John - the opinionated self-righteous businessman.

It's 6.08 - I have to get to gate 408. I have thirty-two minutes. These people in front of me are idiots. These security screeners are secondary school dropouts or people who didn't get a proper education. Or couldn't be bothered. And now they've got the power to tell us where to put our shoes and laptops.

I show my online boarding card (that my secretary Evelyn downloaded to my phone) and passport and manage to scoot in front of a slow, weary family. I skip across a pair of old dears and find a space at the top of one of the security queues. I certainly won't hold anyone up like they might.

Swiftly through screening, I spot fellow suited individuals snaking their way over to one corner of the building. I smell coffee. But it's called the Chocolate Lounge - who in their right mind would eat chocolate at this hour of the day?

A quick expresso would perk me up rightly. The takeaway queue moves slowly and I glance at my watch. A young lady of Eastern European extraction asked me in a clipped tone what I want. I manage to snag a pastry too and pay her E6.30. Good job I know how to make my way around this new monstrosity that they call a 'terminal'.

I skirt past the two same old dears and pinch the elevator for myself. I press the close door button just as they come within a few feet and pretend like I tried to open it for them. Some people do really check their brains in with their baggage when they get to an airport.

As I exit the elevator an air hostess in green crosses my path with her wheel bag in tow. Bloody woman never looked where she was going - even after I came around the pillar.

I see signs for the express train into the city at my gate. I have a few minutes to spare as boarding is about to commence. I told Evelyn to download that application too, which I goddamn hope is on my phone like I asked her to do. The woman has to be told to do everything - no initiative.

I sit down for a second and swamp my breakfast, while the rest of the rabble board my flight. I wipe the crumbs from my yellow and pink striped tie and smooth down the front of my power shirt and Kenneth Cole suit.

A child screams in my ear as it's mother pulls it against it's will toward the plane. I think that man O'Leary had it right when he said that some flights should be child and brat free. Like for God's sake - I pay a decent fee for a ticket that gives me great flexibility and I would like to be entertained for my wants and needs.

I get up as the last twenty or so gather at the gate. I hike my suit carrier over one shoulder, laptop bag over the other and grab my cardboard cylinder in my left hand. In my right I display my phone and passport again to the green uniforms and blonde hair. It's a well rehearsed ritual.

When I manage to edge my way down to the plane I see there is no room for my belongings. A familiar face greets me at the door - the same face that near knocked my six foot frame down with her wheel bag and determined stride.

There is no space over row 2. What do I pay extra for? I ask where I should put everything and while expecting a smart answer, I get a calm reply stating that there is room behind me over row 4. She has closed those overhead bins for a reason such as this, she reassures me.

I get everything overhead save for my laptop, which I throw on top of my seat - 2F. Then I have to swim against the tide of oncoming smelly people that are sitting further down the back.

Once in my seat, I notice a big clutch of condensation blurs my view through my window. Do these people ever clean these windows? Taking my hankerchief I wipe but with little success.

The captain does his usual spiel and the ladies in green show us where the exits are and how to use our yellow jackets. As if they'll be of use when you're hurtling toward the water at 500 miles an hour, as Billy Connolly once said.

Once up and on time for a change, I pull out my computer and start filing through flowcharts and schedule for the day. That woman Evelyn has a busy day ahead for me.

My familiar face asks me if I'd like to purchase anything from the SkyDeli. Black coffee, half filled. No cream, no sugar. Then she has the gall to ask me for E2.60! This airline has gone downhill - if you ask me. There was once upon a time when these ladies in green ran around like headless chickens serving hot breakfasts to everyone. And for free too! Mind you - tickets in those days did cost an arm and a leg.

As I sip my self-made expresso, the captain tells us of an impending delay due to ATC. I don't know what airline this ATC crowd are, but they always seem to get in the way of Aer Lingus getting priority into Heathrow. I express my disgust through the medium of vigorous head-shaking to the lady who has become my nemesis.

I ask her what time we are now expected on the ground as I have a very busy day ahead of me - all organised by Evelyn. She tells me we should be "only five minutes late on stand' - I explain to her that time is money, but it seems to go right over her head - as she just nods and smiles.

Near the end of the flight there is a bit of a kerfuffle with some elderly gent who doesn't seem to be well four or five rows behind me. I have to stay concentrated on my timelines and flowcharts. It turns out that the old gent isn't feeling well and the captain tells us we have priority to land so that medical personnel can look after him on the ground.

We get in at the gate and I'm told by my green friend to remain seated until they take him off the plane. Paramedics take him off swiftly and I notice it's the two old dears again. They manage to get to London before me!

As I disembark I state to my efficient green friend that we are now twelve minutes early. We were not due into Heathrow until 8.05 and my train does not depart until 8.33 - what am I supposed to do until then?
Do these people know how to run an airline or what?