Martinis at Altitude.

Let me tell you something about the Jet Set and I mean the real Jet Set, not the modern version where a person becomes “internationally famous” because they once posted a video of themselves crying in an airport Pret. No, I’m talking about the glamorous heyday from the 1950s to the 1970s, when flying was so sophisticated that people dressed as if they were attending a royal wedding, and not, as is the case today, a mass evacuation from a burning warehouse.

Back then, the Jet Set were a special breed of humans who lived in a world where everything was fabulous, everyone was beautiful, and nobody ever seemed to have a job. Their primary occupation was “being seen,” which they performed with the dedication of Olympic athletes. They floated from continent to continent like extremely well‑dressed pollen, landing in places like St. Tropez, Acapulco, and Rome cities back then that existed mainly so the Jet Set could drink cocktails in them.

These were the days when airports were temples of glamour. You didn’t shuffle through security in your socks while a stranger confiscated your toothpaste. No, you strode through the terminal like a movie star, wearing sunglasses the size of dinner plates, followed by luggage that required its own passport. People smoked on planes, because apparently oxygen was optional then, and the stewardesses that’s what they were called, because this was before the Age of Offence wore uniforms so stylish they could have walked straight onto a Paris runway.

And the planes! Today’s aircraft are essentially airborne buses with wings, except the seats are smaller and the snacks are angrier. But in the Jet Set era, planes had lounges. Actual lounges. With sofas. And bars. And sometimes pianos. You could stroll up to the bar at 35,000 feet and order a martini shaken by a man who looked like he’d been hired specifically to shake martinis at altitude. Meanwhile, the captain would occasionally wander out of the cockpit to chat with passengers, because apparently nobody worried about things like “flying the plane.”

The Jet Set themselves were a fascinating species. They were always tanned even at night and they had names like Binky, Allegra, and Prince Something of Somewhere. They travelled with steamer trunks the size of small cars, filled with outfits for every conceivable occasion, including “casual breakfast on a yacht” and “emergency champagne tasting.” They were photographed constantly, usually while laughing at something that wasn’t actually funny, like a man wearing socks with sandals.

Their natural habitat was the cocktail party, which in the Jet Set era was not just a social gathering but a competitive sport. A proper cocktail party required at least three things:  

 A swimming pool .

A guest list containing at least one minor royal .

A scandal brewing quietly in the corner like a soufflé of chaos .  

The Jet Set thrived on scandal. They collected scandals the way modern influencers collect discount codes. Affairs, feuds, mysterious disappearances these were the building blocks of their social calendar. And the best part was that nobody judged them. In fact, the more outrageous the behaviour, the more glamorous they became. If someone ran off to Marrakesh with their best friend’s spouse, society didn’t cancel them; it invited them to more parties.

This was the golden age before “celebrity” became a dirty word. Today, celebrities are expected to be “authentic,” which is a polite way of saying they must occasionally pretend to eat carbohydrates. They go on talk shows and tell stories about how they’re “just like us,” even though they live in houses the size of regional airports and have personal assistants whose sole job is to remind them to drink water.

But the Jet Set? They didn’t pretend to be like us. They didn’t even pretend to be like each other. They were unapologetically glamorous, outrageously impractical, and magnificently uninterested in anything resembling normal life. They didn’t post photos of their breakfast; they had people to eat breakfast for them. They didn’t worry about being “relatable,” because the whole point was that they were not. They were the human equivalent of a gold plated flamingo wearing a diamond tiara.

And the destinations! Capri, where the sea was bluer than the eyes of the Italian movie stars who lounged beside it. Monte Carlo, where people gambled enormous sums of money while wearing outfits that cost even more. Palm Beach, where the parties were so extravagant that even the flamingos looked underdressed. These were places where glamour wasn’t an aesthetic it was a municipal requirement.

Of course, the Jet Set era eventually faded, replaced by the modern world, where travel involves things like “queues” and “budget airlines” and “crying quietly into a meal deal.” But sometimes, when I’m wedged into a middle seat between a man eating a tuna sandwich and a toddler who has discovered the primal joy of kicking, I think back to that golden age. The age when flying was an event, not a punishment. When glamour was effortless. When celebrities were mysterious, not constantly livestreaming their skincare routines.

And I think: maybe the Jet Set had it right. Maybe life should involve more martinis at altitude, more scandalous parties, more outfits that require structural engineering. Maybe glamour doesn’t have to be a relic. Maybe we can bring a little of that sparkle back.

Although, to be fair, I’m not wearing a tuxedo to Glasgow Airport. Not again!