I’ve always been pretty middle of the road, politically speaking. But whenever Gordon Brown deigns to call the next election, I’m voting Socialist Worker’s Party. Eight hours on a plane has turned me into a Marxist.

Not just any plane. I’ve just stepped off the first commercial flight of the A380 superjumbo, the largest passenger aircraft ever built. Yes, it’s impressive: taller than five double-decker buses, wider than a football pitch, 37 times the length of Peter Crouch in his socks, that sort of thing. And yes, it’s an amazing piece of engineering, a staggering technical achievement: but it’s also the best advert for Bolshevism since the tsar said, “Stuff that Lenin chap, let’s build another palace.”

Never has the gap between the haves and the have-nots of the air been more evident. At the front of the plane (business is on the top level, the “super-first” Suites at the front of main deck, economy at the back on both levels), the elite have unparalleled luxury and space. Further back, the proletariat have to... well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve just spent eight hours in the cheap seats: here’s a blow-by-blow account.

Takeoff: it just shouldn’t. It doesn’t seem credible that something this size should get into the air at all. Our takeoff weight today was 468 tonnes, which is the equivalent of 12 very surprised sperm whales. And when it finally comes, 50 minutes after we started boarding today’s 455 passengers (they’ll need to speed that up a touch), takeoff is a revelation.

Where other planes crank up the engines to a mighty howl and go for a death-or-glory charge to get airborne, the A380 feels more like an inter-city train leaving a station: silent, gentle, almost imperceptible. There’s a moment of anxiety when the lack of any roar, or bumping, makes you think something is terribly wrong. Then finally, after 40 seconds of smooth, quiet acceleration, this unlikely behemoth leaves the ground with a whisper and drifts quietly into the skies as if it were the most natural thing in the world. After a moment’s collective sigh, everyone breaks into applause. Taking to the air with the A380 does, genuinely, feel like a miracle.

One hour in: as well as kind, civilised folk who’ve bid in a charity auction to be on the first A380 flight, the plane is full of rude, selfish, jostling journalists like me, and the moment the seat-belt sign is turned off, it’s the cue for all of us to leap to our feet and interview mercilessly anyone within notebook distance. We do tend to make a bit of noise, but I didn’t realise we’d actually drown out the engines. That’s how quiet this plane is. In the momentary lulls between hacks barking questions, you can hear the gentle conversations of real people four rows back.

Two hours in: journalistic frenzy over, time for lunch. It’s terrific, produced by a couple of celebrity chefs I’ve never heard of, but will look out for in future. Sam Leong’s fillet of bass with fungi is the best economy-class food I’ve ever had on an airline.

Three hours in: distractions done with, there’s time to take in the surroundings. And when I do, a question occurs. If this is really the most luxurious plane ever built, why am I still shoehorned into a 32in seat?

Here, I have a confession to make. Last week, when the press were first allowed to see the inside of this plane at the Airbus factory, I – along with every journalist there – got a bit overexcited about the double beds in first and the huge business-class seats; all newer, bigger and swisher than anything we’d seen before. As a result, we didn’t spend too much time in the ominously familiar-looking economy area. A sin of omission, for which the hour of judgment has just come. Or rather hours: I’ve got five more to go.

Some passengers say the economy area is much lighter and airier than we’re used to. I don’t see it – though the large windows do provide a better view. The seat is pretty comfortable... for cattle class. My knees don’t touch the seat in front, and it’s an inch or so wider than a standard 747 equivalent. But it’s still not the ideal place to spend eight hours or more of your life, especially when you know that the real high rollers are just a few feet away, in the Suites. Time to see how the other half live...

Four hours in: the airline people are standing close guard on the curtain that separates economy from first, but for an instant they take their eyes off it, and bingo: an advance party of journalists plunges through the gap.

It’s another world. Hushed, spacious, all the seats are in cabins a little like those you’d find on a cruise ship, although the partitions only reach to about eye level. The champagne flows incessantly, and there are normally unobtainable bottles of Château Cos d’Estournel 1982 being poured. In a few of the 12 elite suites, the inhabitants have had their flat beds made up, and sprawl languorously under Givenchy duvets in front of their 23in TVs. Nobody sleeps, though. Having paid up to £25,000 at auction for a ticket, they want to savour every minute.