I'm in Toronto. I arrived this morning - or this afternoon depending on the time zone. Despite having flown the Toronto - Glasgow route at least a dozen times now, I arrived in Toronto feeling somewhat disoriented. I suppose it was the hurried and frenzied state I arrived at Glasgow airport in. Or perhaps it was the seven hour flight in a tiny cramped plane where I was, of course, seated behind a behemoth mound of flesh that only slightly resembled a human.
See, his face melted into his neck and his torso appeared to be constructed out of cheese barrels. His "fingers" vaguely resembled human flesh and looked more like sausages. I know this because once every hour, he would fling his hands up and over the top of his chair - inches away from my face.
Silently suffering, I got to thinking about airlines. Now, first of all, I know the following suggestion will be politically incorrect and of course, loaded but hear me out: during my seven hour flight (and oh, how I missed the spacious seats of Thomas Cook), I got to thinking about an airline (or section of a plane) that would be for people ONLY weighing over 300 pounds AND with a bmi OVER 30. Such an airline (or rather, a section of a flight) would have bigger seats and more room AND you wouldn't even have to pay more. You'd just have to be weighed and measured. In public to be allowed entry into the section.
Look, I am by no means tiny myself (but don't worry - I'm working my way up to yet another eating disorder) but jesus, after seven hours of staring at the back of a giant's head and the seat straining under said giant, I was moments away from an anxiety attack.
So, I propose that airlines start reflecting the demographic of the Western world and create a section for all us fat bastards - who are prepared to undergo a public weigh in and measure. Wherein we can be herded into a corner of an already cramped cabin and every once in a while, thrown bags of crisps and licorice allsorts.
Please note: this entry was heavily-influenced from reading Charlie Brooker's, Dawn of the Dumb: Dispatches from the Idiotic Front Line, on a seven hour flight.
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