The Great Virgin Gold Rush
There’s something about the promise of gold that makes people do ridiculous things.
Mine shafts. Panning rivers. Cutting up shopping trolleys to build a DIY sifter.
Or, in my case: signing up for a Virgin Money credit card, pushing my Coles shopping carts past $100 just for the sweet reward of a status credit, and once — just once — flying business class to Cairns purely to cross the line into Gold Member territory.
Call it what it was: The Great Virgin Gold Rush.
And I was all in.
I found myself almost ashamed by what I was about to say.
I’m a bit sick of the food in the Virgin lounge.
The group I was with gasped — and rightfully roasted me for how privileged that sounded. At least I was self-aware enough to acknowledge it before I said it. But still, I was shocked enough by my own admission — and how dirty it made me feel.
Three years ago, I was the ultimate Virgin fangirl. I found every hack there was to rack up enough status credits to become a Velocity Gold member. Lounge access. Priority boarding. No more dragging my bags through endless airport lines. It was all too alluring.
I got a Virgin Money credit card.
Set up Flybuys points to convert to Velocity points.
Started shopping at Coles, deliberately pushing my cart over $100 every time to score another precious status credit.
I may have flown business class to Cairns just to get the extra credits that would push me over the edge.
I refused to fly with anyone else — especially after Jetstar once made me feel like a cheap criminal when my carry-on was one kilo overweight. They forced me back through security like a naughty kid caught smoking behind the bike sheds at school.
I'll never forget the pride I felt when the gold bag tags arrived in the mail.
My golden ticket to an exclusive club. Proof I'd made it... at least, in the weird little world of airline hierarchy.
The first time I entered the Virgin lounge, I felt like a rockstar. Unlimited buffet food, wine, a comfortable chair to sink into. When I brought guests in, it felt like I was granting them access to a secret world. Their humble red ticket momentarily eclipsed by my flash of gold.
But then... the shine wore off.
The lounge got fuller. Lines got longer. Dirty plates and crumpled napkins littered the tables. The menu stayed stubbornly the same — made with less and less love each time. (The sludgy chicken risoni deserves a special mention. And not in a good way.)
Even boarding became a shambles. Business, platinum, gold — you'd still get elbowed aside by a sea of "VIPs."
And I started thinking: If everyone’s important, is anyone really that important?
All the perks started to feel hollow. I didn’t check in luggage anymore — travelling with a day pack, toddler, and pram will do that to you. And my seat was still there whether I boarded first or last.
I started to wonder: Does any of this even matter anymore?
The final straw? Jetstar.
I caved when their flights were so much cheaper. I steeled myself for the worst... but found something surprising. The fresh new uniforms came with a fresh new attitude. No gold, no platinum, no class system.
Everyone treated the same. With kindness and genuine care.
And honestly? It just felt... nice.
It turns out that once I’d "made it," I realised it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
If the food quality hadn’t slipped — if it still had a little spice, a little love — maybe I wouldn’t have questioned it.
But the shine wore off. And what I could see was this:
Virgin had created a class system that made you feel worse for being at the red rock bottom, so you'd do whatever it took not to feel like that anymore. It’s clever — brutally clever — but it all starts to crumble when the perks no longer feel like perks, and you’re left staring into the cold, hard reality:
You weren’t chasing real gold.
You were chasing fool’s gold.
And the only thing still feeling perky... was your ego.