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
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She knew every trick to get a home visit – but this time I had come prepared

 Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone.

I first came across Verenice a couple of years ago when I was on duty at the out-of-hours service.

“I’m a diabetic,” she told me, “and I’m feeling really poorly.” She detailed a litany of symptoms. I said I’d be round straight away.

What sounded worrying on the phone proved very different in Verenice’s smoke-fugged sitting room. She was comfortable and chatty, she had no fever or sign of illness, and her blood sugar was well controlled. In fact, she looked remarkably well. As I tried to draw the visit to a close, she began to regale me with complaints about her own GP: how he neglected her needs, dismissed her symptoms, refused to take her calls.

It sounded unlikely, but I listened sympathetically and with an open mind. Bit by bit, other professionals were brought into the frame: persecutory social workers, vindictive housing officers, corrupt policemen, and a particularly odious psychiatrist who’d had her locked up in hospital for months and had recently discharged her to live in this new, hateful bungalow.

By the time she had told me about her sit-in at the local newspaper’s offices – to try to force reporters to cover her story – and described her attempts to get arrested so that she could go to court and tell a judge about the whole saga, it was clear Verenice wasn’t interacting with the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.

It’s a delicate path to tread, extricating oneself from such a situation. The mental health issues could safely be left to her usual daytime team to follow up, so my task was to get out of the door without further inflaming the perceptions of neglect and maltreatment. It didn’t go too well to start with. Her voice got louder and louder: was I, too, going to do nothing to help? Couldn’t I see she was really ill? I’d be sorry when she didn’t wake up the next morning.

What worked fantastically was asking her what she actually wanted me to do. Her first stab – to get her rehoused to her old area as an emergency that evening – was so beyond the plausible that even she seemed able to accept my protestations of impotence. When I asked her again, suddenly all the heat went out of her voice. She said she didn’t think she had any food; could I get her something to eat? A swift check revealed a fridge and cupboards stocked with the basics. I gave her some menu suggestions, but drew the line at preparing the meal myself. By then, she seemed meekly willing to allow me to go.

We’ve had many out-of-hours conversations since. For all her strangeness, she is wily, and knows the medical gambits to play in order to trigger a home visit. Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone. It usually revolves around food. Could I bring some bread and milk? She’s got no phone credit left; could I call the Chinese and order her a home delivery?

She came up on the screen again recently. I rang, and she spoke of excruciating ear pain, discharge and fever. I sighed, accepting defeat: with that story I’d no choice but to go round. Acting on an inkling, though, I popped to the drug cupboard first.

Predictably enough, when I arrived at Verenice’s I found her smiling away and puffing on a Benson, with a normal temperature, pristine ears and perfect blood glucose.

“Well,” I said, “whatever’s causing your ear to hurt is a medical mystery. Take some paracetamol and I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

There was a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, but doctor, I haven’t got any. Could you –”

Before she could finish, I produced a pack of paracetamol from my pocket and dropped it on her lap. She looked at me with surprise and admiration. She may have suckered me round again, but I’d managed to second-guess her. I was back out of the door in under five minutes. A score-draw. 

Phil Whitaker is a GP and an award-winning author. His fifth novel, “Sister Sebastian’s Library”, will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain