What you generally see or read about me shows me travelling the country with a steering wheel in my hand. While that is the case when I'm working, the reality of my busy schedule is I often have to fly to a kick-off spot, grab that steering wheel for the duration of the trip then jump back onto a motorised bird. Time doesn't often allow a leisurely drive to the next kick-off.

I'm sitting on a plane right now having spent the last few weeks exploring the Murray River, and now I'm heading to Queensland to start my next "job", watching the show that is "modern air travel," and I thought I'd share it with you.

Firstly, I had to get half-naked to get through security, my belt, boots, watch and everything in my pockets beep so I have to walk through there holding my pants up with one hand while patting my pockets trying to make sure I haven't forgotten anything.

While getting dressed again, 999 times out of a thousand, I have to prove to the next security station that I'm not carrying a bomb. The next insult is what they want to charge me for a beer or a pie while I wait for my flight. Not cheap. Once on-board, I can never find a place for my backpack because everyone else has filled the overhead storage with David Jones' bags and all the stuff they should have checked in. When I get seated, they remind me I can't smoke. It's 2019. Do we still have to tell people they can't smoke on a plane? And I can remember when airline food was alright, but it's rubbish now.

Look, I know you're wondering why I'm writing this and why I sound so negative today, but I'm about to share the whole story with you. While I was sitting here looking at my golden granola and super seeds bar and wondering if I'd need to take out a personal loan to buy a beer for the flight the lump sitting next to me rocked up on one cheek and set free last night's chicken korma. It smelt like someone left fishing bait in the esky for a week. No apology. No nothing. All he can do is lick the hummus dip that came with his celery sticks from his mitts while I drown in the stench. Now, I know I should have kept it to myself, but hey, this column is called "useless information", and I reckon it doesn't get much more useless than this. I just thought, "If I've got to live it, you mob can share it with me".

I can’t wait to retire so I can drive from place to place munchin' on beef jerky and choosing who farts beside me.

MODERN AIR TRAVEL...

HOW I LONG FOR THE OPEN ROAD