Wake Turbulence

Remember this?

Ah, JC. And the other one.

Who used to be orange.

Secrets and Dreams

At some point in my hazy life-memory, Secret Cinema founder, curator and general wizard Fabien Riggall might have suggested the possibility of Secret Airlines. He said this: 'maybe, one day, Secret airlines...' 

'Maybe, one day, Secret airlines...' 

'Maybe, one day, Secret airlines...' 

...

He cannot use the word maybe in this context. Because, this whole concept is music to my ears. I feel certain I also read, sometime ago, that he had vague plans to do a whole foreign flight-travel-mystery thing under the Secret Cinema banner, which would involve blindly boarding a plane and being sent...somewhere.

The whole thing fuels my lovephobia of flying; my weird enjoy-hatred of being 35,000 up and all that comes with it, physically, mentally, historically, aesthetically and everything in between. The bells and whistles of the jet stream, stuff I can't even begin to articulate in text, plus a world of make believe. And doesn't flying feel like make believe at the best of times. Secret Cinema and aviation would be very comfortable bed fellows. A cinematic, ozone-sphere fiction-scape which would give someone like me Christmas, birthdays, best days and high times all wrapped up in a strange, real time, parcel.

If this conceptualisation became reality and I did it in any capacity, I'm not sure what could happen. Maybe my head would pop. Maybe my blood pressure would drop like a stone off a high dive. Maybe, I'd have to crouch down and have a little happy eye-spill. But it would quite literally be The Best.

For the most part I have complicated and exhausting dreams. The only good one lately was that I was in a Secret Cinema scenario, my subconscious curating each 'scene,' running, racing, hiding and trying to make sense of shit. A montage of sounds, people, things to hide from, things to get away with, and things never seen before to relish. I could have stayed there. Which is why illusions as close to that in real life, are almost as exquisite. But the secret flying idea I'm pretty sure I couldn't have dreamt that up. To be on a plane, to look out the window and not know of the glistening cities below or where their roads lead - oh man. To be given a character with clear parameters but no clear destination. Brilliance! To have a plane interior specifically made and moulded for this particular mystery spree? YES! Imagine the safety cards, the in-flight magazine, even the SICK bags would be fictional and fanciful. Maybe even your motion sickness would be themed. Perhaps you'd spew the 1940s? All Spam, rations, hope and utility clothes regulations ...

To get your passport and simply trust would be amazing. Why not? What else is going to happen?

The only better step would be full immersion. 'Emergency exits are here, here and ... in the back of your mind.' (Realistically I can't fly the plane unfortunately, despite studying the relevant chapter in the Worst Case Scenario handbook). 

If the real world is too tiring, why not grab as much make believe in as many areas as possible? With each well of unreal to tumble into, the time spent dealing with constraints of reality would just get less and less, until you could hop from fiction to fiction like stepping stones. 

Just as long as air traffic control know what's going on, then we're GOOD to go...

*enpundit.com, Rafael Guerrero.

Steel crowns, Cigarettes and Beehives

Pop it on a full screen and marvel at the bad dental work (passengers), tall hair (stewards) and abundance of smokes (almost everyone). Argh! Watch the (likely) not flame retardant upholstery!

Fact: All planes of this era were flown by sentient Marlboros.

Fact: All flights were this convivial. Quick, fetch me a glass of whiskey and a bristly moustache, I want to join in.

Also, enjoy the jazz. It's quite danceable in places and picks up a heady pace as they show the luggage being loaded into the hold (rightly so. No one ever packed ANYTHING into anything else in the sixties, without being underscored by jazz.)

Carte Du Jour: 35,000 Feet Above Food

You can guarantee whoever you fly with, the menu will definitely taste better than the food. Mmn, card. But this is all part of flying's charm. The portions wouldn't suffice for even the Tiniest of Tims, the most pocket-sized of Polly's and the spongy plastic cutlery is as useful as throwing your food into the air and wishing it into bite sized segments. But I wouldn't change a thing. If nothing else, it serves as a reality check for the normal, nice tasting grub that usually passes your lips, either side of the plane journey (a reverse taste explosion sandwich, if you will). So who cares if your in-flight pasta has a mild bakelite-tang or possesses top notes of polypropylene. It's MEANT to be that way! Learn to love it, like you did brussel sprouts, menthol cigarettes and that bubbling tofu dessert they once served you on a cold night in Roppongi.

The menu design however, is another world (top, above is Virgin Atlantic's best). Like old fashioned airline posters, they always shout sophistication, class and cool. It says, 'look at me! Hark, at the whimsical and delightful morsels within!' Even though it is essentially for show, as the offer is always the same as that documentary, Airplane: steak or fish (actually more likely chicken as it keeps it's squishy juices on reheating. Mmn). Or if you fancy getting fed first; veggie, vegan, lacto-surprise, wheat-free, gluten-free, fun-free, low-fun and so on. The menu, is at best, some fancy pomp, politely handed out for the sheer sake of tradition and polite distraction. But why not? Anything to take our minds off the fact we're flying. Like a massive painted bird or a welly at a wanging contest...

Don't forget I can't speak for those who lounge in first class, where the grub is certainly sweeter. Even so, the champagne's awash before take-off, so I think after that, anything would taste good.

Of course the best menu design is that of yesteryear. Full of promise, laden with quaint Enid Blyton sounding dishes, they have some hilarious turns of phrase: a 'hard' roll! At least it's honest. A chicken pie 'mainliner.' What! And who is Charlotte Colville? But, they make you sit up a little straighter just looking at them, right? Take a look below. I defy you not to want to precede everything in life with a fancy carte du jour. Even your daily to-do list...*

And yes, that little boy is definitely talking to his bread roll. Must be the bends.

* Here's one of the many things I would do if I had all the money in the world: open a restaurant shaped like a plane, recreating all the dishes off these past time menus. Every hour, the whole place shakes, recreating some mild 'turbulence,' just around Charlotte Colville time. The stewards would sing the safety demo, and if it's your birthday the Captain awards you an exciting Birthday Cravat, which also doubles as a life raft. There might be saxophones. You may be encouraged to dress like it's 1962. It's niche. Anyone fancy stumping up the cash?

A Merry Prankster

I am flying Virgin Atlantic to Chicago this summer. 

Yesterday, rather pleasingly, somebody told me there was a tiny amount of anarchy about what I choose to do on stage...

Please wait patiently while I connect these events for you.

Back when it was cool to have asymmetric hair, wear dayglo, and be impressed by Bros, Richard Branson was a humble record label honcho.  Then, deciding it wasn't quite enough rubbing shoulders with the Human League and winding magnetic tape back into cassettes, he launched a fleet of aircraft.

Now, thinking objectively, it was a pretty left field move.  A little like if Louis Walsh woke up and decided to create a clutch of commercial catamarans or Simon Cowell bought a Hang Gliding franchise ('honestly Simon, the harness is totally safe...')

So you can imagine if aviation business bigwigs we're slightly dubious.  The Chairman of BA even suggested if tanned Bran had, 'worn steel rimmed glasses, a double breasted suit and shaved off his beard, I might have taken him seriously - as it was, I couldn't.'

It didn't matter much though as Branson didn't take BA seriously either...

So while I don't have a huge inclination to be like Richard Branson, I'm certainly no bidniz man, I do appreciate his mildly anarchic attitude.  Especially toward his high altitude venture, of which I will be partaking this July.  If BA were the trusty chinos of air flight, Virgin were the naughty drainpipes.  Not least because Richard made provocative statements with his livery when it suited him.  He stamped No way BA/AA on his craft in opposition to a BA and American Airlines super-merger (hello 600,000 lb placard). He also daubed his planes with a Union Jack design, at exactly the same time BA ditched them favour of the 'ethnic' images that so irritated Margaret Thatcher  (remember HankyGate? When old Madge popped a snotty rag over a model tail fin of said 'ethnic images' and it made the six o'clock news?  Cringe. O. Clock.) And another, rather enjoyable move, was giving the proceeds of his court win to his staff, after Virgin sued their rival for libel.  Party on.

Of all the big carriers, Virgin has one of the coolest, creative and cheeky pieces of livery. A retro stamp of fun and frivolity; pin-up girl 'The Scarlet Lady' has been lazily draped about the craft's nose right from the start. Beautiful and not even remotely affected by high speed 500mph wind burn, she looks as good today as she did in the 80s (and she KNOWS it.)

I sort of feel like I shouldn't be championing such brazen thigh bearing (is she PC?) but from a simple aesthetic point of view I find her to be a Total Dude. And pretty cheerful. And it wouldn't really be quite as picturesque if she was lolling on the fuselage in a Muumuu and wellies.

Created by Ken White, Scarlet is actually a take on the images that tickled the noses of WWII aircraft, which in turn were drawn by wartime pin up artist, Alberto Vargas.  Vargas, a Peruvian artist, had a great time drawing ladies in the buff in the 30s and 40s for Esquire magazine, Hollywood posters and more but abruptly stopped in the 70s after the death of his wife.  Grief and nudey drawing obviously don't mix. Despite this, he still created thousands of images some of which sell for princely six figure sums.  That's a lot of dollar for a wink and some bum cheek.  But fair play to the man.  He was a pretty mean life drawer.


So, Sir Branson: staunch music lover, grappler of bronzed models for photo opportunities, impudent, forward thinking rebel and billionaire.

...Punk...?

He signed the sex pistols to Virgin Records in '77 and if it wasn't for that God Save The Queen wouldn't have been allowed out on day release in a straitjacket, let alone crash land in the charts like a great dollop of angry sputum.  However journalist Peter York probably got it more accurate when he called Bran a 'merry prankster,' with an eye on anything money making.

So although he's woolly and a little cheesy, the fair sized splash of disobedience in his ventures pleases me.  I will muse this as I cruise across the Atlantic upon the wings of mild misrule on a small tail wind of rebellion this summer.

So, hold the chinos.  Me, Scarlet and the naughty drainpipe are coming to get you ...

See Bali!

TWA made some awesome posters. Unlike today's concept, canny or '1000 hours in the boardroom publicity-plus, soul-molesty' ad jobs, these were just simply bloody beautiful to look at.

I also like early TWA ads as they were clearly proud of their Lockheed Constellations*, which almost always feature in every poster, no matter how small. Additionally, some of the generic destinations outlined in the posters were very pleasing too:

The Orient!

Europe!

A Creature!**

* In 1986 they rescued a Connie from the US desert, cleaned it up, got it working and then, calling on the very few Lockheed pilots left, specially trained a bunch of young aviators the 'obsolete' skill in prop magic. How wonderful is that?

**Curious untruths.

The attention to detail - the need for people to see it and want it, was right there. Don't pretend every single poster doesn't make you not only want to go to 'Los Angeles!' but also to put on a smart heel or a spat, iron your cocktail dress, wedge on a hat and step aboard a prop for some decent turbulence and a gin & orange.

No? Well then I urge you to find your pulse. Immediately.

Also, please enjoy this a wonderfully twee narrative of the 'average' 1950s Connie journey I found idling in a Youtube crevice. It's a crooked-toothed, dolphin-shaped fuselage marvel of yesteryear; a beguiling, brilliant and lovely ode to post-war air travel. Here, the pilots talk through the safety checks before take-off. As an amateur translator, I will endeavour to relay to you a loose transcript as to what I think they are saying in the cockpit. However, much like the average Magic FM listener singing along to their favourite song, I'll be getting at least 80% of the words completely wrong.

Enjoy.

'Fluteski Compass? Corrected.'

'Vaccum? Checked due to war-ness.'

'Directional Giros?' 'He, one day!'

'Trim Tabs?' 'Slim.'

'Take -off Flap?' 'Take off Flaps!!'

'Hero heaters?' 'Tank Ears.'

'Control Services?' 'Bean Told Travels!'

'Engine Instruments?' 'Normal!'

'Generators?' 'On.'

'Carburetor Air?' 'Cold!'

'Propellors?' 'Full Increase.'

'Mixtures?' 'Rich...'

'Fuel Props?' 'On high!'

'Airplane?' 'Ready!'

'Kansas City Tower, TWA Flight 2...Ready for take off.'

Chug, chug, chug, grumbly, chug...

You Are My Sunshine

Christmas List: Sundance Yellow dress, hooded cape, Princess Line coat with Universe Blue trim and Go-go boots. Pilot's licence, fictional back story, fake passport, a bright sunny day in '77, Aviators and some plot...

Top banana.

Yes.