I once flew from Gatwick to Hewanorra Airport at St Lucia, which was quite a traumatic experience given the lack of reading material and the company of my rather petulant ex.
However, what made the 11 hour flight worse was the family who boarded the plane and sat next to us. They had a tiny baby obviously upset at being strapped in to a seat and a small ginger boy called "Oliver" who was bored and making everyone else on the plane know it.
Except for when prompted by taking off and landing, Oliver was running up and down the isles, banging people's elbows and making enough irritating noise to rival a Westlife concert, ensuring that no-one got any sleep on the flight. Every time the long sufferring mother of Oliver turned to her husband for support, he just smiled, shrugged and said "Oh, Oliver. He's a one!".
A fortnight later and standing in 40 degree heat, with a load of luggage I felt a strange tugging sensation on my suitcase. I looked down and there was Oliver, trying to remove the baggage tag, while all the time not taking his evil eyes off me. I stared at his father and indicated that I wanted him to take his nauseating offspring away but all the did was shrug, tut and say "Oh, he's a one isn't he?".
Thankfully, the little fecker and his family were made to sit at the back of the plane.
