Journey details: Domestic US flight, LAX-Houston

The scene: A delayed, late night departure, everyone's tired. I'm thinking a three-hour nap.

Passenger description: Bedraggled, pasty, 30-something guy with very red eyes.

The review: I'm quietly looking out of the window. This guy is leaning over me, trying to crane his neck to see out.

"That's San Diego!" he says loudly, pointing to a small town.

"I don't think it is, " I say. "It's too small, plus we don't fly over it."

"It's San Diego. All cities look small from this height. Have you seen London form the air? It's TINY!" (NB: we are still climbing, and at about 9,000 feet)

That settled, he hears I'm English and - excited it's his first time in America and high on sleep exhaustion after a 12 hour flight from London to LA, he launches into a tirade about how expensive America is, how fat American women are, how fat American men are, how immigration is ruining English culture (for this, he cites, "tea", which he sees as a British institution being under threat. When I point out we stole it from India, he just laughs), how "masses of Africans" are marching up through Europe and "have no idea about our way of life". His oft-repeated line is, "I'm not a racist (one time, he replaces this with 'Fascist') but SOME people MIGHT say...(insert racist thing mostly sounding like something said between racist white men in a closed meeting somewhere)..." This lasts for a while before he laughs at himself for being "something of a reactionary". He then talks at length about how all his friends are marrying and having families, and every time he says the words "marriage" or "family", he follows it up with "and all that SHIT". He's single, and shows me his directory of screenshots of girls he deems to be unattractive that he has taken off dating sites, which seems a weird thing to collect. He stops talking and falls asleep 15 minutes from Houston.

Verdict: Passive-aggressive pseudo-racist.

Rating: 2, but only for some basic element of self-awareness.

Thanks for this, @SiobhanONeill

Journey details: Overnight Cancun to Madrid en route to London, zzzz...

The scene: Mid section of a packed Air Europa flight in the knees-under-your-chin class

Passenger description: Enormous, like Brando-esque, shoeless Mexican guy crammed into an aisle seat

The review: So we're all in place and the jam-packed economy section is buzzing with that curious blend of mild anticipation and people steeling themselves for nine long hours of attempting to get 40 whole minutes of sleep by jamming an ear into an arm rest. The air crew are shutting the doors when people become aware of another kind of buzz. A buzz that becomes a low, deep rumble.

Two rows back to my left an enormous in all dimensions and very shiny Mexican with a t-shirt that only partially covers his stomach and no shoes, fills the entire 18 inch seat and then some. We haven't even begun to taxi and this guy is out for the count.

As we reach the runway and the rumble begins to compete with the sound of four jet engines on full throttle, people in the surrounding seats begin to turn to attempt to locate the evident hole in the fuselage. As they realise the source is in fact our tired friend, knowing smiles and winks between passengers hide the weary knowledge that this will not be so funny when we hope to grab some shut-eye ourselves.

By the time we're at 35,000 feet, the guy's snores have reached decibels so impressive that people on the other side of the plane and several rows forward are lifting from their seats to try to identify the noisy sleeper. The poor woman in the window seat beside him has pulled her blanket over her head. Since it's clear the sound of a jackhammer playing on her iPod wouldn't drown her neighbour out, she's evidently just using it to hide her nervous breakdown.

After seven and a half hours of continuous and loud snoring during which a five metre square section of plane pauses their tossing and turning on occasion merely to wonder how this guy can get a better night's sleep in an upright position than most of us can manage on an over-stuffed superking mattress, the lights and the smell of airline panini rouses him from his baby-like slumbers. The sound of two dozen sets of teeth gritting and neck muscles straining as people attempt not to spin round to give him the evil-eye-of-fury fills the air.

But not for long. With sandwich and juice consumed our relaxed traveller drifts back into another 90db snooze for the final descent.

Verdict: Exhausting

Rating: 1 for the early humour factor

Journey: A short taxi journey from the Mirage to the hard Rock Hotel, Las Vegas
The scene: Late at night, just after seeing the Cirque du Soleil show LOVE.
Describe your fellow traveller: The passenger is ME. The driver is a hippy-ish looking 60 yr old. 
The review: The cab picks up me and my friend and sees we've just left the hotel where LOVE (a Beatles-themed show) is playing. He tells us all about when it opened, and how he drove the guy who produced the Beatles' records to the premier. "I can't remember his name, though. Man, I really wish I could remember his name...really famous guy..." he says, trailing off.

"George Martin," I tell him.

"Famous guy...George something, I think."

"George Martin," I say, more clearly.

"Damn, what was it...George...something..."

"MARTIN."

"What's that?"

"His name is George Martin."

"What? No, that wasn't it. This was a tall guy. Must have been six foot three at least. Skinny. Older."

"Yeah, his name's George Martin."

"I don't think that's it. Tall guy. Older. It'll come to me."

(driver starts to reminisce more about that night and how he saw the show the next night as 'the producer guy' gave him tickets)

"Damn. I just wish I could remember his name. Tall guy."

"HIS NAME IS GEORGE MARTIN. TRUST ME ON THIS."

"Moffat?"

"NO. GEORGE MARTIN. HE PRODUCED ALL THE BEATLES' RECORDS."

"George MARTIN - that was IT. Hard Rock, here you go."

(I wearily hand him a ten and we get out.)

Verdict: Will to live ultimately lost.

Rating: ?*!**&?!

Submitted by: @the_dusty_wolf
The scene
Overnight red eye
The review
One accepts a certain amount of apprehension during take-off and landing, but praying loudly for 12hrs rather ruined the in-flight entertainment. Fought fire with fire the only way I know how....downed a couple of sharpeners.
Verdict
I respect your faith, but not your right to invoke The Lord for 12 hrs solid....out loud.
Rating 0-5:
2/5

Journey: A daytime long haul flight.
The scene: A full premium economy class cabin.
Describe your fellow traveller: Huge middle-aged man. Not obese, just a big old lad.
The review: He crams himself into his seat which, although larger than a normal economy seat, is still barely enough to contain his bulk. It's like trying to fit a sofa onto an armchair. As we take off, he immediately goes to sleep, his leg of lamb arm taking up the entire shared middle arm rest, the sleeping breaths from his nose so strong they almost part my arm hairs. He stays, slumbering for four or five hours, an immovable man mountain, taking up too much room.  Although he's not actively annoying, he's hard to ignore...just...laying there, being large. 
Verdict: Imposing insomniac.
Rating: 2/5

Journey: An overnight long haul flight.
The scene: A full premium economy class cabin.
Describe your fellow traveller: Well-dressed young man in his mid 20s.
The review: I'm already in my seat and as he sits down, he is immediately getting into EVERYTHING, like a nervous hamster you'd just dropped into a new cage. The flap of safety cards, the buttons on the seats. It's like he can't take it all in fast enough. "What cabin is this?" he asks. "It's...premium economy..." I venture. Turns out he just bought the ticket blindly. The onslaught of very minor extras continue to impress him: The eye shade! The free pen! The metal cutlery! It's actually pretty charming to see someone so unjaded with air travel and who is genuinely happy to be sat where he is, rather than the rest of us, who are seething because we didn't get an upgrade to business. After dinner, I fall asleep somewhat contented. However. He soon gets used to his new kingdom, and starts to spread out, quickly commandeering the shared arm rest. Then he plays video games and excitedly jabs me in the ribs a couple of times with his elbow. Accidentally, but, you know...I was asleep, dude. Look more sheepish when I do the half turn and loud sigh. 
Verdict: Like a playful puppy that wets itself. You
Rating: 3/5, almost a 4, but the jabbing...

Journey: An overnight long haul flight.
The scene: A fairly busy economy class cabin.
Describe your fellow traveller: Smart, youngish guy, around 35 or so, sitting next to me in a two-seat row in at the bulkhead.
The review: We exchange basic nodding and hellos as he sits down, and then both of us just read until the dinner service. Here he orders two bottles of wine, and I order one and he opens his and offers a cheers. I cheers him back. He asks me how my trip to Japan was and I give him a few basic details and then he LAUNCHES into his life story, how he'd lived there a year as teacher, fallen in love and moved his life there and then got engaged and then she left him just as they were making plans to get married, all the while getting more frantic and polishing off his wine and ordering more, and a brandy after the food and I'm just nodding and trying to be as sympathetic as I can to someone I don't know. He's pretty distraught by the end, and ordering more booze ("Have YOU ever been in love? (no pause for me to answer) It's like TORTURE, pure TORTURE...") as he finishes each drink. He then necks a couple of sleeping pills (politely offering me one) and then tells me "This is all sure to put me right to sleep, and I really need that certainty. Job interview tomorrow, if I don't get some shut-eye, I'm done for." I see him put his eye mask on and I read for a bit and slowly drift off myself. I wake up a few hours later, and we're beginning our decent. I look over, and what looks like a cadaver is staring back at me, glass of wine in hand. "I couldn't sleep," he informs me testily. "That baby across the aisle kept me wide awake ALL NIGHT. All the drink and all the sleeping pills I took...now I just feel...like death." I squint to look over at a baby some ways away. I can't really imagine how he must feel. "I'm SO, SO TIRED," he moans (I could have guessed that part perhaps). And with that he sinks into an open-eyed coma of some kind as we head to grey, unforgiving London and I hide behind a magazine.
Verdict: Not really annoying and some of his chat was amusing but the pills-alcohol-sleep gamble failed pretty miserably. Plus, you know, life ruined and stuff. I just hope he was OK.
Rating: A sympathetic 3/5.

Journey: A domestic layover at ORD.
The scene: I'm waiting in a small queue to put my things through the x-ray machine at security.
Describe your fellow traveller: A harassed-looking and apparently late John Cusak.
The review: First of all, I'm just putting my things into the trays when some guy cuts in line. I look up, do a slight double take and see it's Hollywood's John Cusak. I like many of his films and he looks inordinately stressed out so I decide to let him go on through. He only has  a small bag, which security pick up on and take a small bottle out of. It's green liquid, just over the regulation size. Security say they'll have to confiscate the bottle. JC does not like this information. He's very late, and now he chooses to argue about the legality of a small bottle of green liquid. He says it's a special kind of shampoo. I have no reason to disbelieve this, but security is standing firm. JC has a choice between arguing for the merits of his irreplaceable shampoo OR heading to catch a flight he is already late for. he makes one more remedial attempt, pulling in all his actorly powers to try and convey how essential this bottle is. Sad to say, not even his hometown security guys can do much for him. He kind of pouts but he doesn't hit diva mode. He runs off into the terminal, shampooless until Hollywood.
Verdict: Minus points for star-jumping the queue, but he remained polite under some (self-inflicted) pressure.
Rating: 3/5

Journey details: A short haul flight.
The scene: It's the late afternoon. I get on and take my window seat.
Passenger description: Well, see for yourself.
The review: So, this grasshopper (?) was apparently living IN BETWEEN THE PANES OF GLASS in the window of the plane. Just to be clear: in between the tough plastic double glazing, which is supposedly air tight. There's no way in there, nothing to eat and no way out. These questions presented themselves: How did this insect get in there? Did it hatch from an egg inside the glass? How is it sustaining itself? How long has it been there? How is it breathing? I thought about these things for the 90-ish minutes of the flight, alerting neighbouring passengers and cabin crew to the stowaway. No-one had any idea how it could come to be there. I couldn't take my mind (or eyes) off it. It seemed happy enough. I don't know. It's hard to tell with insects.
Verdict: Baffling. Innocuous and sinister at the same time.
Rating: 3/5

Journey details: A short haul flight.
The scene: It's the mid morning. A small commuter plane. I'm sat next to the window in a two-seat row.
Passenger description:  A young guy, maybe early 20s, sits next to me.
The review: There followed one of the most random conversations of my life. Utterly charming at all times, He introduces himself as Willy. I respond with my name. Then he gets into it.

Willy: “Where do you live now?”

Me: “New Orleans sometimes, but I’m based in London.”

“London, England?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get Courvoisier there?”

“Er…what?”

“You know. Courvoisier cognac.”

“Oh. Yes. I think so.”

“Do they have brothels there?”

(I actually mishear this for “brothers”) “Er…what?”

“You know. With prostitutes.”

“Oh. Yes. I think there are some. They’re not legal, though.”

“How close are you to Amsterdam?”

“About a 45 minute flight.”

“They have them there, right?”

“I guess.”

“Do you have highways in London?”

“Um. Yes. We call them motorways.”

“Nice. Those brothels in Amsterdam are legal, right?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s decriminalised.”

“Yes. You got someone picking you up in London?”

“Er, no. I take public transport.”

“Man, you’ve got it aaaaaaaaaaaall worked out, haven’t you? All worked out. In advance.”

“Er, I guess so. I’ve done the journey a lot.”

“And you’ve been to Amsterdam?”

“A couple of times.”

“Man, you’ve got it aaaaaaaaaaaall worked out, haven’t you? Aaaaaaaaall worked out. I work for Wolfgang Puck.”

“Oh, that must be great.”

“Yeah. We got soups, pasta, burgers, salads, sandwiches, chicken salad, veggie pasta…(goes on to list what sounds like the full menu of a Wolfgang Puck outlet). You should try it some day.”

“I’ll try and do that.”

“Man. I’ve GOT to get me a plane ticket to Europe. What do you pay?”

“Well, it varies a lot depending on when you travel. It’s usually between…”

“I’m going to Amsterdam. For the Cour-vois-i-er. Man, you got it aaaaaaaaaall worked out, ain’t you?”

“Er…I…guess…”

"Oh yeah. Aaaaaaall worked out.

His curiosity sated and seemingly satisfied at how much I had things all worked out, he retreated into his magazine and didn’t speak the rest of the flight. Which was a shame. I had so many questions.

Verdict: Aaaaaaaaaall worked out.
Rating: 4/5