With a new supersonic jet on the horizon, JOAN COLLINS remembers Concorde’s heyday....
WHEN I heard that there was going to be a new version of Concorde, I was absolutely delighted. A company called Boom Supersonic has demonstrated that its prototype can surge past Mach 1.1 (850mph) in three high-speed runs conducted in California’s Mojave desert, no doubt giving its most famous denizen – the Road Runner – a run for its money.
I’m willing to bet Wile E Coyote wished he had been on board.
This is great news for those of us who like to get to places fast – and remember a time when it was truly possible.
I was petrified on my first supersonic flight from New York to London, white-knuckling it all the way, while in awe of the BA Concorde’s glamorous flight attendants manoeuvring the trolleys along the narrow aisle groaning with caviar, pate de foie gras and good old English roast beef.
And when I boarded Concorde, the cramped conditions did nothing to mollify my already frazzled nerves.
The sight of a sleep-masked supermodel snoozing contentedly in her seat opposite me made me envious of whatever medication I supposed she was taking (she told me later that she had made the trip dozens of times and was completely relaxed about it).
As we climbed into the stratosphere, I plugged my ears waiting for the loud blast I fully expected when we broke the sound barrier. I had remembered hearing the ear-shattering sound from Earth when I’d watched Concorde overhead and was amazed when only the most imperceptible lurch meant we had gone supersonic.
A couple of hours later, the captain invited me into the cockpit to view the magnificent sight of London as we circled. I realised I had been whisked there in a mere three hours, less than half the time it had taken me to get to New York from LA.
THIS was the smoothest ride, and I was hooked – on Concorde. Why would anyone want to travel any other way?
So what if Aunt Maisie’s windows get blown in just because she lives under the flight path? (Actually, that wouldn’t have happened: Concorde, even at its top speed of 13,500mph, wouldn’t stress fine crystal even three times closer to the ground.)
It was never cheap: that New York to London trip cost $7,500 by the mid-1990s, equivalent to $16,000 or £13,000 today. But it was magnificent.
Concorde revolutionised business – breakfast in London, lunch in New York and back in Blighty in time for dinner – perfect!
But it was not to be. The beautiful gas-guzzler just took up too much precious fuel, and the beating it took on those supersonic flights required far too much work to maintain.
And then, in July 2000, came that disastrous Paris crash, killing all 109 people on board. It was the only fatal accident in her 27-year history. But it was the beginning of the end for Concorde – and, in November 2003, the last remnant of the glorious age of supersonic commercial flights was laid to rest. What a tragedy, I always think every time I go past the magnificent homage to the beautiful plane on the way to Heathrow Airport. I still miss her.
I had such memorable moments. On one trip from New York to London, I was seated next to Dodi Fayed, son of Harrods owner, the late Mohammed Fayed. When I asked him what he was going to do in London, he smiled and said: ‘I’m looking for a new girlfriend.’ Shortly after, rumours abounded about his relationship with Princess Diana!
Boarding another Concorde flight shortly after 9/11, the security measures were tightened to remarkable levels. Lynx-eyed men and women, who wouldn’t look out of place behind the barrel of a Kalashnikov, manned the passenger lines. It did make us feel more secure, but for one young rock star it caused some embarrassment. After beeping when going through the security scanner, a female officer keenly probed him with her fairy wand. His belt kept on making it go off, but instead of asking him to remove it, she ran her machine over the front of his skin-tight trousers many times until, lo and behold, to the amusement of fellow passengers, we noticed it wasn’t a gun in his pocket at all.
I was humbled to be invited on Concorde’s last flight from New York to London. I’ve always regarded her as one of Britain’s greatest ambassadors, and being part of that final journey was too important a historic event to miss. My husband, Percy, and I arrived to a darkened and seemingly deserted JFK Airport at 6am for a 7am flight.
‘Are we the first?’ I enquired of the charming special services representative. ‘No, you’re the last,’ was the reply. ‘The party’s been going on for hours.’
We checked in without luggage, but I still managed to pocket a couple of Concorde luggage tags, which I understand are now sold on eBay, along with other mementos from the iconic aircraft, including a toilet seat. God only knows how they took that off.
Going through security I beeped – too much bling – and was subjected to a rather undignified search, which would have been OK except for the mass of New York photographers on the other side of the barrier. They gallantly declined to capture the humiliating experience, but that did not prevent them from giggling.
In the departure lounge there was a party atmosphere as luminaries and celebrities quaffed champagne and happily gave interviews to journalists. I said how tragic I thought it was that this magnificent piece of cutting edge technology was going to be phased out, and that I hoped another company, perhaps Virgin Atlantic, could keep it going, as had been reported.
JUST before embarking, I popped into the loo and while combing my hair was asked by a nervous BA press officer if I would do her a big favour. ‘But of course!’ I replied graciously: ‘Do you have a pen?’
‘Oh, I, I don’t want your autograph,’ she said. ‘But would you mind not mentioning Richard Branson any more?’
Shortly after my return the flight was called and the entire New York BA staff lined up to say their goodbyes to everyone, many of them with tears in their eyes. It was still dark outside, but it seemed as though the entire airport ground staff had stopped what they were doing and stood on the Tarmac to wave and cheer.
On board, the champagne was passed around generously as we privileged few buckled up and prepared for the last ride.
I clutched Percy’s hand as the brakes were released and the power of a sudden 250mph acceleration lurched us against the back of our seats, like some insanely powerful hot-rod competition, and then soared into the air like a graceful prehistoric bird.
It was an eclectic group on board: there was a couple who’d paid £40,000 for the privilege; several businessmen who crossed the Atlantic at least twice a week for many years; and a few prizewinners. Back in steerage (I jest – all seats are considered equal), were Jeremy Clarkson and Piers Morgan, then in their prime.
In a snit, Jeremy threw a glass of water over Piers, whereupon Piers sent me a message asking if I could come back and bitch-slap Jeremy. I demurely declined.
Ballet dancer Darcey Bussell helped start the autograph collecting frenzy as the staff did a game job with trolleys and trays while battling revellers, TV cameras and photographers.
But as we approached Heathrow,
the announcement brought a sense of solemnity through the cabin. Everyone fixed their gaze intently out of the windows, seeing London pass beneath, the Millennium Dome and the London Eye impassive. Cars pulled up on the M4 and people waved at us from fields.
The flight attendants walked down the aisle, bidding godspeed to the faces they had become so accustomed to seeing once or twice a week on that NY-LON run, thanking them for the memories shared.
Everyone felt slightly choked up when we landed on the runway, and as we noticed the hundreds of thousands of people who had turned out to say goodbye to this icon of technological achievement.
It still fills me with pride that this Anglo French collaboration – built with British knowhow and driven by those powerful Rolls-Royce engines – broke the sound barrier for commercial flights in an analogue world.
Fax machines and VCRs were hardly known, and smartphones and personal computers the stuff of sci-fi at a time when our clever engineers figured out how to whisk us from London and Paris to New York in less time than it takes to cross at that damn traffic lights from The Mall into Trafalgar Square.
And the achievements were not only speed. The research involved in creating Concorde helped with a host of technological developments as well as side benefits that we enjoy in so many other ways today: from how we use super-strong titanium to advancements in mobile communications.
So, the next time you take that titanium driver out of your golf bag, or use your smartphone, give a nod to Concorde for making it happen. Although it still vexes me that, with all this technological development, they still can’t build a decent touchscreen player to fit into the back of seats on planes.
No doubt our London mayor is, as I write, contemplating how to impose a 20mph speed zone on the Atlantic corridor... and whack a ULEZ on top of it.
