Ascending on a Ryanair flight above the comically Victorian smog that layered London, I found myself to be peckish for something to eat . I pulled out the grease-riddled in-flight literature from the dirty seat pocket in front and soon found the crumpled pages advertising the on-board menu. Scab-looking potato chips, coffee that looked to be stagnant water scooped from a dying puddle, and a selection of sandwiches; I opted for the cheese & ham panini.
Not long after, an air stewardess reached over my neighbouring passengers and passed over my order with the haste of an Olympic relay racer. I took the wrapped up panini from her and realised why she thrusted it at me with such vigour the second my fingerprints began melting off. The microwaved panini was hotter than the core of a dying star.
I waited until the temperature cooled down past the illegal weaponry stage and unwrapped the sandwich. Now, I wasn’t expecting something crafted by a gourmet chef as this was just a barrel-scraping Ryanair flight, but also for €5.50, I wasn’t expecting the pile of animal shit that greeted me.
I managed two bites before declaring that I’d rather die of starvation than eat any more. I lifted the bread and opened the panini like a horrific book filled with the mangled corpses of everyone I’ve ever loved; a strip of questionable steaming meat and a smothering of yellow slime encased in soggy and damp industrial bread was what five and a half entire euros gets you on a Ryanair flight.
Nothing about this item fell within the parameters of a panini. If you’re advertising and selling a bloody panini, at least toast the shitting panini on the ground then blast it in a microwave when some poor bastard orders one; a Sainsbury’s meal deal sandwich is on another level of better, and that level is 50 floors below sucking on athlete’s foot.
I can only hope Ryanair dispose of this chemical garbage by abiding to strict nuclear waste disposal laws.