From Club World to death row for the price of a morning paper

Club Class? Surely not.

I turn to the helpful airport lady, charged with assisting hapless, out-of-practice travellers like me with the new self-service check-in machines.

"I'm meant to be in Premium Economy," I state, "I can't afford an upgrade."

"No, no," she assures me, "That's all booked and paid for - just go straight to the front of the queue to the Club Class counter to drop off your bags."

What a stroke of luck, I've never travelled first class, let alone Club Class but, before I start to revel in my new status as the undisputed King of Blag, I realise that surely in plimsoles, jeans and a 7-Up t-shirt I'm not quite dressed for the occasion.

Worries

In fact, I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb. I can see it now. I'll not be allowed on if I can't attach my complimentary cufflinks.

Who am I kidding? Cufflinks will be the last of my worries, the only reason somebody this casual can afford to travel like this is through a life of crime. They'll see it a mile off. I'll be arrested before take off and strip searched by Big Momma while the rest of Cufflink class looks on.

I've probably had murder evidence attached to my person and will become the victim of some elaborate stich-up, so that the criminal mastermind stuck in economy can be upgraded, while I go down in history as the Cufflink Killer.

By the time I'm airside, I have worried myself from the airport to death row, so I head off for some Garfunkelfodder to mull over the situation and bring myself back down to earth.

Gadget

With some much-needed food inside me I know I'm being ridiculous. But I still want to fit in. I can't afford a suit, or a shirt. And if I opt for some sort of posh gadget, that will only exacerbate my criminal potential.

Bang, then it hits me, the perfect Club class accessory, the one thing I can carry on to the plane in plain view to instantly mark me as a business mover and shaker - the Daily Telegraph.

Genius, the airline staff will see me and think ' he flies club class but dresses down, how down to earth'.

"No cufflinks today, sir?"

And I'll have some witty response ready to make them smile coyly, little knowing they're in the presence of the Great Pretender.

Arriving at WHSmith I run into my first problem - The Daily Telegraph is being given away free with every bottle of water. I consider changing my choice of broadsheet, but I really need some water as well.

I arrive at the departure lounge to find every single other waiting person carrying a bottle of water in one hand and a Daily Telegraph in the other. To add to this, there are piles of the paper discarded on the seats, in the corners and strewn across the floor.

Symbol

In one cruel moment my perfect status symbol is no longer fit for even the riff raff. They only use it to get water, an animalistic instinct - a primitive thought process if you ask me, almost monkey-like.

I decide that people have no idea of a status symbol when they see it, and that by keeping hold of my Daily Telegraph I will demand much more respect than by casting it aside for somebody to clean up - as long as I hide my free bottle of water!

Boarding the plane, I am dumbstruck. Club class far outweighs my expectations. Fully reclining seats, storage space, Champagne, privacy screen, foot rests and a set of electrical controls to rival even the pilot.

The dress code, however, is strikingly casual. Some passengers more casual than me and not a cufflink in sight. Clearly I had nothing to worry about and could have relaxed and enjoyed the airport entertainment.

Settling into my pod with a stupid big grin I prepare to make the most of my eight-hour upgrade that I could not afford in a million years. But first, one final insult as the stewardess approaches:

"Good morning and welcome to British Airways Club World," she smiles, "can I interest you in a complimentary Daily Telegraph?"