Snake on a plane

Last week, on our way home from London to New York, I spotted a familiar face in our cabin. Our cabin being First Class, which was only possible because C works for the company.

Cue "Twilight Zone" theme song....

Oh yes, it was Papa Joe Simpson.

I wanted to take him by the collar and bellow into his face, "Do you realize what a Per-hervvvvv you are!"

I wanted to drop kick him across the cabin back to where he came all smugly smiley after having one of the complimentary spa treatments offered to First Class passengers. No doubt he asked for a "happy ending".

I wanted to ask him why he thought it was okay to discuss your daughter's breast size to a national magazine, of all places?

I also wanted to know how he could justify promoting marginal talent in the form of his spawn, as well as that of Ryan Cabrera, who looks like he hurts.

Como se dice "Ouch" en Espanol?

I wanted to tell him that I'd always suspected Papa Joe's haircut was really bad, like a poor man's Vanilla Ice. But having seen it for myself in person, it was worse than I thought.

And most of all, I wanted to ask him what it was like, as a former Baptist preacher, what it was like to have sold your soul to the devil.

I wanted to. But I didn't.