Reason I always insist on dressing for dinner T

WHEN I first started flying abroad on holiday in the 1960s, everybody wore their best clothes.

Travelling to the Costa Brava in a three-piece suit with tie and waistcoat was not particularly comfortable, but air travel was still a novelty and we thought we were emulating the jet set with our Burton’s tailoring elegance.

The first time I saw the benefit of long haul comfort was on a Pan Am flight to America when a large woman in a business suit nipped into the lavatory soon after take-off and emerged wearing a one piece cover-all frock – were they called a mou mou? – that allowed everything to hang in comfort. She got changed back into respectability shortly before landing nine hours later. HERE is one thing that never changes as I get older: I still spill food down my front when eating. To be fair, this only happens at home and is because of a lack of eye-hand-mouth co-ordination. This is not a physiological problem. It is caused by television.

When dining out, TV is not an issue and neither is elegance: I tuck a napkin at my throat so that it drapes like an 18th century ruffled jabot to catch splashed sauce and fend off peas.

At home I don’t usually bother. I used to have a collection of curry shirts solely donned for the purpose of eating a takeaway whilst watching TV, but the pile got so large we had to throw them away.

It’s not that I am a rapacious eater. I am, in fact, rather delicate with a knife and fork, although sloppiness does arise when using naan bread in my fingers.

And I never eat from a tray whilst watching a subtitled drama from Sweden. I’m not completely daft. I’m likely to stick a chip in my ear while reading the dialogue.

But any sporting occasion on the small screen can present problems when eye-hand-mouth co-ordination is badly affected by my tendency to shout at referees.

TV cannot be blamed for every splash, because I am adept at spilling How times change. I now opt for smart but casual when flying although most airports these days have a fair percentage of travellers in everything from blokes in track suits to girls in fairy wings, tutus and L plates off on a hen party to Benidorm.

These I don’t mind. Just spare me having to sit next to a big hairy bloke in shorts and a sleeveless vest.

The latest innovation for new wave jet-setters is, apparently, a blow-up onesie made in soft sweatshirt material that will be available from March next year. The Inflatable Travel Jumpsuit will cost about £100, and is slightly misnamed.

The whole thing does not inflate, but the neck and hood can be blown up by mouth to make economy seats more comfortable and eye shades slide down from inside the hood for privacy, snooze time and to indicate to the person sitting alongside you don’t want to be disturbed. Tune in to your favourite music or a talking book on headphones and the job’s a good ‘un.

But what about the loo, you may ask? Glamorous onesies worn by ladies on a night out have been notorious for making a visit to the powder room cubicle awkward, especially after a drink or three. Never fear. This flying comfort suit comes with a zip at the back so you don’t have to take it off.

Just make sure that when returning to your seat you are not trailing toilet paper caught in the zip. food whilst sitting at a table, eating whilst reading my Kindle, which I prop up against the toast rack. Perhaps it’s a man thing that I am unable to multi-task.

And let’s not discuss eating in bed. They say wine and goblet stains give a dining table a certain status, but Bisto gravy and bits of Yorkshire pudding don’t cut the mustard when dribbled down my front.

I’m used to it by now, although this week has been a bit excessive. In two days I dribbled down a sweater, a polo shirt and a T-shirt before I got a grip. I am at risk from everything from curry to ice cream with bits on. Which is why I have again resorted to changing before dining and currently wear an Ireland international 2016 football top for food consumption.

If Ireland ever form an International Spillage Team, I’m already stained and kitted out.

I used to have a collection of curry shirts solely donned for eating a take-away whilst watching TV