Who cares about more legroom? Budget airlines destroy your dignity

Legroom on many budget airlines is now better than on the old-fashioned full-service carriers, especially on long-haul, a survey has just shown. That’s yet more dismal news for those of us who dream of travelling in a grander aviation age when no one clapped on landing. Of course, I book budget airlines like everyone else but I’ve developed my own ways of coping.

Once, in the hope of re-creating a little of the feel of business class , I booked a front-row seat. It had ample leg room and even a little foldaway table in my armrest, but that is most definitely where the similarity ended. Being at the very front, and seated first, I saw every passenger board. Fifteen minutes in, instinct told me to adopt the brace position. But I decided to brave it out. I tried to calm myself with a gin, but I couldn’t open the sachet.

Budget carriers have such strange effects on people. Perfectly decent folk get into character when flying on them. As well as carbohydrate gluttony and a pre-flight pint or six, they swap their ordinarily tasteful outfits for man-made fibres. The cabin is full of polyester, generating enough static-electricity to power my home town of Nottingham.

So, my advice is: resist, resist, resist. You simply can’t arrive at Malaga let alone Buenos Aires having sat in a cabin made almost entirely out of plastic and dined on a menu of “meal deals”. Who cares if it may be a little cheaper — think about the cost on your soul. Yes, flying on a full-service carrier may be a little more cramped these days, and, yes, you may have to hobble a little while walking to immigration, but mild thrombosis is surely a price worth paying for dignity.

I’m almost feeling sorry for Julian Assange, the WikiLeaks founder. It seems that his time in a Knightsbridge broom cupboard is coming to an end. A new home without views of Sloane Street beckons. But one thing fascinates me. What on earth has happened to the colour of his hair during his exile? From fair, to light grey to blonde it has now become a bright, acidic yellow last seen on Albert Steptoe’s teeth. My advice to him is that of anyone with an aesthetic inclination: leave the Ecuadorian Embassy, Julian, to save your hair.

I was heartened to hear that, thanks to the digital wizards, Carrie Fisher is to appear in the new Star Wars film more than a year after she died. Heartened not because I was a fan of hers but because it means that my hopes of one day starring alongside Ryan Gosling on the big screen might not be over. This digital reinvention offers so many possibilities.

I may start to film myself in various situations: me climbing a tree; me in need of rescue; me running slo-mo on a beach; me smitten. His gentle smile, doughy eyes and perfect abs can continue to soothe the world for decades to come.

Whenever things are a little fraught, all Hollywood needs to do is cobble together a few Ryan clips and everything will be fine.

Ryan and I can become the new Bergman and Bogart. So thank you, Carrie, for the inspiration.

I regret to announce my retirement from the sport of polo. To be honest, I barely started. A few stints in Sotogrande in southern Spain convinced me for an afternoon that I was made for the sport. I didn’t actually get on a horse, I admit, but that has little to do with being part of the polo set.

My conversation was wrong, my shoes were too “shoey” (as described by a veteran polo-er), I didn’t go to Sandhurst and I’ve never summered in the Hamptons​ . I did, however, look sensational in tight white trousers. But it seems that is not enough.

Oh well. Time to move on. Perhaps the tiddlywinks set will welcome me?