In a development that will delight chiropractors and enrage anyone with a functioning bladder, British Airways and Virgin Atlantic have declared a joint crusade to make your Sundays spectacularly miserable. They are spearheading an 'ultra-long-haul revolution', a phrase that sounds like it was dreamt up in a boardroom by a man who has never sat in a middle seat for 12 hours. The plan? Flights lasting 20 hours non-stop. That is not a journey. That is a hostage situation with pretzels.
Let us parse the logic. The airlines, in their infinite wisdom, have concluded that what the travelling public truly craves is more time confined to a pressurised metal tube at 35,000 feet, trapped between a screaming infant and a man who removed his shoes six hours ago. They call it progress. I call it a slow-motion mummification process.
British Airways, ever the bastion of British dignity, claims these flights will open up new destinations. 'Think of the possibilities,' they coo. 'Perth to London non-stop!' Yes, think of the possibilities of Deep Vein Thrombosis. Think of the existential dread that sets in when you realise you have only watched two films and still have 14 hours to go. Think of the skin-crawling horror when you run out of podcasts and are forced to listen to your own breathing.
Virgin Atlantic, never one to be outdone, has joined the fray with a sort of performative enthusiasm that suggests they believe a 20-hour flight is a 'lifestyle choice'. Sir Richard Branson, presumably, will not be flying economy. He will be in his space-adjacent private quarters, sipping a cocktail, while the rest of us ferment in our seats like pickled eggs.
The industry calls this 'ultra-long-haul'. I call it 'an elaborate psychological experiment to determine the point at which humans abandon all social norms and begin licking the windows'. How long until we see passengers fashioning makeshift hammocks from duty-free bags? How long until the cabin crew stage a mutiny and declare themselves a sovereign nation of juice carton monarchy?
But the real question is: who is this for? Business travellers, they say, who want to 'arrive fresh'. Fresh. As in, fresh from a 20-hour flight where you have eaten three meals that all tasted vaguely of cardboard, watched the in-flight map for hours on end, and contemplated the meaning of life somewhere over Siberia. 'Arrive fresh' is a lie they tell themselves to justify the corporate expense account.
There is also the small matter of the environment. We are in the midst of a climate crisis, and the solution is to burn more fuel for longer periods of time. It is the aviation equivalent of suggesting the best cure for a hangover is another bottle of gin. Which, coincidentally, is a philosophy I endorse. But for airlines? They might as well have a loyalty programme that awards you a free melting ice cap after every 100,000 miles.
In the spirit of Gonzo journalism, I have taken it upon myself to conduct an experiment. I shall procure the cheapest economy seat on a 20-hour flight, board with a single bottle of cheap tonic water, and document my descent into primal madness. I anticipate that by hour 12, I will have constructed a crude fort out of in-flight magazines and be communicating exclusively through grunts. By hour 18, I will have declared my seat a sovereign microstate and begun issuing passports to fellow passengers.
BA and Virgin Atlantic are heralding this as a 'revolution'. But to me, it sounds like a slow, prolonged, and thoroughly British form of torture. They may claim it is the future of travel. I say it is past time for a revolt.
Settle in, butter your complimentary biscuit, and prepare for the long haul. We are all going to need stronger gin.
