Gather round, you miserable wretches. Clutch your duty-free gins and prepare for a tale of such spectacularly misguided ambition that it almost makes Brexit look like a sensible decision. A British firm, presumably run by men whose names sound like law firms and whose handshakes feel like damp cod, has announced a 20-hour direct flight. Yes, you heard that correctly. Twenty hours. That is not a flight. That is a hostage situation with pretzels.
Let us dissect this ‘innovation’ with the surgical precision of a drunk performing an appendectomy. The flight, according to the press release I read while secretly weeping into my keyboard, will connect London to some far-flung antipodean hellhole without stopping. Because what the modern traveller craves is not efficiency, but a prolonged, economy-class descent into madness. I can already picture the marketing: ‘Fly non-stop to Perth. We guarantee you will forget your own name by hour six.’
The rationale, apparently, is time saved. No layovers. No sprinting through terminals. No awkward conversations with strangers about the local weather. Instead, you get to enjoy the full, uninterrupted terror of being trapped in a metal tube at 35,000 feet with people who think reclining their seat is a human right. The engineers behind this marvel have doubtless calculated that the human bladder can be trained, like a circus seal, to hold for two-thirds of a day. The in-flight entertainment will likely consist of a single film played on a loop, followed by a polite request to stop screaming.
But let us not be too harsh. This is British engineering at its finest: solving a problem nobody had, with a solution nobody wants. The plane, I am told, is powered by a newly developed engine that runs on pure spite and the crushed dreams of airport staff. It will burn through kerosene at a rate that would make a Saudi prince blush, but will it reduce carbon emissions? Of course not. Instead, it will incinerate the planet just a little more efficiently, because we cannot have progress without a side of ecological arson.
The real question, my friends, is not whether this flight is possible, but whether any sane person would volunteer for it. The answer, as with all things in modern Britain, is a resounding ‘yes’, provided there is a lounge with complimentary champagne and a quiet place to sob. For the rest of us, we will continue to marvel at a nation that gave the world Shakespeare, the steam engine, and now a 20-hour punishment for the crime of wanting to visit a beach.
In conclusion, this ‘transformation’ of global travel is about as welcome as a tax audit. But if you find yourself aboard that inaugural flight, remember: you chose this. The gin is in the overhead locker. The emergency exits are here. God save the Queen, and good luck staying conscious.
