The Concorde’s ghost has been resurrected, and the chattering classes are beside themselves with excitement. Boom Supersonic’s Overture, a sleek dart of a plane, promises to whisk the jet set from London to New York in under two hours. The test flight was successful, we are told. The era of supersonic travel is back. But let us pause, for a moment, to consider what this really means. Is this a triumph of engineering or a symptom of our terminal decadence? I am Arthur Penhaligon, and I am here to make you think—and probably annoy you.

First, the obvious: this is a toy for the ultra-rich. The price of a ticket has not been announced, but estimates hover around five thousand pounds one way. That is not a mode of transport; it is a statement of caste. In an age of climate anxiety, when we are told to reduce our carbon footprint, the Overture burns three times as much fuel per passenger as a conventional jet. The cognitive dissonance is staggering. We are to save the planet by eating less meat and cycling to work, while the plutocrats book two-hour flights to attend a lunch meeting. The Romans threw orgies while the barbarians gathered at the gates. We build supersonic jets while the ice caps melt.

Second, consider what this says about our obsession with speed. We have conquered distance to the point of absurdity. Why travel at all, you might ask, when we have Zoom? Because speed is status. To be in London at 9 a.m. and New York at 11 a.m. (local time) is to mock the very concept of geography. It is the ultimate flex of the globalist elite, who have no loyalty to place, only to productivity. The Concorde failed because it was too noisy and too expensive, but also because its passengers were a tiny coterie of bankers and celebrities. The Overture will fail for the same reasons, but not before it has been paraded as a symbol of progress. Progress? We have not progressed; we have merely refined our ability to ignore the consequences of our indulgences.

And yet, there is a part of me that cheers. Because if there is one thing I cannot stand, it is the moralising puritans who want us all to live like monks in mud huts. Aviation is one of the great achievements of the human spirit. To fly faster than sound is to defy the gods. The engineering is magnificent: the aerodynamics, the materials, the engines. It is a testament to what we can do when we apply ourselves. But we must ask: to what end? The Victorians built railways to connect a nation, to move goods and people, to create empire. These supersonic jets connect only the already-connected. They serve no national purpose, no civic good. They are baubles.

The comparison to the Fall of Rome is not hyperbole. The late empire was marked by extraordinary private luxury and decaying public infrastructure. The rich built villas with heated floors and imported marble, while the aqueducts crumbled and the roads fell into disrepair. Our equivalent is the supersonic jet for the few, while our trains are late, our hospitals are overcrowded, and our schools are underfunded. The speed of the Overture is a metaphor for the pace of our decline: accelerating towards a cliff, with champagne in hand.

So I say: enjoy your two-hour flight. But do not call it progress. Call it what it is: the final, brilliant flourish of a civilisation that has lost its sense of purpose. We have the technology to reach New York in two hours. We lack the wisdom to ask why we should.