Fiji Airways A330 Business Class Is Shit

I don’t do flight reviews, folks.  I couldn’t care less.  First class this, business class that—this airline gives you a warm towel, another drizzles the excreted membrane of an ancient fish over your bread.  But sometimes, I need to go rogue.  I need to document this before my brain deletes it out of self-preservation.

Fiji Airways.  Specifically, their ageing A330, which I had the misfortune of boarding from Tokyo for our recent trip to Laucala. If you’re coming from Los Angeles, you’re spared.  God took mercy, deciding that between the wildfires and the endless people dressed as Spider-Man sexually harassing you, you’d suffered enough.  Congrats, you get an A350 instead.  But for a lot of us heading to Fiji, we’re trapped inside a festering, winged monstrosity of sewage.

Do we all remember sleeping at a perfect right angle as babies, gently soothed to sleep by our parents?  No.  Me neither.  Da fuck is this?  I feel like I’m in a Victorian Workhouse.

Yes, that’s right.  Some moron once decided a bed shouldn’t lie flat, but instead at an angle.  And then, in 2025, Fiji Airways still thought, “Perfect.  They’ll love it”.  I figured that was as bad as it could get.  On the way out, I was in the first row, where at least the seat could stretch into its full, dreadful slope.  But on the way back, I discovered a new sensation: realising I would have been just as well off in economy.

Once you’re far from the front in the scum rows, you know, like in row 2, there isn’t even enough room for the seat to hit its absurd angle.  Instead, it contorts into some grotesque, self-defeating shape, like Optimus Prime trying to give himself a rim job.  So I was left to choose between sleeping with my feet shoved backwards like I’d just staggered out of a yoga retreat, or sitting bolt upright like I was auditioning for Dracula on a budget holiday.  Somewhere between those two positions, I managed to pull a muscle.  Whether from the contortion or from rage suppression, I’ll never know.

I can see the engineers now: bare-chested, chest-bumping, high-fiving like they’d just gone back in time and prevented the Titanic from hitting the iceberg.  “We’ve cracked it, boys!”—ecstatic at their triumph of keeping passengers semi-upright for nine fucking hours.  I bet Apollo 11 was more comfortable than this—even Apollo 1.

Of course, none of this is really an issue.  It’s not like we need to sleep on a flight that departs at *checks notes* 11:30 p.m. Nope, absolutely the perfect time to stay wide awake and throw a rave.  Fuck these guys.