MAN Vs BEAST
It's 5am in Tel Aviv airport. A middle seat, no doubt sandwiched between an blubbery-arsed mother and her three whining children - beckons.

Memories of the previous few days are blurry. But that's more to do with having gotten up at a ludicrous hour in order to sit in the waiting area for two hours before my flight actually takes off.

The highlight of my trip could have been the Yank I accosted on New Year's Eve. Sartorial disasters aside (she wore a backless top with an Atlas-sized purple bra to support her planet-sized bosom), she wasn't too bad. Though I only went for her because she and her friends had a corner table in the bar, and my friend and I could no longer be bothered to stand.

That said, the best bit of my trip was my first encounter with what must be television's winner in the race to the bottom: Man vs Beast. I was amazed at how a black, Alaskan bear trounced world (human) hot-dog champ Kobayashi; mesmerised at the sprinter who thought he could outrun a zebra (in fairness, I thought he'd lose to the giraffe too); and frankly disgusted by the score of dwarfs who tried to outpul an elephant tugging a aeroplane.

If I may be so bold, I'd like to see Beast vs Beast grace our screens. This would include fights to the death between an Orca and a rhino; a swimming race between a sea-horse and Lonesome George; and mud-wrestling between a blue-arsed baboon and a poodle. If it must be Man Vs Beast, however, then a who's-the-strongest face-off between an Anaconda and the Producer of Man Vs Beast would be my hope.

AN OASIS OF IRONY
I'm on a 747 somewhere over Borat-country. I haven't a clue what time it is. All I know is that I'm hungry and that the more I read the hungrier I get.

I put this down to two things:

First, I'm flying Oasis Hong Kong, the new budget carrier from the people that brought you Dragon Air. For the second flight in a row they've forgotten my kosher meal and after wolfing down the unmelted tuna-and-cheese melt I'd bought at the airport, together with a gourmet cookie the size of Ireland, I haven't got any food left.

And second, I'm reading the fascinating, though poorly-written, expose of America's fascination with Competitive Eating: Insatiable: Competitive Eating and the Big Fat American Dream.

Once I've ploughed through Jason Fagone's murky prose and his references to parochial cultural icons and events, I'm left reading page after page about sauce-drenched chicken wings, garlic-laced hot dogs and bucket-sized portions of Tiramisu.

Being a budget airline, Oasis sells food to passengers. But after munching on one Snickers, there's nothing else to munch on that isn't a pot noodle, smoked almonds or yet more chocolate.

I turn to my book for distraction. "There'll be a non-meaty sandwich on its way in just a few more hours," I told myself.

When it finally arrived, I attacked my cheese-and-tuna focaccia with all the good grace of a hyena that's just stumbled upon a dead zebra. It was gone in 10 seconds flat. "Maybe I should get into competitive eating?" I thought. "I always clean my plate before most people have even made a dent in their food. It can't be that hard!"

An air-hostess passes my seat. I ask her for another sandwich. I am less ferocious, but I destroy the hapless creation in record time. And I reflect on my predicament.

When I was at school, there was a joke that lippy public schoolboys used to tell:
Q: What's the definition of "suspicion"?
A: A nun doing press-ups in a cocumber field.

I now have a definition for irony: "Reading a book on competitive eating while starving on a plane."

Oasis itself was pretty poor: four-year old films; delays; forgotten food; and a flight time longer than any other because the company forgot to get permission to fly over Russia.

Still, as a result of my complaints I've now been offered a free return flight to Hong Kong. Next time, I'll bring a packed lunch.