Qantas Chairman’s Lounge: don’t hold your breath waiting for invite

If you have to ask to join this exclusive aviation club, you’re not going to be asked. That’s the equation for status.

Sightgeist by Jon Kudelka.

Shortly after I’d left the Chairman’s Lounge at Sydney Airport, news ­filtered through that British Airways was going to introduce poor doors. That is, the airline was going to board passengers in groups and those who paid the least for their tickets would have to wait until everyone else boarded before they ingressed.

Now the most important part of that news was that I had been in the Chairman’s Lounge. Woo hoo! But, as someone who normally enters through the poor doors, I must admit that I didn’t have CL on my boarding ticket. My ­travelling companion did and the airline was ­obviously prepared to tolerate his tagalong.

For those who travel, these things matter. In fact, people who travel a lot talk endlessly about airport clubs, the metal on their frequent flyer cards, seating selections, preferential boarding and how they plan to wrangle their way into one of those bedrooms at the front of the plane.

So do airlines. Qantas boss Alan Joyce says the Chairman’s Lounge is the most exclusive club in Australia and he’s right. But he didn’t go far enough. The whole palaver about where you fit on those flying metal cylinders captures everything about class in Australia.

Qantas Chairman's Lounge at Sydney Airport.

One’s status used to be determined by things such as where you lived, where you were edu­cated, what job you had, what sort of car you drove, where you went on holiday and whether one used the expression one a lot. But these hints about status have been muddied by people who buy their way in (often via nefarious means) and people who take elocution lessons.

Really, the aeroplane trip is the last remaining place where your place in society is transparent. And the airlines play on this because they want to distract passengers from pricing and convince them that value lies in concessions that make the journey less horrendous.

So we’re meant to care about boarding a few minutes before others; gaining an extra 5mm around our bums; another 8cm of leg room; a pair of slippers; a free buffet of cheese and crackers in a lounge; or baggage that’s tossed on to the conveyor belt a few minutes early.

From the back of the queue, where poor people wait to board and announce to all that they are cheap, to the front of the queue where people with CL on their tickets breeze through boarding gates and genuflecting attendants, it’s carefully calibrated class.

But it’s the Chairman’s Lounge that plays the status game best. This is a club you won’t find online, offline and or even if you hunt around the airport. If you do find the unmarked entrance, don’t knock on the door, it won’t open. This is a club you can’t ask to join or pay to join or expect to join. You have to be asked.

What’s more, nobody really knows how members are selected. Sure, most politicians are members, but are all of them? Some rock stars are asked, but not all. Many chief executives are invited but, again, maybe not you. There are civil servants, but not many. There are executives who fly frequently but even they might not know why they were invited. There are said to be some writers but, alas, I am not among them.

Nobody knows how many members exist, nobody knows how long they’ll stay on the list or who selects (and dumps) them, but rumour has it that the Qantas chairman supervises it. Indeed, if you Google the chairman, Leigh Clifford, it suggests one of the most common searches is for his contact details. Yes, everyone, wants to chat with Leigh. By the way, you won’t find his contact details via Google.

But if you have to ask, you’re not going to be asked. And that’s the equation for status. Groucho Marx said he didn’t want to belong to a club that would accept people like him, so obviously we all want to belong to a club that won’t accept people like us.

And what’s it like? Well, once my companion waved the black card and we entered an almost empty lounge where waiters rushed to greet us and provide food (goat’s cheese tart, side of salad) and drinks (fizzy water) it was … Maybe it was the lack of rock stars. Maybe it was a quiet morning. Maybe I’d just fantasised about it too much. It’s nice but it’s better as a dream.

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