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Ryanair calls bloggers 'idiots and lunatics' » Ryanair slams 'Thomas Crooks' for overcharging » Ryanair says nobody has complained about mobiles on planes » The best Ryanair headlines of the past decade

The first sign of terminal trouble is the subtle inactivity at the Malaga departure gate.

Our scheduled boarding time passes quite uneventfully. Growing mumblings of discontent and half-truths circulate like gossip. There is an aircraft outside so there’s hope, but it has technical problems. The screens show “Retrasado”. This is Spanish for “Your aircraft is broken”. We wait in a void of customer service.

One brave passenger walks up to the desk and comes back holding up 10 fingers. We will board in 10 minutes? He announces: “Delayed until 10 o’clock tonight.” Eight hours late. An engineer is flying out.

Ryanair: our 40 favourite headlines

Nobody has generated more travel news and comment than Michael O'Leary and his airline. Here are some highlights of the past decade

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Excuse me, the plane is on fire

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I recall the head of the airline, Mick, saying: “If a plane is cancelled, will we put you up in a hotel? Absolutely not. If a plane is delayed, will we give you a voucher for a restaurant? Absolutely not.” I paid €300 plus taxes for this trip.

There is utter incredulity from four Americans who have lost all faith in European air travel. Airline credibility is like virginity. You can only lose it once. There are two Spaniards who can go home, eat, sleep, shop, clean, procreate and still return in time to depart.

We sit near the departure screens. In the past I have looked at these screens and gained much amusement from various charter airlines’ delays of not hours, but days or weeks. Our flight is top of the list with a now nine-hour delay. Others pass by and smile over at us. Today the joke is on us.

Somehow I survive nine hours in the terminal. You can only read the small print on the reverse side of your boarding card so many times. I visit every shop 10 times, doze, read all known English-language newspapers, down fries and Cokes, but still there are aeons to kill until departure.

At a time like this I harp back to Mick and his wise words: “An aeroplane is nothing more than a bus with wings on. Are we trying to blow up the notion that flying is some kind of orgasmic experience rather than a glorified bus service? Yes, we are.” Success.

We are drawn to the gate like moths to a flame as midnight approaches. A few Irish guys are drunk and enter the Ladies by mistake. Inside, naked sunburnt babies are bathed in the hand basins by irate mothers. Passengers lie on the floor, their energy levels as depleted as their mobile telephone batteries.

We prepare to board but there is mass confusion. Some of us have yellow fluorescent pen Ps handwritten on our boarding cards. We think it means Priority. Others behind in the scrum ask if anyone has a yellow pen they can use.

On board it’s clear some passengers are well and truly hammered, having spent nine hours in the airport bar knocking back rounds of San Miguel. “Same again.” A guy sitting in the emergency-exit aisle is swapped by Gavin the cabin supervisor with another passenger, because he’s too drunk to do anything in the event of an emergency, save a burp and stagger. He carries a plastic beaker of beer with him as he rises to move seats.

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