A low-cost private jet. It just sounds wrong, doesn’t it?
Private jets are for James Bond and Donald Trump. Low-cost airlines are for
deal-hungry cheapskates like you and me. To put the two together is like a
fashion tie-up between Chanel and Primark. It goes against the God-given
order of things.
New outfit Blink is having none of that. Launched quietly this summer, it
claims to be Europe’s first low-cost private-jet airline.
Low-cost is, of course, a relative concept. A return on its four-seater planes
from London to Paris costs £500pp. You could go backwards and forwards 10
times on Ryanair for that and still have enough left for a counselling
session afterwards.
The service is aimed at execs downsizing for the depression - it’s about half
what you’d pay for a regular private-jet trip, and only a notch above
British Air-ways club class - but humbler travellers are getting in on the
act. “About 30% of our customers have been leisure travellers,” says Blink’s
co-founder Cameron Ogden. “Many save up and hire a jet for a special
occasion, birthday treats and so on.”
Fine, but what’s it like? For two grand, you want flash: there’s no point
splashing out on a private jet if it’s going to be as cramped and tatty as
your standard CheapoAir job. Somebody would have to try it out.
Strictly speaking, I didn’t have a family occasion to justify it, but I hadn’t
bought my mum a meal since 1998. St Malo for lunch on Saturday, then? “That
would be very nice,” she said.
The difference from ordinary flying starts the moment you phone up to book.
“What time do we need to check in?” I asked the nice girl in the Blink
office. “I’m afraid you’ll need to arrive a full 10 minutes before takeoff,”
she said apologetically. “And what time is takeoff?” I asked. “What time
would you like it to be?” came the answer.
Blink’s main home-counties base is Farnborough. Dozens of private jets call
this home, and the whole place is discreetly chic, with its futuristic
aluminium hangars and shiny little terminal. I parked my battered old Corsa
between a Maserati and a Merc, and we strolled in.
“Ah, Mr and Mrs Bleach. They’re just fuelling your plane,” said the
receptionist. “A couple of minutes, I think. I’ll call the captain, he’ll be
right with you.” You don’t get this on Ryanair, do you? There, if the
captain wants to see you, it means you’ve done something very, very wrong.
Andrew Collicott, on the other hand, just wanted to escort us the 30 yards
across the tarmac to our waiting conveyance. Er... customs? Passport
control? “We’ll take them as read, shall we?”
Blink flies the Cessna Citation Mustang very light jet. It’s cute: dinky,
curvy, rather lovable, in a Mini Cooper sort of way, and this one’s just
three months old. Go up the three steps and you’ve got the pilot’s console
on your left, the passenger seats on your right - all four of them. “Ooh,
isn’t it sweet!” says Mum, settling into her seat.
Takeoff is smooth and fast, the interior is comfy and blessedly quiet, and
while there’s no cabin crew, there’s plenty of wine in the cooler. Which we
made good use of. You can see right through to the cockpit, where a vast
screen shows a map with dozens of brightly coloured lines all over it. Time
to show off to Mum.
