Molly was boarding her economy class flight to Mexico. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, being stuffed in a tiny seat for almost fifteen hours.

Molly: "When’s bloody Anarchy coming to a real fucking town, eh? Like, oh I don’t know, MANCHESTER or summat…"

Grumbling, she put her bag in the overhead locker, after having retrieved some essentials like this week’s editions of The Guardian and The Independent, a small book of crossword puzzles and sudokus, and an old Zune she’d picked up in a pound shop a few years ago.

Obviously, she wasn’t so ucky as to have gotten an aisle seat. Even in economy, she had to settle for the poverty seats. Right in the middle of the middle row. Not even a bloody window view.

Molly: "One day… One day, I’ll be good enough and big enough to get an economy class ticket with guaranteed leg room! Gonna book it in the pre-flight reservations and travel like a fucking QUEEN!"

Molly sighed as she heard herself.

Molly: "Meh, what am I talking about. As if I’d ever want to join those rich cunts with their bloody leg room and arm rests!"

But as she hopelessly tried to get comfortable before taking off, she realized her luck might be in, for once in her life. The gate was minutes away from being closed, and the aisle seat to her left remained free. Didn’t it get sold? Or was the passenger who had booked it a no-show? Molly didn’t really care at this point, as the prospect of being upgraded to an aisle seat was simply too exciting. She nervously tapped her fingers on the arm rest that was still free for now, and looked over her shoulder to try and see if there was someone coming. Nobody so far.

Molly: "Come on, you’ve been a good lass, Molly. Karma and that, right? Luck’s bound to be in your favour at some point, innit? Gonna have alllll the leg room from here to… Oh fuck me!"

As she peeked over her shoulder again, Molly saw one of the most gargantuan people she had ever seen. They were slowly making their way down the plane, sideways, their belly bumping into the odd passenger’s head.

Molly: "No no no no nooooo, you’re not sitting here, mate! Keep moving, keep moving, keep movingggg!!!!!"

Molly broke into a sweat.

Molly: "If they sit down here, I’ll be sitting both besides and behind them for the entire bloody flight! Won’t even have room to do me bloody crosswords!

That’d be so typical, innit. Every time I seem to get a bit of a break, Satan forces my nose back into his bottom so I can inhale another liquid fiery fart. Every time I seem to win a bloody match, I then end up in the wrong country the next show, or I slip over a banana peel and fall flat on my face. Sick of it!"

Molly tried to casually look over her shoulder again. She saw her literal walking, well… shuffling, nightmare, get closer and closer, cross-referencing the numbers above the seats with the one on their ticket.

Molly: "Take a bloody seat already, you’re not getting this one! I need me beauty sleep, innit? Wouldn’t want to show up in New Mexico and have Roger thinking I look like fuckin’ Scruffy Sandra. I already smell like a pair of wet socks after long flights like these anyhow. What’s with the X booking me against Roger again, by the way? I mean, it’ll be nice to get back in the ring again, but I take a bit of a fancy to a lad and all they can do for me is have the pair of us beat each other up all the time? I mean, that was sort of what it was like in my previous relationships, but it’s not exactly sustainable. But there’s worse things, I suppose.

Like the French-Canadian Bed Shitter. What a name. I like a bit of self-mockery, I’ll admit. Thing about Canadians, see, is they’re not as bad as Americans, usually. But the French-Canadians are the exception. Acting like they don’t understand a word of fucking English when you try and talk to them so you’re forced to bumble around the three words of fucking French you know; and after fifteen minutes of painful attempts at conversation they turn around and start talking to their mates like they’re the bloody King of England! Made me wanna thump ‘em right then and there! I suppose Andy will have to take the shot to the mug I wanted to give that bloke.

I had real poutine once though, it was brilliant.

Still, if there’s anyone that scares me in this match, it’s LSM. She’s pretty great at what she does, most of the time. She’s faced some of the greats and has been able to come out on top, but I don’t bloody care! I’m gonna take ‘em all and remind everybody that I’m not going to let myself get pushed around! Whether it’s Rishi Sunak trying to stomp on poor people again, or Roger, FCBS and LSM trying to stop me from becoming Anarchy Champion, I’m gonna come out swinging and fighting and…?"

“Pardon me, I believe this is my seat.”

Molly’s soliloquy was disrupted by… you guessed it. She wanted to scream. Claw her eyes out. Thrash the inside of the whole plane. But then, she also felt bad. It was hardly their fault, was it? Just the (bad) luck of the draw for dear old Molly once again. Still, she had literally just promised herself she wasn’t going to be pushed around anymore.

Molly: "Fine, but I’m keeping the bloody arm rest on me left!"

“Of course, that’s just proper plane etiquette!”

Molly: "Lovely!"

Enjoying the small victories in life… Now THAT was the real key to happiness.