John Kilbride The joy of the pre-flight pint
There’s not much left of the golden age of air travel. A time when film stars and millionaires were photographed “jetting into” places, and words like “film star” and “millionaire” hadn’t been upgraded to “movie icon” and “billionaire” yet. The aircraft may have been a bit sketchy, smaller and thick with cigarette smoke, but air travel from the 1940s to the 1970s promised luxury, a lifestyle and the promise of something exotic.
Not so much now. The process of flying is probably the closest most of us will experience to a stretch in Barlinnie. Stand in a line. Take your belt and shoes off. Hand over your worldly goods for an x-ray and a scan. Don’t make eye contact with the security people and have your papers ready. You’ll be confined to a chair for the next few hours if you behave.
It wasn’t always like this. The paintings at Prestwick Airport promised a luxury future of giant double-decker Concorde-type planes, poised to whisk you from the west of Scotland to a weekend visiting your aunty in Canada. The duty free shop still lets you briefly participate – usually by looking only – in the world of consumer extravagance. But you can only bluff your way as a connoisseur of rare single malt bottlings for so long.
But one ray of sunshine remains. The pre-flight pint. Whatever the time – the more ungodly the better – you can still get a fly one before you fly. Normal rules can be suspended, a rigid society can be defied and common sense briefly ignored. It’s probably something to do with the time going forward or back depending on the flight.
It can be a ritual or a reminder that you’re on holiday, or that you’re in an international liminal space where you might have had a thorough going-over by security, but you’re still free to do as you please. And if a pint pleases you, why not?
And amidst the unfamiliar, the break from routine and the prospect and possibilities of what the flight and subsequent adventure will hold, a cold one calls. Even over breakfast. Especially over breakfast.
It might not be a vodka martini on the upper deck, paparazzi at the baggage reclaim and a chauffeur to whisk you to the Ritz when you arrive, but we can still indulge in the lifestyle to a small extent.
And there’s still time for another, I just need to find my boarding pass first…
