This might well be the 765th time we’ve been to Gatwick Airport in the last god-knows-how-long, and it is becoming harder to tolerate at every hellish visit. I consider the alternatives with a serious furrowed brow while standing at the only safe place in the entire departures section of the airport – The Penguin Classics stand in Waterstones. This is where the ‘holidaymakers’ in piss-stained sportswear and the white English blokes in shorts so tight their testicles look like a relief map of The Andes never venture. It is a monastic retreat in the middle of the Bedlam. I pretend to thumb through reissues of Hemingway and Nabokov as the alternatives to this awful place begin to scroll through my sad mind…

a) The train. Yeah right, that’s great once you get to Europe but getting from Hassocks to St Pancras is a lottery, more chance of winning the Euromillions than Southern Railways finding a train driver.

b) Drive. Again this is possibly cool if you go Newhaven – Dieppe; but then it is a long way down to anywhere and French/Spanish motorways are dreadful tarmac death parades patrolled by drunk farmers and lorry drivers watching animal porn at 120kph. Don’t even think of going via Dover as any sane person would rather attach electrodes to their nipples than go within 70 miles of the place. Surely it will not be long before Dover is abandoned, like Detroit was, and left to fall into the sea?

c) Hitchhike. Hmmm. It could be more attractive than Gatwick; once the shock of being bum-raped by one of the aforementioned lorry drivers has passed it is a possibility.

d) Donkey; like Jesus into Jerusalem. Leisurely no doubt, but it might be a fraction quicker on the train.

So here we are. Stuck with this mode of transportation. I spend the next few hours waiting to board the inevitably delayed flight wondering which policies to implement if (and when) I’m offered the job as Travel Tsar with the brief of fixing this fuck-tornado.

Obviously I’d begin with children. Children and travel simply don’t mix, like when rock bands do a ‘reggae’ bit or classical singers attempt pop music. It’s fucking painful. And here’s the thing, I’ve looked deep into the eyes of these airport children and believe me – they want to be here less than I want them here! Surely this is why Centre Parcs was conceived? I don’t blame the young people I blame their conceited self-important parents who drag them through this experience at our expense. Go to a caravan in Rhyl, camp in Scotland (the midges will soon fuck them up) or stay at home – the teenagers all want to anyway. They want a darkened room, Call of Duty IV and soft porn. Primrose Hill parents taking Henry and Tamsin to look at cathedrals at ‘their place’ in Languedoc need locking up, like the parents who think their offspring are talented as they bang away at the piano with a claw hammer.

But as a highly-paid Travel Tsar that’s not a reasonable way of fixing the issue, my genuine answer would simply be to have ‘holding pens’ for children under 18 at airports and a section of the aircraft’s cargo hold adapted to support human life for the duration of the flight, a plentiful supply of water and haribos should do. They would also have to access the plane via a different gangway to the rest of us. Bang! Problem solved. Brief fulfilled.

Moving on the the blokes in the tight shorts who are pissed in Weatherspoons at 6:45 am, this is trickier.

Or is it? Any group of four or more white males dressed in pastel coloured sportwear who are going to get ‘wankered’ at an all-inclusive resort with a summer temperature that averages above 21 degrees simply have an airport built solely for their use. It will easily cost less than HS2, and I suggest it is constructed on The Isle Of Man. Nobody will be bothered or disrupted and it will bring much-needed employment to that bit of the country north of Watford. Young females with white linen trousers and no knickers on will be able to continue using Gatwick if they are administered sedatives on checking in… maybe a mild dose of Tuinol or Secanol.

I’m writing my job description as we speak and my application will be winging its way to Mark whichever chinless twat is Transport Secretary this week.

You’re welcome…..