It was on an early internal flight from one end of this Sceptred Isle to t'other when I finally assumed my aisle seat, pleasingly near the front of the aircraft and with a distinctly reasonable chance of receiving the much anticipated breakfast fare; made more urgent since two hastily consumed Weatabix's had been absorbed into the blood stream some two hours previously. In the distance some not unhandsome young besuited ladies busied themselves by jiggling a reluctant trolley into pole position and were soon using their fixed grins as an apologetic aid to assuage the obvious disappointment that they were serving such meagre offerings consisting only of rolls and butter. Similar disappointment spread across my nauseated mind before realisation that this airline was renowned for its fair minded treatment of its customers as unfit for even small luxuries, with passengers compressed into receptacles known as 'seats â battery â chicken â for the use of'. The roll and butter duly presented themselves, even if a bit sorrily. Determined to eke every drop of sensation from this austerity breakfast I anticipated spreading the roll skilfully with rich flowing strokes of creamy creaminess; only to notice the sachet had exited the refrigerator at well below its optimised temperature for flowing motions. With considerable ingenuity and resourcefullness I felt it best to deliver a light morning massage to the said dairy product prior to its use. Carefully, between thumb and index finger, rotatery pressure was applied. As the contents received friction and warmth it gently acquiesced. Proud of this modest achievement it seemed only right to deliver a final round of pressure prior to lifting the foil lid. Without warning the innocuous looking sachet exploded with a sound best described as a *spchplop*. Fearing the very worst outcomes I stiffly looked down to expect the rather crisp new silk tie to be first line of defence. Not a scratch, not a jot or whisker of damage, and neither too the rather new and dapper charcoal grey chalkstripe, cunningly purchased at half price. But, how on earth? Now, in the distance could be heard spontaneous exclamations and rapid rustling of newspapers. Turning to look over my right shoulder, at approximately five o'clock from my position, and four rows back, opposite, a red faced, and clearly perturbed Gallic looking gentleman had fixed me with his gaze. Moving from his boiling visage, and scanning slowly down I couldn't help but notice rather puss-like eruptions on tie, groin area, inner thigh and right shirt sleeve. Sadly, not in this instance anyway, could a bad case of acneâd youthful pizza complexion, momentarily depositing its crustaceous excretions, be the prime source of the puss-tulatory difficulties. A number of entirely incomprehensible Gallic words sprung to his lips; whilst I made a mental note that this was a fellow passenger of considerable sartorial elegance, with a disturbingly expensive suit of cloth far finer than my own. Presently the yellow substance began to absorb hurriedly despite his brave futile efforts, I felt it best to add to my horrified visage a few words of profuse and unrestrained apologies to which the mildly less apoplectic Monsieur received with taught grace. Supplications sufficiently accepted, and honour restored, I resumed my seat with a sense of dismay and bemusement since the yellow ejaculate had sped a neat path directly below my beshirted armpit on its journey to my continental cousin, without the decency to leave a sample deposit for sake of fairness and shared comradely suffering. A little flustered I took solace in the clear moral of this traveller's tale: God is indeed an Englishman.