Death to airborne child hating Nazis

It’s a long way from Edinburgh to Airlie Beach in Australia, where I am at present. A one-hour flight to London was followed by an 11-hour flight to Hong Kong. Then the cheeky wee ten-hour flight to Sydney was followed by a 90-minute hop to Brisbane which led us nicely to the last hour-and-a-half jet to Proserpine.

Sound far? It’s an even longer way travelling with three small children. But the problem is not the kids (who were great). It’s the twisted band of airborne child hating Nazis who pollute our skies.

You know who you are. The ones who tut and tsk whenever someone under the age of 20 sits within a 15-yard circle of you. Humorless moany-faced misanthropes with faces like a bulldog licking piss of a nettle. I haven’t seen joyless faces that shone so brightly with a hatred of the young since I was at school.

I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of being cringeingly polite and meekly apologising for my child being a child. I have, therefore, come up with a four-point plan for a parent on the edge (and any parent travelling with children is a parent on the edge).

Phase 1: The appeal to reason. “We were all children once so why not calm down and go back to your duty-free-fuelled fantasies about the air hostesses.”

Phase 2: Sarcasm. “Why, yes, I can keep my toddler quiet. There’s a mute button but I choose not to use it because I find sleep boring.”

Phase 3: The hard truth. “You’re flying Economy on a long-haul flight. If you wanted a good night’s sleep you should have travelled first-class. On a cruise ship. Preferably the Titanic.

Phase 4: Direct action. Ever been curious what the passage from the aircraft loo to the outside of the plane looks like? Well, you’re going to find out. The last thing you will hear is that funny hissing flush followed by a rushing roar of air. But don’t worry, you won’t be alone. To accompany you on your way to your imminent demise 30,000 feet below, you’ll have the chafing distraction of a Thomas The Tank Engine colouring book wedged sideways in your duodenum, hammered into place to the tune of The Wheels On The Bus.

You have been warned.