The Adgenda: Virgin has a new idea for "in-flight entertainment"

It's jokey, but a bit much?

Virgin Airways has sent out a new infomercial, a "guide to getting lucky."

“Hello there esteemed sexual predators. Come in, sit down, have a drink. You must be knackered after a good long day of ignoring personal space and leering at dating site profiles. But here’s some great news. Virgin has taken your concerns in hand and offers a streamlined and efficient way to creep on people. Intimidated by that first lewd comment and potential sexual harassment lawsuit? Let our staff break the ice for you. Our flight attendants are highly trained in and very eager to act as middlemen in your misguided attempts at affection. Nothing says romance and honest intentions more than a plastic cup of champagne or a portion of our famously high-quality meals. No longer will strangers on planes be out of your reach. Things like common courtesy and respect for your fellow travelers may apply on the ground, but in the air all bets are off. Not that I’m a betting man myself, but I’d say there’s a good 50 per cent chance of joining our very selective mile high club. You may have entered a Virgin but that doesn’t mean you have to leave one.”

The music is cheesy, Branson cheesier and the whole thing smacks of parody, but yes “Seat-to-seat” delivery is now a thing at Virgin Airlines. You can send drinks or food to other passengers with personalized notes, and perhaps “get lucky” according to the ad.

Branson is known for over-the-top advertisement gimmicks; who can forget the time he showed up in a wedding dress for the launch of Virgin Brides. This could be another of these headline-grabbing stunts. At least we hope so.

He has always wanted Virgin Airlines to have a laid-back, but classy reputation, a la an exclusive country club. But no matter how soft the seats or how much legroom he can provide airplanes are a mode of transport. Imagine the same scenario in a bus or on the tube. No you can’t and you shouldn’t be able to. Planes and trains are a means to an end, going from point A to B. Yes you can make it more comfortable and yes chatting to others can kill a few boring hours, but it is not a dating service.

Any woman who has ever had a creep hit on them will not enjoy Branson’s little wink-wink-hint-hint joke about the mile high club he gave to CNBC:  "Perhaps on the way to the loo that person can let you know if they fancy you, too. Let me just say, we are not the sort of airline which bangs on the lavatory door."

 

 

 

Branson offers a new service for those long plane journeys. Photo by China Photos/Getty Images
A pro-union march in 2014. Photo: Getty
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The legacy of sectarianism is still poisoning the air of Scotland

Ruth Davidson has reinstated two Stirling councillors who posted anti-Catholic and racist messages on social media. That this kind of cretinous guff still goes on in my hometown in 2017 raises my hackles.

Kenny Dalglish was a bluenose: as a boy in the mid-60s, he and his father would make the short journey to Ibrox to cheer on Rangers, then Scotland’s most successful team. With the football allegiance came a cultural one, too. Or, probably, the other way round.

Wee Kenny could play a bit, obviously, and dreamed that his beloved Gers would sign him up. But, as Richard T Kelly writes in Keegan and Dalglish, his enjoyable new double biography of the two footballing greats, "Rangers had a certain preference for big lads, or else lads with an obvious turn of pace; and Dalglish, despite his promise, had neither of those easy attributes."

Rangers’ loss was Celtic’s gain, but it took some effort. The former, writes Kelly, "was the club of the Queen, the Union, Scotland’s Protestant majority… founded by Freemasons and members of the Orange Order, strongly tied to the shipyards of Govan. Glasgow Celtic was the team of Irish Catholic patriots, revolutionary Fenians and Home Rulers, begun as a charitable organisation… a means to bolster the faith and keep the flock out of the clutches of Protestant soup kitchens. It was going to be a serious step across a threshold for Dalglish to accept the overtures of Celtic."

In the end, Jock Stein dispatched his number two, the unhelpfully named Sean Fallon, to meet the young starlet’s family. "Fallon entered a domestic environment he felt to be 'a bit tense' -  a Rangers house, a lion’s den, if you will. Fallon even picked up the sense that Bill [Dalglish’s father] might rather his son pursue [an] apprenticeship in joinery."

The deal was done ("My dream was to become a professional footballer – the location was just a detail," Dalglish would later say) and the most gifted player Scotland has ever produced went on to make his reputation kitted out in green and white stripes rather than royal blue -  a quirk of those difficult times for which those of us classed as Fenian bastards rather than Orange bastards will be forever grateful.

Growing up in west and central Scotland, it was hard to avoid being designated as one type of bastard or the other, even if you supported a team outwith the Old Firm or had no interest in football at all. Thanks to 19th century immigration, the terrible religio-political divide of Ulster was the dominant cultural force even in Stirling, the town around 25 miles from Glasgow where I grew up and where I now live again. If you went to the Catholic school, as I did, you were a Fenian; if you went to the Proddy (officially, non-demominational) school, you were a Hun. You mostly hung around with your own, and youthful animosity and occasional violence was largely directed across the religious barricades. We knew the IRA slogans and the words to the Irish rebel songs; they had the UVF and the Red Hand of Ulster. We went to the Cubs, they went to the Boys’ Brigade. We got used to the Orange Walks delivering an extra-loud thump on the drums as they passed the chapel inside which we were performing our obligatory Sunday observance.

At the time – around the early and mid 80s – such pursuit of identity might not have been much more than a juvenile game, but it was part of something more serious. It was still the case that Catholics were unemployable in significant Scottish industries – "which school did you got to, son?" was the killer interview question if your answer began with "Saint". This included the media: in the late 90s, when I joined the Daily Record – the "Daily Ranger" to Celtic fans (its Sunday sister, the Sunday Mail, was known to Rangers fans as the "Sunday Liam") – vestiges of this prejudice, and the anecdotes that proved it, were still in the air.

The climate is undoubtedly better now. Secularisation has played its part - my own daughters attend non-denominational schools – even if, as the sportswriter Simon Kuper has observed, many are "not about to give up their ancient traditions just because they no longer believe in God". The peace process in Northern Ireland and important gestures such as the late public friendship between Ian Paisley Sr and Martin McGuinness have made a difference. And I suppose the collapse of Rangers as a footballing force, amid financial corruption that saw them dumped into the bottom tier of Scottish football, helped.

But the sensitivity remains. The 2014 Scottish independence referendum broke down in part across tribal lines, with many Celtic supporters, once Labour, now SNP, loudly backing a Yes vote, while Rangers fans were on the No side. The prospect of Brexit creating a significant border between the north and south of Ireland, which could inflame recently and shallowly buried tensions, makes one shudder. And even locally, the old enmities continue to raise their grubby heads. Ruth Davidson, leader of the Scottish Tories, is currently taking flak for allowing the reinstatement of two Stirling councillors who had posted anti-Catholic and racist messages on social media prior to their election. The pair have apologised and agreed to take part in diversity training, but I confess that this kind of cretinous guff still goes on in my hometown in 2017 raises my hackles. The rawness remains.

That this is so was brought to me a few years ago when I filed a column containing the word ‘sectarianism’ to a Scottish newspaper. Though the context had nothing to do with Catholic/Protestant or Celtic/Rangers, the editor asked me to remove it. "It’ll be deliberately misunderstood by one side or the other, and probably both," he said. "It’s not worth the hassle. In Scotland I’m afraid it never is."

Chris Deerin is the New Statesman's contributing editor (Scotland).