Free Upgrades and Lucky Loafers
Years ago, back in my management consultancy days, I traveled a lot. My colleagues used to boast about how they would land free upgrades to Business or First Class purely by asking nicely at the check-in desk. Sometimes they assured me, an airline overbooked the cheap seats and needed to bump a few lucky passengers up a tier.
(Image generated by Google Gemini)
To give themselves the best chance of becoming one of the lucky few, my colleagues would adopt a persona of the “seasoned business exec” at check-in, so the staff would think them a prime candidate to be upgraded.
This required adorning the official consultant’s uniform: a sports jacket, a crisp shirt (sans tie), jeans, and those slip-on suede loafers that were all the rage in the 90s—worn strictly with no socks. They always carried a laptop bag, too. The clothes whispered, “I am traveling on business, but I am friendly and approachable.” The laptop bag screamed, “I have critical corporate emails that simply cannot wait” emphasising their importance.
I was never entirely sure what the sockless loafers said. I assumed the adjacent passenger wouldn’t particularly welcome the resulting sweaty feet being exposed next to them after the seatbelt sign was switched off and said loafers were removed.
Needless to say, I was never deemed worthy of a free upgrade. For one thing, I lacked the bottle to ask for one, and for another, I didn’t own a sports jacket and wouldn’t be caught dead in loafers without socks (which were far too Miami Vice for a lad from the Isle of Wight to port confidently).
Managing my Dad-Guilt
If you read my last post, you’ll know my family had insisted I upgrade to Business Class for the long haul legs of our B2P “Doing It While I Can” tour. Cathy, had been worried I may struggle if wedged into an economy seat for a long time and I was unable to get much rest.
Still, I was wracked with “Dad-Guilt.” We couldn’t afford to upgrade everyone, I was set to stretch out at 35,000 feet, while the rest of the Pritchard family unit (“The Famalam”) were resigned to being packed like sardines into an Economy tin. Even so, they insisted they would relax knowing I was as comfortable as possible. Removing obstacles and minimising sources of anxiety genuinely helps keep my Parkinson’s symptoms from flaring while on the move, so I did what I was told.
As we handed over the small fortune needed to pay for the upgrade, I began looking forward to the experience. Having only flown business a couple of times over 25 years ago, I Imagined being pampered by the cabin crew and bathing in some in-flight luxury— I vowed I would use my new Business Class status to reduce my Dad-Guilt: I would ask the BA staff airside for guest passes so my family could accompany me into the business lounge, sharing in a bit of luxury before having to shoehorn themselves into their economy seats.
Surely, if my old colleagues could get a full class upgrade just for wearing shoes without socks, I could blag a couple of lounge passes once I explained my true and heartwarming story? I was confident the BA team would take pity on us and immediately switch into full Surprise Surprise or Noel’s Christmas Presents mode, showering us with unprecedented amounts of corporate goodwill.
Think of the positive public sentiment they would receive in return, after I posted a huge thank-you on my award-winning blog (okay, I was getting carried away, but I was sure it would be worth asking at least!).
The Middle-Seat Conundrum
Nearer to the day of departure, I decided to check out the seat configuration of our flight. I discovered BA was in the process of rolling out fancy new seats arranged in a herringbone pattern where every seat gets direct aisle access and passengers benefit from a more premium experience. Excellent!
Unfortunately, our Boeing 787-9 hadn’t received the memo. Instead, our aircraft still had the old “top-and-tail” layout—a setup where getting to the loo from a middle seat requires awkwardly straddling a sleeping stranger’s shins.
Now, I’m a terribly unassuming chap and hate imposing on others. My personal preference when flying has always been to be the “bothered”, never the “botherer” when it comes to seat selection. I will enjoy a flight much more if I have direct access to the aisle on-demand. I really dislike having to negotiate another passenger before I can get out of my row. Now six years post-diagnosis, an aisle seat isn’t just a preference; it’s a necessity so that I can avoid testing the absolute mechanical limits of my bladder control while “OFF.”
Reviewing my booking on-line, I found that BA were asking passengers for an extra £160 just to secure an aisle position. This on top of the Business Class fare! It felt like a classic airline swindle—trading on customer anxiety. Complaining to Cathy, she pointed out that adding a further £160 to the small fortune we’d already spent would still remain a small fortune. The acute pain in my wallet was already so sharp that adding another ton and two ponies to the second mortgage we’d taken out to pay for our trip of a lifetime, wouldn’t make much difference anyway.
The Great Lounge Rejection
Feeling aggrieved, I reassured myself: that BA’s legendary customer service will clearly be worth the cost. After all, they had promised back in the late 70s they would “take more care of you” as long as you flew the flag.
I decided the best chance to secure the family an upgrade to their pre-flight experience, would be to speak to the staff on lounge duty and trust that I could charm them with my unassuming and friendly character. Proudly (and prominently) wearing my sunflower Parkinson’s lanyard, I approached the first BA staff member at the lounge door. My family watched with increasing embarrassment as I explained the situation in my most affable and Hugh Grant-esque style.
I felt I had done a marvellous job articulating how deserving my family was. However, it was clear that the gentleman on the desk wasn’t actively listening to my convoluted pitch. Brushing me off, I was directed to Gate 7A, where he suggested vaguely somebody could assist me there with my request.
By now, my meds were wearing off, and my stride was deteriorating into the familiar “Parky Shuffle.” I dragged myself the considerable distance to the suggested gate only to discover it was the location of the public lounge—where for a fee we could all enter, provided I paid for everyone (lowering the value for money of my BA upgrade still further if that was possible).
Like a Middle Class Oliver Twist
Irritated, I re-shuffled back to the main BA customer service desk which I had shuffled past earlier in the opposite direction. Taking a deep breath, I calmly explained the situation again, even offering to pay for family BA guest passes so we could sit together and I could take my rightful place beside the British Airways Club World travelling elite.
The customer service agent looked at his screen. “The cabin is completely full, sir. We can’t upgrade your family’s seats.” Irritated further once more, that I not been able to clearly articulate my request, I pointed out that I wasn’t asking to upgrade their tickets, I was only asking for a couple of passes so they could join me in the lounge.
He apologized profusely, but still firmly declined what I felt was a reasonable request. As I turned to start the slow shuffle of disappointment away from the desk, he called me back: “If you really need assistance due to your disability, we can allow you to bring one family member in with you if that helps?”
‘Well that would really help deliver the premium experience the whole family deserved’ I thought sarcastically! All I need to do is select which member of my family should be the lucky one and which should go away feeling unworthy. Not quite Sophie’s Choice, but one I still couldn’t bring myself to make. Picking which member of the family gets to eat free croissants while the other watches through the glass like a modern-day, middle-class Oliver Twist was not the way I wanted to start our trip of a lifetime. I politely declined, and we walked away empty handed but together as a family.
Putting things into Perspective with Noodles
Retreating to Wagamama’s, we found ourselves adopting a classic Premier League relegation-battle “family siege mentality”. As we were shown to our seats and the conversation flowed, we were bonded together by a common disappointment in our national airline-it was them or us! The final forging of our unbreakable family spirit, was completed as we ordered. Our server noted down our dishes with all the enthusiasm of a pet about to have their temperature taken by the vet. With Cathy’s meal proceeding to arrive 30 minutes after the rest of the family’s, we finally headed off to our gate sure that customer service was something from a bygone era.
We were sure we were being persecuted—until Cathy shared a WhatsApp exchange she had been having throughout the day with a friend also flying to Australia.
Our friend’s airline had hit her with a cascade of canceled flights, rebookings, and false promises. She was flying out to see her newborn granddaughter for the first time, and had been delayed by two full days. Suddenly, not being able to blag free lounge access didn’t seem like such a tragedy after all.
The lesson? Like that sketch with John Cleese and Ronnies Barker and Corbet– “I am Economy Class I look up to Business Class. I am Business Class and I look down at Economy but I look up to First Class. I am First Class, I look down on them both.” In the end, the fact that I have a supportive and loving family always willing to put me first, is worth far more than a chance to mix with the travelling gentry in some airport lounge.
As I reminded myself that our trip was about making memories we will remember fondly years, it was clear that we didn’t need the promises of an airline to take good care of us, when clearly as a family we already do that better than anyone.
Balls to Parkinson’s 