Why Easyjet suddenly looks quite classy

Millions of years ago deep in the deepest bowels of Hell, a single drop of sweat fell from Satan's scrotum and landed on the ground. A small dying maggot lapped at the tiny bead of sweat and found sustenance in it. He grew and grew, living off the scum that lived on the scum that fed on the groins of the demons, and eventually he became more powerful and more evil than even the most powerful in Hell. Seeing this, Satan said unto his minions,

"Let us send this foul creature forth onto the earth to take human form, for he giveth us a bad name and maketh us look, like, well evil innit."

And so it was done. The creature was planted in the womb of a woman in rural Ireland. He was carried forth into the world and christened... Michael O'Leary.

Michael led an inconspicuous childhood, biding his time in order to find favour amongst the people of the world before raining down evil upon them. He did well at school and university and set his mind to devising a plan for the ruination of mankind.

"Perhaps I should go into politics," he thought to himself. But he realised no one would ever vote for him.

"Perhaps I could become a celebrity". But no, for he was too ugly for that.

"I must go into business," he concluded, "and there I shall find a way to inflict misery upon MILLIONS!"

Michael knew that he would need to choose an industry which was used by the masses, and not an exclusive market. To have the maximum impact he should choose a multinational company, not just consigning himself to the British Isles. And if he were to have a really malign influence, he realised, he should choose something people relied on for both business and leisure, preferably something where he could ruin their holidays and add stress to what could otherwise be an enjoyable experience. And so it was that Michael Satanuscrotum O'Leary became the Chief Executive Officer of budget airline Ryanair.

He immediately set to work making things as unpleasant as possible for the unsuspecting customers of the airline.

"We shall lure them in with cheap fares," he told his executive board, "and then, when they've booked, we shall hit them with exorbitant fees for ridiculous things like not printing their own boarding passes three years in advance on aardvark skin. Or wanting to take a suitcase."

"But Mr O'Leary," one of the board members offered tremulously, "when the customers notice they're being swindled, won't they just... go elsewhere?"

"HOW DARE YOU CHALLENGE MY AUTHORITY?!," boomed Michael, menacingly, and then he did that ejector chair thing Dr Evil does in Austin Powers, tipping him into a pit of fire.

"IGNORANT FOOL!" he spat, addressing the rest of the board. "Doesn't he realise there will be no competition, for we shall fly to places no other airlines would ever serve, like Perugia and Malmö. Places where there would be no tourists if it weren't for our planes."

"Like Stansted?" asked another member of the board.

"Exactly," said O'Leary, "But we shall call it ‘London Stansted’ so people think it's in London."

"I'm not dead," cried the man from the pit, "I'm just very badly burned."

Meanwhile a hapless innocent young man - let us call him Jamuel Sones - was booking a holiday to Italy. Since there were few options he booked a flight with Ryanair.

"At least it's cheap," he thought.

Jamuel was an intelligent boy (not to mention witty and extremely handsome) so he knew how to avoid the pitfalls of booking (he was, after all, a regular listener to Radio 4's daytime consumer programme You and Yours, and he sat next to someone at work who used to work on Don't Get Done, Get Dom). He was clever enough to remember to pay with a debit card, check in online, and add a cabin bag to his booking so as to be able to carry his many stripy T-shirts. The entire process took little more than six hours on the Ryanair website.

Weeks later Jamuel was at the airport in Perugia checking in for his return flight after a delightful holiday consisting almost entirely of eating things with cheese on. But unbeknown to him Michael O'Leary had been remotely logged in to Jamuel's account when he booked and had slyly unticked the 'add checked baggage' box on his form at some point during the booking ordeal (a common tactic of O'Leary's). And so it fell to a woman at the check in desk who looked like an Italian Kathy Burke to tell Jamuel that, despite his best efforts, he had in fact not booked his luggage for the return journey at all and that he must pay a fine of €100 for his error.

"But Kathio Burkio," Jamuel pleaded, "that's more than the cost of the original flight. Surely there must be some way you can override this fee, for surely you can see that I intended to book the luggage in for my return journey - otherwise I would have had to dump my many stripy T-shirts and bottles of John Frieda Frizz Ease Shampoo (which you must know costs more per millilitre than liquid gold) here in Perugia."

But Kathio Burkio only stared him down. "Do you know what Michael O'Leary does to employees who give his customers the benefit of the doubt and treat them like valued patrons?"

And Jamuel saw the fear in her eyes and relented.

And so Michael O'Leary grew richer and richer and eventually took over the entire world. He turned it into a great blue and yellow fuselage with no legroom and gaudy adverts for nasty white bread sandwiches. He made all the women wear blue nylon jackets and too much make up and all the men had to act really camp and offer people duty free every ten minutes. It was a cruel and horrible world and everybody in it hated the evil Michael O'Leary. But they couldn’t overthrow him because they’d disposed of all their sharp implements at security and they were slowly dying of thirst. And the poor penniless prophet Jamuel was distantly remembered – mainly through the wisdom in the writings of his celebrated blog – as the true, heroic martyr he was. And the man who had dared to challenge Michael O'Leary remained in the fiery pit, not dead, but very badly burned.

Why you should stay in London

The other day I was at a party in Notlondon and a woman I barely know – let’s call her Carol – came up to me to inflict some of her opinions on me: “Are you still living in London?” she began innocently, like any normal, decent person making small talk about where you live. “Oh I don’t know how you can live there,” she said, “I can’t stand it. Chris and I went there for an exhibition in July, it was hell – so many people.” I get this a lot. Why, I ask you, do people feel they have the right to slag off the place I live like in such a brazen fashion? How would she have felt if I’d said “Are you still growing that monobrow? Oh I don’t know how you can live with such an awful monobrow. I can’t stand monobrows. I had to look at a person with a monobrow like yours once, it was hell – so much eyebrow.” I didn’t say that. I also didn’t say that obviously the reason she went to London to see that exhibition is because there are no exhibitions in Little Hufferingham, or wherever the frig she lives. Because there’s nothing in the countryside except walks and pubs. Literally all you can do is walk and get pissed. And anyway, you can do both of those things in London. I know because I do them all the time.

Still, I understand that London is not for everyone. Some people like to lead boring lives; that’s fine. But what really worries me is the number of my friends who, now we’re all reaching A Certain Age, tell me ominously, “Yeah, I love living in London for now but I wouldn’t want to bring kids up here.” This is normally accepted as a given. Yes, they lived in London, they had a life, but then they had kids. Obviously you can’t raise kids in London. I mean if by some miracle they evade the armies of paedophiles lurking round every corner and don’t get run over by all the traffic they’ll inevitably turn out like Superhands from Peepshow, they’ll be wild-eyed crack addicts with no morals and they won’t know what flowers look like. There seems to be a widespread unspoken acceptance that having children in London is, if not immoral, somehow sort of irresponsible. Respectfully, I would like to argue that this is rhubarb. And in order to prevent all of my friends from leaving London and having babies in Little Hufferingham, I would like to explain why.

The other day I was cycling home, minding my own business, when, I shit you not, three hyenas came out of nowhere and started yelping at me. Or whatever it is hyenas do. Laughing maybe. Anyway, they were hyenas. Frigging hyenas! In London. I realise you must be wondering how the presence of dangerous wild animals is supposed to support my argument that London is a good place to raise children. Stay with me here. I was of course cycling along Regents Canal, and was passing London Zoo at the time. The aforementioned hyenas were behind the fence so this was not perhaps as surreal or as dangerous as I may have initially implied. But it was still pretty surreal from where I was pedalling. On closer investigation it became apparent that the handlers had just sent half a carcass down a zip line and the hyenas were jumping up to snatch chunks off it. What really surprised me was how little attention everyone else passing by paid to this extraordinary spectacle. I suppose this is probably something you can see every day if you walk past the wild dogs enclosure at London Zoo. But for me it was a pretty surprising experience. (Naturally I quickly updated my Facebook status). And that’s the thing about London: there’s always something going on.

People accuse the BBC and other broadcasters of being Londoncentric, but there’s good reason for that: because everything interesting happens in London! Want to see a film premiere? Come to London. Want to watch Parliament in session? Come to London. Want to see the latest Andrew Lloyd Webber musical? Get a new personality.

Now children, famously, need constant stimulation. They get bored very easily. The countryside is patently unsuitable for this purpose. They don’t even have 3G. Every now and then a survey will come out by the Countryside United National Trustkeepers or whoever about how 1 in 3 children think steaks grow on trees. Obviously it’s a shame that children don’t know steaks grow in supermarkets, but living somewhere really dull seems to me a high price to pay in order to teach a child what a cow looks like. Anyway, there’s always Hackney City Farm – and they do nice quiches. What children need, if you ask me, is hyenas, and museums and galleries and theatres and cinemas and Primarks the size of Disneyland. This is how they will really learn about the world and all the confusing, wonderful, bizarre things that make it so interesting. Not by sitting in a field with no ethnic minorities and some cows.

And it’s not just interesting things that will nurture their soft little minds, but interesting people. It's not an original sentiment to say that London attracts all manner of interesting folk. Disraeli said “London is a roost for every type of bird” (they didn’t have hyenas in themdays or he might have updated his metaphor) and everyone knows that Samuel Johnson quote… quotation… whatevs… about all of life being here (though not a lot of people know the sentence that preceded it: “You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London.” Well said, Johnson). The problem with the countryside is that it’s crammed full of people like Carol. That’s fine for people like Carol; they like people like Carol, but what if you want to meet interesting people?

Ok, I’m being a bit facetious (facetious, moi?!) Obviously there are a few interesting people outside London. A few. And if you like it wherever you live, good for you. It helps stop London getting overcrowded. But if you like London but feel that for some reason you probably ought to move before having kids, I ask you to think very carefully. You’ll be leaving behind museums, and Primark, and hyenas… and most importantly you’ll be leaving behind ME! And then my life will be almost as boring as if I’d gone to live in the countryside, with Carol. Spare me this fate! Stay in London! Or just don’t have children. But that, friends, is a whole other blog post…

Why it's not about being good

Each summer as the Autumnal Equinox approaches and the nights start drawing in there's one thing that, for me, holds Seasonal Affective Disorder at bay. No, it’s not the charming autumn colours or the prospect of festive cheer on the horizon; it is of course the start of another season of The X Factor. On Saturday evening it began again in earnest. And I mean earnest. Like a self-promoting pretitles sequence about SEVEN MINUTES long kind of earnest. It was mostly the standard helicopter shots of enormous hysterical queues of losers but this year it was interspersed with a lot of hype about Sharon Osborne being back – they didn’t say back from the dead but she does look like a revivified corpse. Albeit a fabulous one. And if she hasn’t died already the amount of botox in her face will surely kill her soon… Anyway, it’s back. As the man with the ridiculously deep voice would say, IT'S TIME! TO FACE!! THE MUSAC!!! And the fact that Louis Walsh is never going to retire.

People who know me and how effortlessly cool I am always assume that my fondness for The X Factor is somehow ironic. Let me be very clear about this: it is not ironic. I genuinely love The X Factor. Not in a cool, Guardian X Factor Live Blog pisstake kinduva way. I actually love it. I love Dermot O'Leary, I loved Paije Richardson (I know, scandal right?) and I love Nicole Scherzinger. In fact sometimes I go a bit straight over Scherzinger. Come on, she is Shamazing.

When I see that giant X-shaped meteor careering towards the earth I get the kind of warm glow inside that for normal people can only come from watching a puppy ice skating or from receiving a prolonged session of oral sex. There’s nothing else quite like it. Well there is, obviously. But they’re not the same. There’s The Voice but that’s like talent contest methodone – enough to hold off the headaches and keep me going through the rest of the year but ultimately unsatisfying.

Admittedly the auditions rounds are a bit rubbish. And a bit disgustingly exploitative. Personally I don't really like The Crap Ones. There's something about watching the borderline mentally ill being publicly humiliated that makes me feel a bit... well... Victorian. I suppose viewers who do enjoy these bits find watching them gives them the same shameful thrill as, say, watching pornography or putting a cheese twist through as a bread roll at the self checkouts in Tesco.

But the live shows are awesome. Or as Scherzinger would probably say shawsome. The euphoria climaxes with the arrival of the judges to the absurdly serious O Fortuna (that classical one with monks singing). Sometimes Dermot does a little dance and I actually ejaculate and have to go and change my pants. Steve usually takes this opportunity to flick around the channels and see what else is on, as if I'm gonna come back in and go "Oh is there a David Attenborough on? Oh well let's leave X Factor, it's all the same anyway". (Naturally I snatch the remote off him and rebuke him for demonstrating independent thought. Where would The X Factor be if everyone started having independent thoughts? The acts would have to start making good music in order to sell. Simon Cowell would lose all his money and have to live in a two-up two-down in Tenby. And nobody wants that.)

But there is one thing that troubles me about it all. And that is the question of why I actually like it. I mean obviously it's awful. More awful than Miley Cyrus. It is formulaic, predictable and banal. It's slowly destroying the music industry. It regularly contains large doses of Gary Borelow for god's sake. Why does my brain allow me to like it? I can only conclude that they replace one frame in 25 with the words KEEP WATCHING OR YOUR MUM WILL GET CANCER or that ITV have done a back room deal with the water companies to pump crack into the water around 8pm on Saturday nights.

I’ve been presented with a similar conundrum by another television phenomenon recently: Lost. Yes, I know I'm about 85 million years behind the curve on this one but a friend of mine recently gave me the DVD box set of series 1 of Lost (thanks Gillian, for RUINING MY SUMMER!). Ermagherd, it's, like, dangerously addictive. More addictive than Ritz crackers with peanut butter. It's also completely ridiculous (POLAR BEARS CANNOT SURVIVE ON DESERT ISLANDS!!!) but I can't help myself. I am beyond help. A piece of my brain actually rotted off and fell out of my ear the other day while I was watching it and I just carried on. And I ACTUALLY CARE about the characters. SPOILER ALERT I cried like an actual baby when Boone died. I mean I wailed, and I wet myself and then I sucked my thumb for an hour. Although that was mainly because he is the most beautiful man in the entire world and I will no longer be able to look at him regularly. Anyway...

It troubles me. What is the point of having critical faculties at all if your eyes can just override them and go “Yeah but look, Marcus Collins is wearing a SHINY JACKET with SEQUINS on - don't change the channel”? But more worrying still, for anyone hoping to produce anything of any artistic merit, what really is the point of being good? Why not just produce some drivel with shiny jackets or a mysterious hatch in the jungle that should have been opened in episode 2 but which the character stumbling upon has some inexplicable motivation for not telling anyone about until episode 23? I have no answer to this question. I was going to think about it and write a conclusion but series 2 of Lost has just finished downloading and I need to know what's in that ruddy hatch. Maybe it’s Joe McElderry.