When I saw in the Times of India that Sir Richard Branson wanted to branch out into the domestic flights market in India, the appropriate response seemed to be one of sympathy for future inter-city passengers in the sub-continent.
Having just endured Virgin Atlantic from Heathrow to New Delhi, I could imagine little worse than having to continue my journey on another Virgin aircraft.
My first Virgin knees-up was in 1986. Plain Richard Branson, as he then was, invited a crowd of thirsty freeloaders to knock back champagne on the inaugural flight of his London-Miami service.
It was a jolly affair and our host was, if I recall the event correctly, dressed up as Robin Hood to emphasise that he was the good guy robbing from the rich carriers to open up the skies to poorer travellers.
Some bright spark in Virgin PR had even taken the trouble to bring along a few Page Three girls whose sole function was evidently to be photographed cavorting with Branson in the hotel swimming pool, thus ensuring tabloid inches for the new route.
I have no memory of spending the flight with my knees pressed so hard into the seat in front of me that I felt like a battery hen crammed into a crowded cage by an unscrupulous poultry producer. That sort of knees-up was a treat I had to wait 21 years to experience.
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