when the US launches the long awaited phase two (the "Surge") of its invasion of Europe (if you remember, phase one resulted in a troop withdrawal after some bastard stole Ame's handbag).

Our very own blogpal Robyn and her indomitable troops will be heading for the airport in a few hours.
In a chilling - but hopefully more comfortable - re-enactment of the D-Day landings they will be invading France; garlic-scented land of cheese-eating surrender-monkeys and … er … freedom fries, where they will take the advice of the US government in that hostile country and constantly mutter the mantra "Nous sommes Canadiens" to everyone they meet.

Once insurgent France has been subdued and a Bush-approved "democratically" elected government installed Robyn's invasion force will tunnel their way to Blighty, where they will encounter old Dive and get comprehensively photographed for your entertainment.

Robyn will of course be flying first class.
In all my decades of carefree and wholesale dumping of greenhouse gases into the upper atmosphere I have flown in a startling array of aircraft, from the ramshackle to the downright dangerous, but never yet have I sampled the rarefied atmosphere of "First Class".

I first flew in 1959, in a Viscount turboprop with proper curtains at the windows (I can't remember if it had a fireplace but it probably did).
The "hop over to Holland as long as there's no headwind" rickety DC3 of my childhood had old hard plastic bus seats screwed to the floor and no toilet and the height of luxury we attained was being offered a barley sugar to suck (yes, they really did used to do that).
That was when Norwich Airport was a grass airstrip with a portacabin for customs, containing a plywood desk and an old weighing machine from Norwich railway station.
Ah, the pioneering days of aviation.

I asked Robyn what first class is like.
Apparently they don't have to spend eighteen hours queueing at a complaints desk at the airport; they actually have comfy chairs to sit in and flunkeys to kill any screaming children.
Then once they are in the air a flight attendant actually attends to them!
They are given booze!
Within the huge, ultra-comfy chairs are concealed tiny Thai ladyboys who massage their every extremity!
And they have real FOOD!
Tonight while I sleep, Robyn will be hurtling across the Atlantic feasting on larks' tongues and otters' noses and delicately nibbling her still twitching braised baby panda on a stick, while small third world children in rags blow on her if she's too warm or crouch in front of her seat so she can put her feet up.

Me? I fly Marxist class.
And I stopped eating airline food decades ago.
Here's the reason why:

I have eaten and thoroughly enjoyed some truly disgusting things in my life, from raw whalemeat to wasabi chocolate (although I am proud never to have set foot in a McD or a KFC and I will never let that crap anywhere near me … I have to draw the line somewhere).

But the "meal" that stopped me eating airline food was on a charter flight to Portugal in the eighties. I was veggie back then and it was so long ago that the airlines hadn't got a clue about veggie food.
With truly awe-inspiring professionalism that kind of gave the game away about the level of efficient organisation we were dealing with, the stewardess asked for all the vegetarians to raise their hands.
Inevitably there were far more raised hands than veggie meals on the plane as regardless of the number of people specifying the "vegetarian option" when booking our tickets, the airline always provided three (count 'em) veggie meals per flight.

Normally I wouldn't have bothered on a short haul flight but this time I was hungry, so after much argument I was eventually handed a small plastic tray about the size of a paperback book with a "V" scrawled on the top.
Upon examination it was found to contain a spoonful of cold sweetcorn and a spoonful of grated carrot (the non-veggies had the same thing but with a bit of cold grey gristly stuff in the corner and for no discernible reason an olive).
It came with another, slightly smaller tray containing the "side salad". Which, when poked in a desultory fashion turned out to consist of a spoonful of cold sweetcorn and a spoonful of grated carrot.
Absolutely true.

Robyn, enjoy your flight.
See you next Wednesday.*

*Ha! That's one for the film nerds.
Anyone (except Full) want to claim ten credibility points by explaining it?
And don't "Wiki" it; you're only cheating yourself.