Owing to the vagaries of fate I fly back from Japan first class. Assuming this is my opportunity to feel like ‘The Special One’, I look forward to it, but it’s not so hot.
At check-in, at Narita, there are about a hundred people milling around and a girl holds up a board with all the different classes on and asks me which I am. I whisper ‘first’ and point to the list, feeling embarrassed to be overheard by the scum-class, and she leads me away.
I assume it’s to a plushy, fast-track, beat-the-queue check-in, but it’s only to the back of the queue. Well b****** that.
There is no fast-track through passport control either, just another long queue. I hope it’ll get better on the plane.
‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’ the stewardess asks, absolutely, let the good times roll. It’s warm and flat.
The Sancerre is four years old. I wouldn’t keep sauvignon more than a couple of years myself. It’s room temperature and tastes like Chardonnay.
The Chablis isn’t chilled either, I don’t finish it and the claret is indifferent. Hey ho. Maybe the food will make up for it.
The passengers in the first-class cabin, a mere dozen of them, don’t talk to eachother. They all have the same air of: ‘I do this all the time, it means nothing to me’.
It’s a contrast to scum-class where people are chatty, friendly with some looking forward to the trip and set on getting some fun out of it.
Then the menu arrives. Very tasteful, dead smart, but my heart sinks when I open it and see the list of celebrity chefs who have concocted the meals. OK, no honest grub, just someone’s ego all over a plate.
My first-choice meal is taken. The second is an overcooked lump of beef, quite unfinishable, but the cruncher comes after ten hours in the air when they serve, of all things, an indigestible piece of swordfish.
‘Don’t you like it? Can I get you something else’ the stewardess asks. Bacon and eggs aren’t an option. I subsist on a cup of tea.
The best thing about all this is that when, next week, I fly to the US, scum-class, I won’t feel in awe of the first-class passengers. I’ll feel a bit sorry for them.
My first class experieince with JAL involved an orange. Having already eaten and drunk my fill on the first leg to Anchorage (only reason to get off the plane is to send a postcard from an unlikely to be repeated destination) I politely declined when the new cabin crew offered me more grub as we swanned on down to Tokyo. Cue consternation, and even worse, humiliation. He doesn't want the food!!
Finally after much discussion behind the galley curtains the purser appeared with an orange cut into such beautifully exact segments I couldn't find it in my heart to refuse.