I write to you via the wonders of modern mobile phone technology from seat 25F on the United Airlines flight 905 to New York from old London town. I am in cabin Y, in "economy plus", whatever that is. The seating is adequate, and nobnody has sat next me yet. I hope it stays that way. My elbows require space, and I am develping something of a grump. My senses are currently being assaulted by an Eric Clapton styled muzak rendition of Marvin Gaye's 'Sexual Healing', which has sent my once proud penis scurrying up itself in terror. This is, perhaps, a clever move on the part of UA, as flight does quite terrifing things to the blood in my body - perhaps in revultion at the unatural process of sailing above clouds at terrifying sepeds in a metal can, it all decides to attempt escape via the end of my penis. So it goes. This is why my in flight reading is limited to Private Eye and Uncut - we want no stimulation whatsoever, thank you. The Royal We that is. Our trousers are old and delicate, and we don't want to be scaring any old ladies and getting ourselves arrested.
Thinking about it, writing to you from here probably falls under some bizzarre anti-terror law or other. I shall cease immediately. I have exceedingly important things to do. Forsooth!