Listing precariously to starboard like a torpedoed oil tanker, my overweight boss staggers up to me in the jam-packed terminal of an airport in Saudi Arabia dragging his battered suitcase behind him.

It's Christmas Eve, late 1980s, and I know he, and by the look of it, his suitcase, too, has been to a party the night before, where Santa has obviously been toasted with copious amounts of some ferocious and illicit expat homebrew.

"Let's check in quickly before I check out completely," is all the innocent abroad can mumble to me.

I immediately douse my cigarette in case a stray spark ignites the fumes coming out of his mouth.

"Err, before that, boss, we better do a rush pre-flight on you."

I hand him a few extra strong mints designed to take the roof of your head off. Here, suck on these. Powerful damage limitation for your toxic breath! And do up your crumpled shirt, man. You look like a refugee in a war movie.

Which actually was rather fitting, because check-in that day is indeed a scene from Apocalypse Now. The flight is clearly packed solid and so utter confusion reigns at the desk. My boss grumbles loudly that it's like a cartoon. "Khartoum?" says a lingering, cheerful but rather officious Indian porter who overhears him. "Wrong queue, my good sirs! Here let me take your bags. Have you in the perfectly right place in a jiffy. Follow me." And off he speeds like Gunga Din, with my red-faced boss screaming blue murder after him.

Some time later, our plane is slowly taxiing across the tarmac of the apron. Presumably towards the runway. We gain speed. And then more speed. Eventually all we can see out of the window is desert and yet we are still trundling along. A wry shout comes from a few rows behind.

"Bloody hell, the pilot is driving us home."

Through the laughter my boss croaks in my ear. "Well, if he has a hangover anywhere near as bad as mine, let's assume the crash position pronto."

At last, though, we do take off, climb to 30 000 feet and, as the no smoking sign flickers out, yes this was back in those politically incorrect days, I get a feeling of excited anticipation from among all the oil boys sardined in around us as they light cigarettes with chunky gold lighters.

I imagine it is the buzz of going home. Wrong.

The real reason comes to light about 20 minutes subsequently, when the gay chief steward good-naturedly announces: "Jingle bells, ladies and gentlemen, we are shortly leaving Saudi Arabian airspace and alcoholic refreshments will be served."

A delighted roar goes up. No more "Empty Three Quarters"! Now its full doubles all round!

Even my boss slaps his chubby thigh. "Best queen's speech I have ever heard," the pickled chap guffaws, eagerly pulling down his tray from the back of the seat in front of him.

Sure enough, within minutes, the steward re-appears with a fully loaded drinks trolley and starts dishing out the in-flight aviation fuel in very generous measures.
I caution my boss to take it easy.

No hope. Large ones all the way home for him. It is Christmas, he squabbles.

The mile-high party then lasts for hours, until, eventually, somewhere over France, there is a little too much turbulence, in, not outside, the plane, and the steward is forced to arm himself with a six pack of bread rolls and scream "back to your horses boys or I shoot".

More laughter. Then swift dismay as last orders are cancelled forthwith and the trolley is wheeled away.

No worries, though, as shortly after, the pilot crackles over the intercom that we are on our final descent. But by this stage, no one in economy really gives a damn where we are, we would even follow the gallant airman to the very gates of hell.

Which we promptly do. Heathrow. On Christmas Eve.

Half an hour later finds my boss and me fighting our way through the subcontinent-like mayhem.

Utterly plastered, he is on auto-pilot as he joins the stampede towards baggage collection, paper flying out of briefcase, wads of cash out of his pockets.
I scurry along behind picking up the debris.

Approaching an escalator, I lose him for a second as I rescue yet another beer-stained budget from the floor and he boards the moving staircase a few people in front of me.

"Wait," I shout. No response. I run to catch up and peering past the other folk on the escalator I keep an eye on matters as we slowly go down. True to form, my boss is wobbling all over the place like a skittle.

Then the next second, catastrophe. Suddenly the escalator jolts violently and the poor fellow falls backwards.

Unfortunately as luck would have it, right behind him is a large woman absent-mindedly swinging an equally hefty glass bottle of duty-free gin in a bag back and forth as she hums a carol.

And sure enough, ding, dong merrily on high, bottle cracks sharply against head.

My boss is instantly knocked out and tumbles down to the bottom, where he lies stone cold like a stuffed turkey.

The large woman emits a scream. Policemen come rushing. Immediately an ambulance is called. I raise my eyes to heaven as I crouch over him. God rest you, merry gentleman!

Something he indeed has to do throughout the rest of Christmas. In a miserable hospital ward. Concussion.

So whatever planes, trains or automobiles you yourselves board this Christmas, be safer than he was. I, on the other hand, am categorically going to stay put. The damn menace and plenty more of his ilk are no doubt out there in the melee somewhere. Beware!