Perhaps you'll understand me if I kick your feet off?
January 2004. I had spent 3 incredible weeks travelling round North East Brazil. My skin was a brown colour that had otherwise been alien to me, my spirit was calm, I felt rested and relaxed and all was good in my world. The 8 hour delay to my flight from Salvador to Lisbon had failed to annoy me. I was to be taking the flight alone, while the remainder of my party jetted off to a luxury island resort off the coast of Salvador, but this didn't bother me in the least bit. I'm far too relaxed and calm to be wound up by such petty things.

A night spent in an expensive hotel courtesy of TAP was a refreshing change from the accommodation I'd enjoyed the past 3 weeks and I boarded my flight with that mixture of sadness and relief that often accompanies the end of a holiday. I settled into my seat, which was unfortunately distant from the pretty girl I'd been chatting to in the airport, and began to look forward to returning to blighty.

This is where the problems began. As I assessed my fellow passengers I quickly became aware that I was surrounded by the most miserable looking bunch of teenagers ever to grace the skies. It was as though I'd inadvertently volunteered to judge the Portuguese 'Best Impression of Harry Enfield's Kevin' competition. I quickly identified the winner; he was the last one I noticed, but as soon as he brought himself to my attention, it was clear that he was a expert and wanted to make sure I knew this too.

It began with an occasional and gentle tapping at the base of my seat. This was followed by some particularly unpleasant whining sounds emitted from his stupid face. The tapping on my seat soon intensified in both force and rapidity while the whining followed suit and I was moved to turn and politely request a halt to it. Kevinho obliged initially, but wasn't to be put off so easily and within half an hour it began once more. Again I turned and politely suggested that he might like to reconsider his unwanted assault on my senses and again he agreed, albeit with a surly harrumph.

Thinking I'd won not only the battle, but the war as well, I allowed myself to drift off into a satisfied slumber, with thoughts of a happy holiday tumbling about my mind. Of course I was wrong; I was jolted out of my sleep by a solid boot to the base of my spine, which continued with machine gun like consistency until I leapt from my seat, made myself appear as big as possible (not easy when you're only 5ft 6), raised my hand as though to strike him with the back of it, and shouted that if he was to continue then I would kick him about the aircraft until his parents couldn't recognise him any longer. I don't think he spoke any English, but he clearly understood the sentiment and didn't kick my chair again. In fact, he was really rather quiet for the remainder of the flight.

I don't think I've ever threatened violence in such a manner before, and certainly haven't since, but it seemed to work at the time, and I'm glad it did as I didn't fancy being whisked away to a Portuguese prison upon my arrival in Lisbon.
( Moey, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:54, Reply)