Psychogeography

Beard in Space

I love Richard Branson. I love his beautiful beard and his twinkly blue eyes. I love his homely knighthood and his adventurous manhood. I love his vision and his sheer, entrepreneurial drive. I simply won’t hear a word against him. I think — if he only knew me — that Sir Richard might just love me a little, too; granted I haven’t got the kind of body he requires to promote his condoms, or his vodka, or his mobile phones; nor, perhaps, the kind of body he himself would most like to cleave to. And to be absolutely frank: I’m not a virgin. Nevertheless, there’s a spark between us, of that much I’m sure; a spark that could ignite a conflagration.

That’s why I’m signing up right away for the Virgin Galactic spaceship, whose mission is to commercially go where only governments have heretofore been. At £107,000 a ticket, the spaceship represents excellent value for money (a tautology that Sir Ricky and I both understand only too well). After three days’ training I will be ushered on board the spaceship, which in turn will be housed on the belly of an aircraft with the virginally romantic name, White Knight.

Then it’s chocks away, and off we’ll go on our two-and-a-half-hour flight. First up to nine miles above the earth’s surface; then the spaceship will be released, the clean, green jets will be ignited, and we’ll blast at speeds up to 3,000 mph, ninety miles high! Up there we’ll see the very curvature of the Earth and the fragility of the precious atmospheric envelope that encloses it. Then the pilot will switch off the ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign, and for six whole minutes us passengers will float free in the pressurised cabin. Free to sport and tumble, free to appreciate the marvel of our celestial state.

I’ve no doubt that it’s a moving experience, and one that has never failed to transform those who have had it. Up until now, the only people who’ve been on space flights are dry, unimaginative types: air force pilots, scientists and the like. With the best will in the world, these inarticulate souls have found it next to impossible to convey to us what it’s like to touch the smooth-shaven face of God. But with Ricky-Baby’s Virgin Galactic, hundreds of dot.com wizards, industrialists, property developers and derivative traders will come face-to-face with the infinite!

Ricardo-the-Brick has said: ‘To be able to extend that privilege to people from all walks of life has been a long-held ambition of Virgin.’ And who but a churl could doubt that he means it? As is the way with these things, once the service is up and running, and competitors have entered the field (EasyMoon, RyanOrbit), doubtless the prices will come down. Then school dinner ladies, road sweepers, call centre operatives and people on sickness benefit will all cheaply and easily attain this zenith of human travelling possibility.

What a change we’ll wreak on our society — and I’m not just talking increased environmental consciousness here. No, this could very well be the dawning of the Third Age prophesied by many sages and futurologists. Doubtless Ricky-Darling will lead the way, by casting off all his worldly ties and chattels, donning a simple (and virginal) white robe, and embarking on a lifestyle characterised by poverty, charity and continence. He will forego his holidays in the Caribbean, making his new slogan: ‘Give Mustique back to the Musketeers!’ (Or whatever it is the natives are called.) He will stop trying to pretend he can run a rail company, and gift his Pendolinos to the state! He will fill his condoms with his vodka and his cola, and throw them to the baying, saturnalian mob!

Lest we — or rather, I — get carried away with this vision, I must mention one small misgiving: passengers on the Virgin Galactic will be expected to waive the company’s responsibility for their safety. That’s right: if it all goes tits-up (ooh-er! Saucy, eh, Dicky), Our Saviour will have nothing to answer for. But let us not view this as a significant drawback. I’m reliably informed that financiers are already looking into the provision of special, two-and-a-half-hour life insurance policies. Isn’t that amazing? Truly, Brandy (as I understand he’s known to his bosom buddies) is a veritable inspirer of innovation in all fields.

What next? Perhaps we’ll be able to insure ourselves against trains being late, or condoms splitting, or vodka making us lose our jobs and beat up our partners? The possibilities, surely, are endless. And it’s in this spirit that we shouldn’t allow mere considerations of personal safety to stop us from picking up that phone and making that booking. No need to worry if you haven’t got the £107,000 to pay cash down, Dickhead is ‘democratising’ space travel, so a mere two million air miles clocked up on his mundane aircraft will also secure you a ticket. Huzzah!