So there we are settling into our seats for a long flight to sunnier climes. I’ve got an aisle seat and there two empty seats to my left – so I wait patiently to see who turns up…
“Who will it be?” I wonder, looking forward to some convivial conversation with the nice, genteel person who’s about to settle in next to me. And then they arrive : a couple of the great unwashed accompanied by two bloody great rucksacks that I’m sure don’t qualify as hand baggage and should be in the hold.
Biffing me on the head as they lug their oversized bags into the overhead locker, they tread on my feet as they climb into their seats and then proceed to hog the shared armrest. It’s going to be a long ride.
They ignore me. I ignore them. Until, that is, a strange smell wafts towards me. The farter has started. I’ve got another three hours of this to endure and I reflect upon why it is I didn’t just pay the extra for that upgrade whilst the smell continues.
Christ, this guy could drop one at international level! It’s a shame there’s no farting in the olympics ‘cos this is definitely gold medal stuff!
I think about retaliating, then I think better of it. Why sink to his level? So I decide on the direct approach after about an hour and a half. What have a I got to lose? He’s not talking to me anyway and after we get where we’re going, I’ll probably never see him again…
“Excuse me, old son” I say. “There’s no delicate way to put this so I’ll just come out with it! Could you please refrain from farting for the rest of the trip?”
He looks at me mortally offended. “I’m not farting!” he protests indignantly.
“So what the hell is that smell, then!?!” I’m starting to lose it at this stage.
His girlfriend leans across. “Sorry” she says, “but you’re wrong. He’s not farted. That’s his trainers. They always smell like that…”