Let's make sex but not have a baby.

I (un)willingly participated in a stag-do aboard a flight to Bratislava this past weekend.

RyanAir, the airline which is attempting to charter standing only flights, is, I would say, the airline for students, people who like to fly cheaply and men trying to save up money for brothels and strip clubs. Or any combination of the three.

The flight was practically empty. The separate stag-do parties littered themselves strategically throughout the baby plane. Claiming corners as their territory. Pissing on the seats.

It was me. And the drunks. A couple of kids thrown into the mixture.

Oh, wait. Hold on. I've left someone out from the equation.

Darn. This is where being able to paste a photo in the middle of my blog would be immensely fruitful. Alas blogger.com does not give me the option. Bastards.

Scroll up please, my limited readership, to the photo at the top of this posting.

That man, ladies and gentlemen was my row-mate.

I was seated in the aisle, quite comfortably anticipating an entire row to myself for an intensive nap when he insisted on modulating my temple of rest.

He sat down, not at the window, but rather on top of me; in the middle.

I kept looking from him to the window and back again but to no avail.

He seemed intent on encroaching on my life.

My life ruined, alas, I feel asleep.

I awoke, 5 minutes later to a rowdy call of AHOY!...AHOY!?

I turned around and smiled rudely.

A beaming red-faced man smiled mischievously back. A Briton attempting to communicate with me in Slovak. AHOY = HELLO. His friends cheering.

Suddenly, a squirt of cold liquid assaulted me.

Who? What? How?

It was the man. I'll call him the Stache from now on.

Stache, the man next to me, had taken to opening a packet of vodka with his teeth. He failed. His saliva and alcohol made it's way into my nasal cavity.

I stared at him, heaving.

How did he manage to keep the vodka so cold?

Stache took out another five packets of vodka and a decent sized Swiss army knife which he used to puncture the next vodka sack aggressively.

He looked a bit like the human manifestation of the devil.

Is devil capitalized?

Nevermind.

He then proceeded to pour the contents of the packets into some kind of blood red juice. Tomato you say? Aye, I cannot be sure.

Six packets. Wasted.

I was offered none. Except for the one now dripping down my throat from the back of my nose. Stache then proceeded to pluck his eyebrows.

I was debating whether or not to move when, again....

AHOY?! AHOY?! PECKNE ZENA.

I know about ten words of Slovak. Now that means HELLO HELLO BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

Wow, this guy is really intent on charming a Slovakian woman.

Probably, for sex.

I resign to not turning around.

Tap. Tap. Tap. On my shoulder.

The Stache devil is now snoring. His limitless limbs stretched over to the window, bony ass in my side.

Tap.

I turn. I say slowly and loudly I AM AMERICAN.

He smiles and shurgs. Puts down his phrase book. Gets up.

CARE TO JOIN ME THEN?

Ah the lure of RyanAir toilets.

Stache has now ordered cheese and onion pringles and a ham and cheese toastie. The sandwich rests in his lap amongst the fallen eyebrow mass.

I sleep.

Devil Stache awakens me. WOULD YOU MIND USING THE AISLE ARMREST.

Pardon?

THE AISLE ARMREST. I'M TRYING TO SLEEP.

I hatefully move my right arm off the disputed joint territory.

His bottom jutts into my side.

Did he just?

Oh yes. Yes he did.

He farted.

Given my limited options I get up, sit with the nearest stag-do grouping and play warm beer drinking games centered around who can recite pick up lines in Slovak from memory.

My favorite: Nech maju pohlavie, ale nie babatko.

Let's make sex but not have a baby.

FoodgoodinIstanbul.

Food is good in Istanbul.

At the top, that's molasses encrusted roast lamb with mustard seed mash and sauteed prunes.

In the middle that's roasted potatoes with garlic, cream and rosemary.

At the bottom, that's cherry-wood smoked lamb with walnut and tahini purees.

I have to go back.

That is all.