You would have to be from Mars or some remote outpost of human civilisation such as Basingstoke to remain unaware of the problems with UK flights this weekend.

I’m not one to complain without cause (as you all know), and I don’t mind a small delay when it’s for a valid reason, as of course, this was. Check-in was slow, predictably, and putting my phone into a bag just as it was checked-in was disconcerting as my main link to the the world at large was being taken away from me.

We eventually got to board our plane bound for Edinburgh, sans hand-luggage, about 45 minutes late, which whilst slightly annoying, was perfectly acceptable given the circumstances.

We then got to spend an hour on a stationary plane, at the gate, which was slightly less acceptable. The pilot eventually told us that there’d been a problem with something I think he called a ‘beltway’, which had delayed some luggage*, but it was all resolved and we’d be away shortly.

We eventually reached cruising altitude, and I was busy reading my Total Film interview with Will Ferrell, when I overheard the rather strange conversation that was underway next to me.

“Yes it is, no it isn’t, yes it is.” said a slightly animated, if hushed voice.

“It is isn’t it?” came the reply.

“Yes it is”

“What’ll we do?”

“I don’t know, what’ll we do? It is isn’t it?”

This conversation appeared to make no sense, so I continued to focus on my magazine as I dismissed them as weirdo’s heading for the festival, but I realised quite quickly that there was noone sat next to me, which meant there was only one other person in my row. I felt a burning stare in my direction from my travel companions, and as I looked to my left across the isle at them, they looked straight past me at the window seat in my row.

I turned to my right to my right to see a young ginger mentalist in the window seat arguing, animatedly, yet quietly, with himself.

I always thought that the only possible advantage to having an argument with yourself would be that you are guaranteed to win it. I sat corrected as he appeared to be losing, quite spectacularly, an argument with himself.

I was fairly sure that Al-Quaeda would not recruit a ginger youth with mental problems for a campaign of terror, and so decided against reporting him to the cabin crew. Instead, I steadfastly ignored him with my head focused on the publication before me.

For the most part, I was successful in drowning out his garbled muttering, but as we began our descent into Edinburgh he began his into complete madness by graduating from losing an argument with himself, to making to animal noises. Perhaps this was to mock his own poor debating style. On a busy Friday evening commuter flight, animal noises are pretty hard to ignore, no matter how determined you are.

“Quack quack quack” he began with no mention of Old McDonald, or his farm.

“Coooo coooo,” he continued with a warbling impression of the Dove from Above.

The noise of a landing aircraft finally overpowered his Dr Doolittle impression, but as we deplaned (as our American friends call it) he tried to make polite conversation with me. I was quick to counter this by making my best “I am deaf” face and staring straight ahead.

I left him in my wake as I sped towards the luggage carousel with my friends to begin our weekend adventure.

(continued tomorrow)

* We shall call this warning sign number 1.

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