Eating My Words

Regular readers might remember my tirade on Virgin Atlantic from my last trip across the pond back in January.

I take it back.

This time around, the check-in staff were great. If a bit slow and anal retentive. Hell, they acknowledged that because I'm a well-coiffed, attractive, intelligent man that I deserved a better seat. That and I got there nice and early.

Before the upgrade, they kept my chosen seat assignment, even though I didn't get to online check-in right when it opened.

And god bless their flight attendants. Especially the two who swooned when I told them I wanted to surprise Alannah with a delivery of a chilled half bottle Moët & Chandon imperial rosé to her seat. Hot chicks swooning at my actions will guarantee my travel dollars. Unfortunately, they didn't have any as the in-flight gift option is only available for pre-orders (duly noted!), but they were profusely apologetic.

And while I may sing the praises of VA's hot flight attendants on a regular basis, there is no gal hotter than my gal... whom it turns out also wanted to surprise me with a bottle of champagne onboard.

She's also the hotness because she puts up with my ridiculous on-board text messages.


Still, there's one part of my Virgin rant from earlier in the year that I won't take back.

Fuck them for lowering their prices and filling their planes. What was once a cool flying experience is now déclassé and cramped. Whereas VA was a refuge for the travel savvy, it's now full of the same space-taking, inconsiderate mouthbreathers you find on every other airline. You know who I'm talking about.

And this time I'm talking about the fat, burnt out, pseudo-hippy whore in the velveteen dress with the Mona Lisa (I shit you not) printed across her huge, pendulous, and frankly disgusting breasts. Before you squeeze into such an abomination of an outfit, think of the innocent eyes that might have to gaze upon it. Before you wear a sleeveless number, consider the utter lack of aesthetic value of your cheap, prison-quality tattoos. Before you constantly open the shade on the window in our row - the coveted exit row for which we arrive early and pay extra - consider the fact that we are sleeping or watching movies and don't need that bright light shined in our faces just so you can get a view of the wing - the very same view you have from your own window. Before you do a series of stretches and exercises tantamount to a peep show at the Lusty Lady, consider that no one wants to see you bending over, stretching, lunging, or touching your toes while your fat ass is squeezed like so much ground pork into a velveteen sausage casing - and particularly not for extended periods of time. While people are welcome to hang out, stretch, and take a breather in the exit rows and next to the galleys, it is not for you or your horrid little harpie friends to take up my coveted space, rub your disgusting asscheek against my head, nor repeatedly step on my feet thinking that saying, "Oh, sorry!" will make it alright. If you meant it, you wouldn't keep doing it, you disgusting fucking wretch. Your uncouth behavior and generally fetid appearance made dealing with US immigration and customs relatively pleasing. That's how disgusting you are.

Great, now that I've gotten that out of the way, an overall thumbs-up to Virgin Atlantic. Even with the aforementioned miserable fat wretch whore bitch, it's still a far classier airline than any US-run P.O.S.