The lows of the mile high club

You know, I didn't think Ralph Fiennes would be the type to go in for aeroplane-toilet nookie. I thought of him as kind of an elder-statesman, respected professional, that kind of thing. Dedicated to his craft, happily married (or so I'd foolishly assumed), and so on. And then I look up his Wikipedia entry and find he's the Prince of Wales' eighth cousin, and the whole humiliating sex scandal thing suddenly makes sense. I just hope he didn't take a leaf out of His Royal Highness' book, and tell Qantas flight attendant Lisa Robertson that he wanted to be her tampon.

The SMH's comprehensive dating column has covered off on this issue, of course, but didn't really elaborate on the etiquette when one participant is a renowned Hollywood star, and the other is a Qantas hostie. I'm sure Sam will address the issue in a future edition. But one thing she could tell you is that these assignations can end in tears. And in this instance, I hope all concerned have now aired all the dirty laundry that we're going to see aired, because this she-said, he-said-nothing, her-mates-said-something-different situation is becoming increasingly embarrassing.

I am happy to admit that I am not a member of the mile high club. I don't get the newsletter, or anything. And not just because the opportunity's never presented itself. Okay, entirely because the opportunity's never presented itself, but still – of all the places for an amorous encounter, a tiny airborne toilet cubicle would have to be one of the least romantic I can think of. It's uncomfortable enough for one person to perform their ablutions, let alone for two people to get it on. Unless you're one of those people who gets a kick out of the idea of getting caught, I'm not sure I see the point of the fabled bathroom liasons.

I won't view long-haul flights the same way after reading the piece by Imogen Edwards-Jones that the redoubtable Daily Mail commissioned to accompany the revelations about Fiennes and Robertson, though. I've generally found flying quite dull, but if you can believe Edward-Jones' months of research, they're a regular festival of sex and drug-fuelled fun. I particularly enjoyed the idea of tobogganing down the aircraft aisle aboard a tray. And I'll be checking under the cistern to see if anyone's taped drugs there.

All of which sounds like a lot more fun than an amorous encounter with Ralph Fiennes, frankly. I know that some women are attracted to guys who kinda seem a bit intense, or dangerous, but would you really want to get your rocks off with Lord Voldemort? Fiennes has played a memorable collection of psychos over the years – Red Dragon the scariest I can remember. It'd be fair to say he plays them a little too convincingly. And then, the one time he's not playing a murderer, but rather tries his hand as the leading man in a sweet rom-com, what do we get? Maid In Manhattan.

The moral of this story? Don't have sex in aeroplane bathrooms. And if you must, don't do it with You-Know-Who.

Dominic Knight