QF B789 delivery flight details
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Arr, the old overnight-stop-on-the-ferry trick!
I have flown transatlantic once but now refuse to fly the plastic wonderjet. One stop across the Pacific is beyond my comprehension.
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Riding the first Qantas Dreamliner: Seattle, Honolulu and finally Sydney
Oct 20 2017 at 3:13 PM Updated Oct 20 2017 at 4:34 PM
by Joe Aston
We bend in over Elliott Bay at dusk and I'm mesmerised. The radiant, withdrawing daylight bounces from the glass pillars of downtown Seattle, guarded aloofly by the Space Needle.
The day has improved considerably. I woke at the Chateau Marmont just before noon, shivering uncontrollably, psychically insolvent, like I'd been to a house party at Whitney Houston's. But after two pints of Corona at LAX, and a couple of Gordon's and Seagram's courtesy of Alaska Airlines, The Fear receded as inexorably as the sun in the Pacific Northwest.
Seattle is a town I've always wanted to visit. How remarkable that a greater metropolitan area less populous than Melbourne's is home to a dozen of America's biggest companies: Amazon, Microsoft, Starbucks, Costco, Nordstrom, T-Mobile, Expedia; and, of course – in spirit – Boeing, whose Everett assembly factory is the largest building (by volume) in the world. And I'm here to see it.
I transfer immediately to an underground cider bar, where I find Alan Joyce, Neil Perry and Paul Howes locked in a brutal shuffleboard contest, encircled by an exhaustive (and riotous) complement of Australian journalists. We proceed to rack up a bar tab roughly equivalent in value to Alan's entire FY17 bonus. Pre-capital gains tax.
When the alarm sounds the next morning, I have barely slept. Staring at the ceiling just before dawn, it is barely any consolation that I am literally sleepless in Seattle.
But the tour bus waits for no straggler, so I coerce my cadaverous self onto it.
The problem with a "press trip", or junket, is that my life already is one; one where I can eat when I'm hungry, sleep when I'm tired and, preferably, talk to no one. I've all but forgotten how to follow a regimented intinerary. First class problems. But this one was worth the discipline: to perambulate around cavernous Everett, all 13.3 million cubic metres of it, positively geeking out.
We trek around 777 airframes being put together for Qatar and Emirates, and Dreamliners for Singapore's Scoot, Taiwan's EVA, Aeromèxico and Ethiopian. At the African carrier's fuselage I turn to Sunrise's Michael Pell. "Cardinal, what would their premium cabin be like? "Would business passengers have to sit on the floor?"
The Cardinal deadpans. "We should send you to Addis Ababa for saying that."
I can appreciate how cynics (Lord knows I am one) think the hype around Qantas' 787-9s is overblown. Geoff Dixon first ordered them in 2005 and funnily enough I worked at Qantas when it (first) either cancelled or deferred all 65 of its slots in 2009. The aircraft has now been in commercial service for three years with launch customer Air New Zealand, and 19 other airlines have them. But see nobody else is using it to fly between Australia and Europe non-stop, nobody has configured them so elegantly, and for a nation of road warriors, these jets will vastly improve the ultra-long-haul travel experience.
On board, the atmosphere is dramatic. The entire forward cabin changes into Martin Grant's limited edition pyjamas (including Martin Grant), and cocktails giving off a not inconsiderable pungency of tequila are drained with alacrity. I boast to anyone who'll listen that I'm the David Boon of delivery flights. The Human Ponytail breaks out the Tolpuddle chardonnay. I ask Iva Davies from Icehouse to play some Chisel, but am rebuffed. Paul and I familiarise ourselves with the inter-seat messaging function, as does Pell. "Michael, it is illegal to use our communications systems for Tinder purposes," Alan warns the Cardinal. As we whirr ghost-like down the tarmac at Everett, I can't take it any more. "This is awesome!" I cry, a spontaneous applause breaking out up and down the twin aisles.
When we arrive in Honolulu, I am tired and emotional. At the bottom of the stairs, we are each adorned with floral leis while a local troupe play their ukuleles. They could be the band from There's Something About Mary. The wind howls. The bus crawls its way into a 1970s dystopia. If it weren't for the Ferragamo and Harry Winston boutiques, we could be on Manus Island.
At our resort, I find a Mai Tai bar and commence drinking them while a bar-back stands near me cutting pineapples, and bad island guitar tunes descend from the PA. Just picture that George Clooney movie, The Descendants.
Oct 20 2017 at 3:13 PM Updated Oct 20 2017 at 4:34 PM
by Joe Aston
We bend in over Elliott Bay at dusk and I'm mesmerised. The radiant, withdrawing daylight bounces from the glass pillars of downtown Seattle, guarded aloofly by the Space Needle.
The day has improved considerably. I woke at the Chateau Marmont just before noon, shivering uncontrollably, psychically insolvent, like I'd been to a house party at Whitney Houston's. But after two pints of Corona at LAX, and a couple of Gordon's and Seagram's courtesy of Alaska Airlines, The Fear receded as inexorably as the sun in the Pacific Northwest.
Seattle is a town I've always wanted to visit. How remarkable that a greater metropolitan area less populous than Melbourne's is home to a dozen of America's biggest companies: Amazon, Microsoft, Starbucks, Costco, Nordstrom, T-Mobile, Expedia; and, of course – in spirit – Boeing, whose Everett assembly factory is the largest building (by volume) in the world. And I'm here to see it.
I transfer immediately to an underground cider bar, where I find Alan Joyce, Neil Perry and Paul Howes locked in a brutal shuffleboard contest, encircled by an exhaustive (and riotous) complement of Australian journalists. We proceed to rack up a bar tab roughly equivalent in value to Alan's entire FY17 bonus. Pre-capital gains tax.
When the alarm sounds the next morning, I have barely slept. Staring at the ceiling just before dawn, it is barely any consolation that I am literally sleepless in Seattle.
But the tour bus waits for no straggler, so I coerce my cadaverous self onto it.
The problem with a "press trip", or junket, is that my life already is one; one where I can eat when I'm hungry, sleep when I'm tired and, preferably, talk to no one. I've all but forgotten how to follow a regimented intinerary. First class problems. But this one was worth the discipline: to perambulate around cavernous Everett, all 13.3 million cubic metres of it, positively geeking out.
We trek around 777 airframes being put together for Qatar and Emirates, and Dreamliners for Singapore's Scoot, Taiwan's EVA, Aeromèxico and Ethiopian. At the African carrier's fuselage I turn to Sunrise's Michael Pell. "Cardinal, what would their premium cabin be like? "Would business passengers have to sit on the floor?"
The Cardinal deadpans. "We should send you to Addis Ababa for saying that."
I can appreciate how cynics (Lord knows I am one) think the hype around Qantas' 787-9s is overblown. Geoff Dixon first ordered them in 2005 and funnily enough I worked at Qantas when it (first) either cancelled or deferred all 65 of its slots in 2009. The aircraft has now been in commercial service for three years with launch customer Air New Zealand, and 19 other airlines have them. But see nobody else is using it to fly between Australia and Europe non-stop, nobody has configured them so elegantly, and for a nation of road warriors, these jets will vastly improve the ultra-long-haul travel experience.
On board, the atmosphere is dramatic. The entire forward cabin changes into Martin Grant's limited edition pyjamas (including Martin Grant), and cocktails giving off a not inconsiderable pungency of tequila are drained with alacrity. I boast to anyone who'll listen that I'm the David Boon of delivery flights. The Human Ponytail breaks out the Tolpuddle chardonnay. I ask Iva Davies from Icehouse to play some Chisel, but am rebuffed. Paul and I familiarise ourselves with the inter-seat messaging function, as does Pell. "Michael, it is illegal to use our communications systems for Tinder purposes," Alan warns the Cardinal. As we whirr ghost-like down the tarmac at Everett, I can't take it any more. "This is awesome!" I cry, a spontaneous applause breaking out up and down the twin aisles.
When we arrive in Honolulu, I am tired and emotional. At the bottom of the stairs, we are each adorned with floral leis while a local troupe play their ukuleles. They could be the band from There's Something About Mary. The wind howls. The bus crawls its way into a 1970s dystopia. If it weren't for the Ferragamo and Harry Winston boutiques, we could be on Manus Island.
At our resort, I find a Mai Tai bar and commence drinking them while a bar-back stands near me cutting pineapples, and bad island guitar tunes descend from the PA. Just picture that George Clooney movie, The Descendants.
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According to SeatGuru, the seats in Y class will be an immense 0.2 inches wider with a whopping 2 more inches of legroom, as compared to the 787-8 of J*.
(In the picture from that nauseating puff-piece, who is the guy with the white hair walking down the front stairs ?)
(In the picture from that nauseating puff-piece, who is the guy with the white hair walking down the front stairs ?)
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(In the picture from that nauseating puff-piece, who is the guy with the white hair walking down the front stairs ?)
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With a LN 615 it means that there are 614 already flying.
The decision to send the allotment of the 788 to JQ deprived QF of a product asymmetry (on the routes previously known as 'cityflyer') that despite his many flaws, Dixon recognised; VAH could never match it.
Instead Mr Clifford the industrial dinosaur sent them to JQ flying a group of backpackers back and forth.
Mr Joyce's terminal decline, Red Q, Dubai Hub, JQ 'franchises' in Asia and now a 'transformation' which netted him personally many millions in excercised options but left Qantas far worse for his 'leadership'
With the 'random walk' in aviation completed and little international network remaining, QF finally has an aircraft that lowers CASK (fuel) and may still give a reasonable RASK.
Even 'integrity' filled journalists, bursting with free booze, note that 19 airlines fly them, all 614 of them.
With well over half the passengers now choosing other airlines (all mostly through Asia) Mr Joyce returns to Singapore with a game changing aircraft, which although new, will (according to sources operating the aircraft) not make EGLL consistently from Perth.
Eventually he will again fill an aircraft full of self interested 'journalists' fresh from their family upgrade flight, chairman's lounge and Qantas provided accommodation and proudly proclaimed he 'listened to the customers' and Melbourne passengers will enjoy flying to London via Singapore!
Outside of the home market myopic of Australia, where advertising revenue ensures favourable stories in mainstream media, Mr Joyce is missed very much by his village.
The decision to send the allotment of the 788 to JQ deprived QF of a product asymmetry (on the routes previously known as 'cityflyer') that despite his many flaws, Dixon recognised; VAH could never match it.
Instead Mr Clifford the industrial dinosaur sent them to JQ flying a group of backpackers back and forth.
Mr Joyce's terminal decline, Red Q, Dubai Hub, JQ 'franchises' in Asia and now a 'transformation' which netted him personally many millions in excercised options but left Qantas far worse for his 'leadership'
With the 'random walk' in aviation completed and little international network remaining, QF finally has an aircraft that lowers CASK (fuel) and may still give a reasonable RASK.
Even 'integrity' filled journalists, bursting with free booze, note that 19 airlines fly them, all 614 of them.
With well over half the passengers now choosing other airlines (all mostly through Asia) Mr Joyce returns to Singapore with a game changing aircraft, which although new, will (according to sources operating the aircraft) not make EGLL consistently from Perth.
Eventually he will again fill an aircraft full of self interested 'journalists' fresh from their family upgrade flight, chairman's lounge and Qantas provided accommodation and proudly proclaimed he 'listened to the customers' and Melbourne passengers will enjoy flying to London via Singapore!
Outside of the home market myopic of Australia, where advertising revenue ensures favourable stories in mainstream media, Mr Joyce is missed very much by his village.
Even 'integrity' filled journalists, bursting with free booze, note that 19 airlines fly them, all 614 of them.
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What was Paul Howes doing there?
In a speech in February 2014, Howes declared agreement with the Abbott Government saying there had been "unsustainable growth in wages" in some sectors of the economy..
One ponders whether he was referring to executive remuneration? Was he thinking of Mr Joyce when the bar tab was paid? As is evident from your ABS data, unions (of which he was an executive) before changing sides have done little for those who pay them to advance their interests.
Nominal wage price index change
BTW, if it's line number 615, it's not quite 614 already in service - the first five were not delivered (the first three were gifted to museums, not sure what happened to 4 and 5). A better comparison might be that it's the 254th 787-9 delivered.
It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten air sick, but reading that article was a good reminder of what it felt like.
God knows how many rejected novels are piled in that bloke’s room, decorated with “return to sender” stamps from various publishers.
From The Australian about the above author:
God knows how many rejected novels are piled in that bloke’s room, decorated with “return to sender” stamps from various publishers.
From The Australian about the above author:
Meanwhile, Michael Clarke’s Ashes Diary 2015 has copped a caning for its plodding prose and lack of revelations. The Sunday Herald Sun went hard, giving it one star and asking: Q: What’s worse than losing the Ashes? A: This book. Even Clarke seems a little lukewarm in the book’s acknowledgments, not even fessing up his ghostwriter’s name: “A big thank you to two mates, Jim and Joe…”. Jim would be Jim Kelly, Clarke’s manager, and Joe would be Aston, a good mate of Kelly and the person who put Clarke’s recollections to print, such as they were.