Five tricks Ryanair pulls out of sheer f**king spite

WE are Ryanair, and we actively make flying with us worse in the hope you might pay us to stop. Here is how we hate you:

No check-in staff

To encourage you to check in online, we have fired all our check-in staff. If you still need to check in – perhaps you have paid £50 for hold luggage? – the queue will resemble those at Alton Towers but will not move at the same speed. If you miss your flight because of this queue, the responsibility is yours.

No legroom

Due to airplane design choices beyond our control, certain seats have more legroom than others. We hate it but it’s a safety thing. There are passengers who could benefit from this legroom, but unless they give us £20 those seats will sit empty. If you’re tall it will hurt. We will hurt you unless you pay us. That’s the Ryanair promise.

No sitting with your friends

On the lowest form of public transport available – a bus – you can sit with your mates. On trains or tubes or trams you can sit with your mates. Only on Ryanair, because we’re bastards, do we attempt to extort money from you for simple companionship. It would be so much easier not to do this, but we might miss out on up to £80 per flight.

No bags

Like a seat with legroom, the overhead lockers will remain empty unless we’re suitably remunerated. Why should you be allowed a bag just because you’re going somewhere? You can, of course, put a bag under your seat but the specifications are absurdly small. We only let you take a shopping bag because the airports make us.

Nowhere to put anything

Our seats, like those on trains, used to have webbing on the back for you to put your drink or book in. But passengers left rubbish in them and we had to clean it up and that required a member of staff, so we’ve removed it and now you have to balance your crisps on your knee. You can’t even pay us for this. We just f**king hate you.

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Taking charge of the barbecue, and other things middle-aged men to have wet dreams about

YOU used to have normal wet dreams about engaging in sexual acts with attractive humans. But now you’re middle-aged, this is what gets you hot:

Lidl middle-aisle deals

The internet’s wildest pornography can’t produce the same physical rush you feel when you find a heavily discounted inflatable lilo in the middle aisle at Lidl. And as for the time you stumbled across a pressure washer with integrated hose reel, well, you still blush at the thought.

Taking charge of the barbecue

Once you hit 45, you stop measuring your virility in how often you want sex and start measuring it in your ability to grill meat. What greater thrill is there than seizing the tongs from a hapless fellow father at a neighbour’s birthday barbecue and valiantly saving some sausages from becoming overly charred? Absolutely none.

200 balls on the driving range

A barely-clothed Margot Robbie swims into your vision, beckoning you to follow. You walk behind her, through a hazy dreamscape, intrigued. Suddenly, the mists dissolve, revealing a driving range. Margot Robbie hands you a driver and a basket brimming with golf balls and departs, leaving you alone. You wake, sweating and delirious.

A military history museum

As a young man, your idea of dirty talk was hearing an attractive woman describe how and what she was planning to do to your genitals. Now though, in your 50s, remembering that infographic you saw in a WW2 military museum outlining the number of tanks involved in the Battle of Kursk will set you off instantly.

B&Q

Kublai Khan built his fabled pleasure dome in Xanadu. But your own personal pleasure dome can be found on an industrial estate just off the Swindon bypass. When your partner angrily wakes you to ask who you were dreaming about while making those moaning sounds, you quickly reply ‘Kylie‘ rather than admit it was the B&Q Dartmoor oak effect laminate flooring.

A quiet pint alone

Fantasies of hedonistic nights out have given way to a simple desire: a rural pub, a single pint of weak ale, and silence. In your vision, you sit in the pub waiting for friends to arrive – is this a nightmare? But then, your phone pings: they’ve all cancelled. What dreamy bliss.