I don't suppose I shall ever fly on Concorde again. British Airways and Air France have grounded their respective fleets, probably for good. The supersonic passenger-flight era is over. The people of West Cork will never again hear the boom from BA 001 at about 11.05 a.m. as it passed over them en route from London to New York. I flew once on Corcorde. An American computer company - long since vanished into cyberspace - was launching a new product. The public relations department hit on the brilliant wheeze of bringing 100 journalists from Europe on Corcorde to the unveiling in New York. An irresistible invitation, even if I had to bluff my way through a press conference about computers.
VIP lounge
The check-in at Heathrow was reassuring. Nothing so vulgar as a queue, just a seamless passage to the VIP lounge and a glass of champagne. No boarding calls either. BA staff whispered discreetly into your ear that, if Sir found the moment convenient, he could board the aircraft now awaiting him at Gate 1.
The best bit of Corcorde is the take-off. The plane is doing 150 m.p.h. before it lifts off the ground. Your back is pressed firmly by G-forces to the seat. It's not quite Clint Eastwood in Firefox, but the thrill is there.
The excitement of the takeoff over, a Corcorde flight is little different to any other. Because you are flying at 52,000 feet, there is no turbulence and looking out the window you can see the earth is curved. You may be flying at twice the speed of sound, but the sensation is of a gentle canter in a well-upholstered Rolls-Royce.
I was looking forward to lunch. The BA public relations team had spared no adjective in its description of the food on board. Unfortunately, the computer company's PR team were working to its own agenda. On arrival in New York we were to be whipped to the World Trade Centre for a press conference. It would not do to have us reeking of good Concorde living as we absorbed news of the new product.
Accordingly, the cabin crew were ordered to restrict us to a maximum of three glasses of wine. This was sadism of a high order. Three glasses of wine between London and New York is torture akin to watching Leitrim play hurling. Efforts to suborn the cabin crew failed. I arrived in New York with the mother and father of a grievance against computer companies.
I understood neither the questions nor the answers at the press conference. It was the first time I realised a revolution had taken place which completely passed me by. I thought comforting Luddite thoughts and clutched the press hand-out from which the gist of the conference might be extracted.
Return flight
We over-nighted in New York and were back in JFK at 8.30 a.m. for the return flight to London. As we got ready for take-off, the captain spoke to us. He explained that the residents of Jamaica Bay had successfully fought an action in the New York courts to prevent Concorde flying over their suburb. Accordingly, he said, five seconds after lift-off we would be making a steep bank to the left - "nothing to worry about".
Nothing to worry about! We're five seconds off the ground and executing a steep bank. Clint Eastwood in Firefox would have baulked at that. I would have much preferred to shatter every eardrum in Jamaica Bay.
Safely aloft, the computer company decided to make up for yesterday's stinginess. Since it didn't matter any longer that we stayed sober, the cabin crew had instructions to wheel out the champagne shortly after the steep bank. The exhilaration of being still alive added a certain je ne sais quoi to the Dom Perignon.
We were somewhere over Greenland when the hors d'oeuvres arrived. I had a little Sevruga caviar on toast in one hand and a glass of Chablis premier cru in the other when Concorde began to shudder violently. Well, I thought, if I have to go this is the way to do it.
Subsonic speed
Our cool captain came on the intercom. He had had to shut down one of the engines - why he did not say - and we would return to New York at subsonic speed. We would descend from our cruising altitude of 52,000 feet to 29,000 feet. He apologised for the inconvenience.
In the Concorde cabin there is an instrument panel which shows the altitude the plane is flying at. I watched it gloomily as it descended. Would it stop at 29,000 feet? It did. The passengers broke out in applause and some serious drinking ensued.
Just before we came in to land the captain said he had some good news. The Washington Concorde had been diverted to JFK, where it now waited to take us to London. Another Concorde flight? Another steep bank not to disturb the residents of Jamaica Bay? If I could have had my way, I would have cheerfully gone home on a slow boat to China.