Tim Roxborogh on the joys of moaning about your holidays
For someone who’s spent most of his life being slightly too sensible, I have some unusually colourful fears regarding my own behaviour.
Like how I’m fairly certain that if I ever took a sleeping pill on a plane and combined it with a glass or two of wine, I’d find myself running naked down the aisles while doing cartwheels and high-fives with the bewildered passengers.
Which is all very well and good (depending on your enthusiasm for nude strangers doing gymnastics in enclosed spaces), but the guarantee of arrest and public humiliation lessens the appeal, somewhat.
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As such, I’ll never in a million years do what seemingly so many other seasoned flyers do, which is board the plane, pop the old sneaky prescription pill, down a decent beverage and boom, you’re out for eight or nine hours.
I know several people who do this and swear by it, but is it worth the risk?
“Risk!? What risk?” you possibly didn’t ask, but I suspect that a high percentage of the time there’s a headline-making kerfuffle on a flight, it’s the contrasting forces of pills and booze at play.
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