- Joined
- Aug 26, 2010
- Posts
- 5,645
There is something comforting about seeing youths drinking at 7:30 AM in the United Kingdom, sadly cans of lager, but still keeping up the great British tradition captured so perfectly by Hogarth in his wonderful prints of 1751. (Although Hogarth’s support of the “Gin Act” of 1751 should be something for him to be ashamed of.) I am digressing though, I am, after all, easily distracted………
“No, No, No, No No.” I thought, but said “Isn’t that a bit on the French side Griselda?”
I was coming to regret my complaints about having to catch a bus to Terminal 5 at Heathrow from the Hilton at Terminal 4. Griselda had booked me into the Sofitel at Terminal 5 on the night prior to my 07:30 AM departure to Oslo.
“Mr Hancock” I’d heard this tone before but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “You were not very happy with the 15-minute bus journey two weeks ago, and it is just a short walk from the Sofitel”
“Yes, I know, but will I get access to their Executive Lounge and also they, being typically French, built the hotel at the furthest point from the First Class check in.” I responded as confidently as any man could when only 10500 miles away from Griselda.
“Mmmmmm let me just check that out”
I waited impatiently, although to be fair the call was at Griselda’s expense.
“According to the Accor website as a platinum member you should get access to the lounge upon request and subject to availability on arrival at the hotel” Griselda finally advised me.
This was not really what I wanted to hear, whilst access, based upon those terms seemed likely, it lacked the certainty that the Hilton program offered.
It was a tricky situation, on the one hand The Sofitel offered convenience, I would simply be able to drop my rental car off at the Avis depot, at the terminal, and walk to the hotel, on the other hand The Sofitel was French and also there was no 100% guarantee of lounge access. On the plus side I would take a traditional English breakfast in the British Airways Concorde Room rather than have snails and frogs’ legs, or whatever the French have for breakfast, at The Sofitel.
The First Class check in at Terminal 5, whilst absolutely spiffing, is invariably inconvenient for me. (That reminds me to follow up with Griselda on the letter I asked her to send to Willie Walsh, requesting it be moved to the North End of the Terminal.) The Avis drop off is at the opposite end of the terminal, the Heathrow Express is also near the North End as is the Sofitel. Ok, so the meet and greet section is at the South End but I have no use for that and this is all about me. BA has it all wrong. The First Class check in should be at the North End along with the Concorde Room and Fast Track security. I suppose the First Class Lounge probably ought to be there too although I am less concerned about that. (One of the few pleasures at Terminal 5 South Fast Track security is watching the oneworld emeralds traipse half the length of the terminal and back to get to the F Lounge, although sadly BA was going to change this in the near future.)
“You are in 62A for your flight to Singapore” Griselda squeezed into the conversation. “I’m afraid BA won’t release 64A”
Now this was annoying. 64A is the best seat in Business Class on the 747 and it has been allocated as a bassinet seat again. I say again because it was originally a bassinet, then it wasn’t and now it is. It means that it is one of the last seats to be allocated. It has loads of space and you don’t have to climb over anyone to get out. I have asked Griselda to write another letter of complaint to Willie Walsh.
I arrived at Heathrow at 5:30 PM and handed my refuelled, utterly dreadful Peugeot 2008 (I swear Griselda does this just to rile me.) over to the Avis man at Terminal 5, and headed down to The Sofitel. It was quite a hike but as the only hotel connected to T5 it proved fit for purpose.
Griselda has booked me a standard room on the advanced saver rate and I was duly upgraded to a top floor superior room with access to the Executive Lounge. As usual I was unable to get any of the media centre connections to the TV working. I even tried playing episode two of the second series of Les Revenants in the hope that something a bit French might kick start things. “Merde” I thought.
The Executive Lounge, or Club Millésime as The Sofitel staff appeared to call it, was sort of OK. It wasn’t really set up for the solo traveller and there were not enough tables and chairs, not that this bothered me as I sat at my table alone with three spare seats. I opted for the Chilean Wine and steered clear of the frogs’ legs and snails that seemed to have been shaped into meatballs and sausages……..there are limits to my international jet setting.
The cheese offering lacked a decent Cheddar, Stilton and Red Leicester….and for that matter a Double Gloucester and a Wensleydale, but I soldiered on manfully…at least they had Hovis digestive biscuits. The Chilean red, whilst not in the same league as the Hilton’s “Bay of Pigs” efforts, was not as exceptional as I’d hoped, however after five glasses it did seem to improve.
To my astonishment Fast Track security at the South end of Terminal 5 was empty, it was the closest thing to a miracle I had experienced on this trip and only tempered by the realization that my flight would depart from the “B Gates” and would take and extra 10 minutes from my Concorde Room breakfast.
This was not to be a back to back, which came as a disappointment after my efforts the previous weekend. I had found it remarkably easy. The Business Lounge at Oslo was closed, presumably because it was the weekend, and I found myself slumming it with all sorts of non desirables for what seemed an eternity but proved to be only three hours.
Politics, business, economics and greeny sort of stuff are not my strongpoints but it dawned upon me, as we soared to the heavens on BA765, that I could solve some major world issues in a fair yet simple way. Syrian refugees were all over Europe, Australian coal mining was in a rut, the polar ice caps were melting, and middle class people all over the world were donating to greeny charities. Norway was covered in snow and ice, the solution to the world’s problems was staring me in the face and it was so simple it was beautiful. :idea:
The Syrian refugees could be resettled to Norway and employed to shovel the ice and snow on to ships for transportation to the poles. This would be paid for by the middle class greenies who, instead of donating to charities could simply be taxed at a higher rate. Kerblam! We could get back to burning coal to produce electricity and the Australian economy would be saved. It was all so simple I can’t think why nobody had thought of this before. I got Griselda to, immediately, pen a proposal to Sir Robert Menzies. As a double whammy Australia would supply the iron ore to make the steel to build the ships to transport the ice. (I bought another 10 shares in BHP before I could be accused of insider trading.)
The Concorde Room at Heathrow, even at peak hours, is quiet, barely occupied, exclusive, and serves a fine dry martini. However, it is easy to get carried away by this island of tranquillity in a sea of dung. Heathrow Terminal 5 is quite awful. It is crowded, noisy, badly laid out, expensive, and dull, so it is easy to fall in love with the CCR. To put things into perspective the Concorde Room is a notch above the Sydney and Melbourne Qantas First Lounges and it is on a par with the new Cathay Pacific Pier First Lounge in Hong Kong.
I settled into my usual seat at the bar and ordered a Dry Martini – as simple act one would have thought………but the supplementary questions required careful attention. “Gin please” I said to the bar tender.
“Tanqueray please”
“Stirred please”
“no thanks an olive please”
“That will be fine thank you”
I responded to the various questions put to me prior to the bar tender establishing my requirements. I have never really understood why “a twist” is optioned above an olive and why there is such a big deal about not having a fresh olive and only one from a jar. The lack of Coates Plymouth Gin is a crime though.
62A is a good seat, I won’t tell Griselda though, it is a rear facing exit row seat on the top deck of the BA 747. It becomes a spacious suite once the divider is up and has the added bonus of side storage bins. The Martinis had the desired effect and after a light dinner I drifted into an alcohol induced stupa that saw me through to Singapore.
“Griselda I had no choice” I spluttered
“…but a reverse charge telephone call just to ask the whereabouts of the Nurofen Zavance I packed for you?” She growled
“I have a headache” was my apologetic response.
The Nurofen Zavance made me feel significantly better as I settled into the Concord Bar at Singapore. The tranquillity was shattered by the arrival of a couple, recently married, and who could have quite comfortably chatted to each other across a continent without the use of a telephone, or for that matter any other communication device.
The gentleman had the appearance and almost the age of Clive James, but with less handsome features, and was the chairman of a company if his telephone conversation was to be believed, whilst the lady, in her thirties, had an Eastern European accent, long legs and blond hair. As an experienced people watcher I could only wonder what aspects each offered in the relationship as they bickered over the choice of photographs for their wedding album.
QF35, a 19:50 departure, was a new nadir for Qantas Business Class in flight catering. Presumably after extensive research Qantas had discovered that its customers wanted small plates of barely edible food, described using words that required the Oxford English Dictionary (Extended Version) to decipher them and were inspired by a celebrity chef called Fred Perry. I opted for the cheese as a main course.
The breakfast offerings were simply appalling for a 7+ hour flight:
Fresh fruit with our without yoghurt
Muesli
Roast tomato, spinach and creamed eggs with caramelised onion jam
If I cared enough I may have wondered what on earth the normal people in economy were having for breakfast. Griselda would be writing a letter of complaint to Alan Joyce upon my return.
As I drove through the traffic jams of early(ish) morning Melbourne I added Melbourne’s urban planners, local councillors and state politicians to the ever growing list of those whose remaining time might be better spent on an advanced mission to populate another planet in a far of galaxy…..as soon as possible. (Apologies to Douglas Adams.)
Fortunately Griselda was on hand to begin the process of washing and ironing prior to my return to the UK four days later. Who knows what that trip would hold?
TTFN
“No, No, No, No No.” I thought, but said “Isn’t that a bit on the French side Griselda?”
I was coming to regret my complaints about having to catch a bus to Terminal 5 at Heathrow from the Hilton at Terminal 4. Griselda had booked me into the Sofitel at Terminal 5 on the night prior to my 07:30 AM departure to Oslo.
“Mr Hancock” I’d heard this tone before but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “You were not very happy with the 15-minute bus journey two weeks ago, and it is just a short walk from the Sofitel”
“Yes, I know, but will I get access to their Executive Lounge and also they, being typically French, built the hotel at the furthest point from the First Class check in.” I responded as confidently as any man could when only 10500 miles away from Griselda.
“Mmmmmm let me just check that out”
I waited impatiently, although to be fair the call was at Griselda’s expense.
“According to the Accor website as a platinum member you should get access to the lounge upon request and subject to availability on arrival at the hotel” Griselda finally advised me.
This was not really what I wanted to hear, whilst access, based upon those terms seemed likely, it lacked the certainty that the Hilton program offered.
It was a tricky situation, on the one hand The Sofitel offered convenience, I would simply be able to drop my rental car off at the Avis depot, at the terminal, and walk to the hotel, on the other hand The Sofitel was French and also there was no 100% guarantee of lounge access. On the plus side I would take a traditional English breakfast in the British Airways Concorde Room rather than have snails and frogs’ legs, or whatever the French have for breakfast, at The Sofitel.
The First Class check in at Terminal 5, whilst absolutely spiffing, is invariably inconvenient for me. (That reminds me to follow up with Griselda on the letter I asked her to send to Willie Walsh, requesting it be moved to the North End of the Terminal.) The Avis drop off is at the opposite end of the terminal, the Heathrow Express is also near the North End as is the Sofitel. Ok, so the meet and greet section is at the South End but I have no use for that and this is all about me. BA has it all wrong. The First Class check in should be at the North End along with the Concorde Room and Fast Track security. I suppose the First Class Lounge probably ought to be there too although I am less concerned about that. (One of the few pleasures at Terminal 5 South Fast Track security is watching the oneworld emeralds traipse half the length of the terminal and back to get to the F Lounge, although sadly BA was going to change this in the near future.)
“You are in 62A for your flight to Singapore” Griselda squeezed into the conversation. “I’m afraid BA won’t release 64A”
Now this was annoying. 64A is the best seat in Business Class on the 747 and it has been allocated as a bassinet seat again. I say again because it was originally a bassinet, then it wasn’t and now it is. It means that it is one of the last seats to be allocated. It has loads of space and you don’t have to climb over anyone to get out. I have asked Griselda to write another letter of complaint to Willie Walsh.
I arrived at Heathrow at 5:30 PM and handed my refuelled, utterly dreadful Peugeot 2008 (I swear Griselda does this just to rile me.) over to the Avis man at Terminal 5, and headed down to The Sofitel. It was quite a hike but as the only hotel connected to T5 it proved fit for purpose.
Griselda has booked me a standard room on the advanced saver rate and I was duly upgraded to a top floor superior room with access to the Executive Lounge. As usual I was unable to get any of the media centre connections to the TV working. I even tried playing episode two of the second series of Les Revenants in the hope that something a bit French might kick start things. “Merde” I thought.
The Executive Lounge, or Club Millésime as The Sofitel staff appeared to call it, was sort of OK. It wasn’t really set up for the solo traveller and there were not enough tables and chairs, not that this bothered me as I sat at my table alone with three spare seats. I opted for the Chilean Wine and steered clear of the frogs’ legs and snails that seemed to have been shaped into meatballs and sausages……..there are limits to my international jet setting.
The cheese offering lacked a decent Cheddar, Stilton and Red Leicester….and for that matter a Double Gloucester and a Wensleydale, but I soldiered on manfully…at least they had Hovis digestive biscuits. The Chilean red, whilst not in the same league as the Hilton’s “Bay of Pigs” efforts, was not as exceptional as I’d hoped, however after five glasses it did seem to improve.
To my astonishment Fast Track security at the South end of Terminal 5 was empty, it was the closest thing to a miracle I had experienced on this trip and only tempered by the realization that my flight would depart from the “B Gates” and would take and extra 10 minutes from my Concorde Room breakfast.
This was not to be a back to back, which came as a disappointment after my efforts the previous weekend. I had found it remarkably easy. The Business Lounge at Oslo was closed, presumably because it was the weekend, and I found myself slumming it with all sorts of non desirables for what seemed an eternity but proved to be only three hours.
Politics, business, economics and greeny sort of stuff are not my strongpoints but it dawned upon me, as we soared to the heavens on BA765, that I could solve some major world issues in a fair yet simple way. Syrian refugees were all over Europe, Australian coal mining was in a rut, the polar ice caps were melting, and middle class people all over the world were donating to greeny charities. Norway was covered in snow and ice, the solution to the world’s problems was staring me in the face and it was so simple it was beautiful. :idea:
The Syrian refugees could be resettled to Norway and employed to shovel the ice and snow on to ships for transportation to the poles. This would be paid for by the middle class greenies who, instead of donating to charities could simply be taxed at a higher rate. Kerblam! We could get back to burning coal to produce electricity and the Australian economy would be saved. It was all so simple I can’t think why nobody had thought of this before. I got Griselda to, immediately, pen a proposal to Sir Robert Menzies. As a double whammy Australia would supply the iron ore to make the steel to build the ships to transport the ice. (I bought another 10 shares in BHP before I could be accused of insider trading.)
The Concorde Room at Heathrow, even at peak hours, is quiet, barely occupied, exclusive, and serves a fine dry martini. However, it is easy to get carried away by this island of tranquillity in a sea of dung. Heathrow Terminal 5 is quite awful. It is crowded, noisy, badly laid out, expensive, and dull, so it is easy to fall in love with the CCR. To put things into perspective the Concorde Room is a notch above the Sydney and Melbourne Qantas First Lounges and it is on a par with the new Cathay Pacific Pier First Lounge in Hong Kong.
I settled into my usual seat at the bar and ordered a Dry Martini – as simple act one would have thought………but the supplementary questions required careful attention. “Gin please” I said to the bar tender.
“Tanqueray please”
“Stirred please”
“no thanks an olive please”
“That will be fine thank you”
I responded to the various questions put to me prior to the bar tender establishing my requirements. I have never really understood why “a twist” is optioned above an olive and why there is such a big deal about not having a fresh olive and only one from a jar. The lack of Coates Plymouth Gin is a crime though.
62A is a good seat, I won’t tell Griselda though, it is a rear facing exit row seat on the top deck of the BA 747. It becomes a spacious suite once the divider is up and has the added bonus of side storage bins. The Martinis had the desired effect and after a light dinner I drifted into an alcohol induced stupa that saw me through to Singapore.
“Griselda I had no choice” I spluttered
“…but a reverse charge telephone call just to ask the whereabouts of the Nurofen Zavance I packed for you?” She growled
“I have a headache” was my apologetic response.
The Nurofen Zavance made me feel significantly better as I settled into the Concord Bar at Singapore. The tranquillity was shattered by the arrival of a couple, recently married, and who could have quite comfortably chatted to each other across a continent without the use of a telephone, or for that matter any other communication device.
The gentleman had the appearance and almost the age of Clive James, but with less handsome features, and was the chairman of a company if his telephone conversation was to be believed, whilst the lady, in her thirties, had an Eastern European accent, long legs and blond hair. As an experienced people watcher I could only wonder what aspects each offered in the relationship as they bickered over the choice of photographs for their wedding album.
QF35, a 19:50 departure, was a new nadir for Qantas Business Class in flight catering. Presumably after extensive research Qantas had discovered that its customers wanted small plates of barely edible food, described using words that required the Oxford English Dictionary (Extended Version) to decipher them and were inspired by a celebrity chef called Fred Perry.
I opted for the cheese as a main course.The breakfast offerings were simply appalling for a 7+ hour flight:
Fresh fruit with our without yoghurt
Muesli
Roast tomato, spinach and creamed eggs with caramelised onion jam
If I cared enough I may have wondered what on earth the normal people in economy were having for breakfast. Griselda would be writing a letter of complaint to Alan Joyce upon my return.
As I drove through the traffic jams of early(ish) morning Melbourne I added Melbourne’s urban planners, local councillors and state politicians to the ever growing list of those whose remaining time might be better spent on an advanced mission to populate another planet in a far of galaxy…..as soon as possible. (Apologies to Douglas Adams.)
Fortunately Griselda was on hand to begin the process of washing and ironing prior to my return to the UK four days later. Who knows what that trip would hold?
TTFN
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