Mile High Club Membership – Sex Symbol or Status Symbol?

Ever since I watched Snakes on a Plane I have to say the entire concept of the infamous Mile High Club has lost its intrigue somewhat. Let’s be honest, it is inarguably a challenge in itself to simply maintain your balance and manoeuvre the bathroom basics in the 4x4 square footage of the powder room in the skies, never mind trying to combine it with a journey to the stars. Even getting in the bathroom door requires the basic agility of a gymnast, so anything involving double occupancy undoubtedly calls for the skills of extreme contortionism. What’s more, with the risks of DVT at high altitude, the prospect of embarking on a mile-high cramped encounter with an anaconda is not quite my idea of a pleasure ride.

For those of us with a regular 9-5 in the skies it is the comfort and convenience of our take-off and landings that is much more important and which has diverted our mile high obsession to the elitist clubs of the frequent flyer.

Many a wry smile and smirk will have identified with the George Clooney character ‘Up in the Air’ , as he compares the perks of each individual wallet-sized aviation treasure - our gold and platinum membership cards are as coveted as our corporate American Express, fast-track check-in and security as essential as a Swiss timepiece for the military-tuned office to air scheduling, and the quietude of the executive lounge is a must-have zen, removed from the holiday-making masses.

For the frequent flyer our home is our cabin, as opposed to our castle. A-la-carte dining is simply a choice of chicken or beef (usually with noodles) and the closest we make it to pillow talk is ‘please fasten your seat-belt’.  So, faced with living from a wardrobe on wheels and sleeping in a different bed every night (alone) isn't it understandable that we hold a secret sky-high snobbery for in-flight personalised service of a different nature?

Leg-room, reclining chairs, porcelain coffee cups, real knives and forks - simple yet luxurious essentials when the alternative is the no-frills attack of the departure lounge mafia, made up of  the one time holiday makers who will undeniably have a crateful of liquids and gels in every pocket and insist on not taking off their shoes until at least a 10 person queue has formed behind them at security. THAT, trip after trip, is enough to send anyone out a plane, without a parachute.

However, for those of you who have created your own in-flight entertainment whilst on-board, wear your mile-high badge with pride, and well done for keeping the myth alive. For everyone else in the queue for the loo, you now know the real reason for the turbulence....

‘Til next time, Pandora