RugbyRebels

I'm about to fly to Fiji with my family. I've got some upgrades owing that are about to expire and are non-transferable. So I've been moved to seat 1B, while the wife and kids stay in row 37.

Have I ruined my holiday?

Lizard wrote:I'm about to fly to Fiji with my family. I've got some upgrades owing that are about to expire and are non-transferable. So I've been moved to seat 1B, while the wife and kids stay in row 37.

Have I ruined my holiday?

Yes you have. Unless you were planning celibacy and no conversation.

Well I wouldn't want her in my ear during the Fiji - Scotland game we're going to anyway.

Lizard wrote:Well I wouldn't want her in my ear during the Fiji - Scotland game we're going to anyway.

Are the kids going to the game as well? Because any chance you had of her looking after the kids whilst you settle down to the rugby has gone.

It's only 3 hours. Tell her to man up.

You love these ethical problems. It's almost like we are your off duty morality.

Don't encourage him FFS.

Yep. Still, on the plus side, you can now flirt outrageously with the fit stewardess safe in the knowledge you're going to have a dire holiday regardless.

My wife would be perfectly understanding about this and encourage me to enjoy the experience.

Yeah, right....

Finally a bloke that is capable of showing a bit of aplomb in the battle of the sexes.

This is the way that nature intends things to be. If you don't believe me offer to buy an upgrade for the wife and see if she will join you in seat 1A while the kids wallow in row 37.

You enjoy your guiltless leg-stretch and buckets of fine drink Liz, and don't be letting her burden you with cattle-class sob-stories.

Saw this and thought of you Liz

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Well, so far it's gone well. Not a peep, and she's confirmed she will look after the kids while I take my Dad to the game instead. I think giving her a couple of glasses of bubbly in the lounge over breakfast before boarding helped.

Unfortunately the nearest thing to a hot stewardess was a portly, balding gentleman (presumable a friend of Dorothy's) wielding a rather nice bottle of Pinot Gris.

She'll get ye back.

Rest assured mate, you will end up in a home, lying with bed-sores in your own piss and fed through a tube on whizzed-up crap from the Lidl offers shelf - and ye'll be meeting your maker in an MDF coffin stuffed into the bog-end of the cemetery.