Herewith marks the first shot in the 2006 campaign to enforce a dress code on passenger planes. Either that or divide the aircraft into two sections, one for the knuckle-dragging simians in their singlets, shorts, thongs and eye-watering body odour and another for people who shower at least every second day - with soap - and wear a shirt and shoes.

In Orangutan Class, shut off from Human Class by a steel door, the occupants could swing from specially installed overhead bars. Perhaps airlines could consider a super-discounted fare which would buy a cut-rate ride in a cage in the luggage hold, whereby each customer would be given a complimentary bunch of bananas and a special "I Fly Orangutan Class" T-shirt at the boarding gate.

This would leave the rest of us to enjoy the flight without literally rubbing shoulders with King Kong's beer-gutted sibling, a large part of whose stomach has escaped from beneath its suspiciously stained singlet and is wobbling around the cabin. So much for the women. As for the blokes, don't get me started. Are Australians the worst-dressed domestic air passengers in the developed world? Undeniably.

If the concept of a two-class system is unpalatable, perhaps the airlines could simply issue disposable paper overalls to all underdressed passengers and insist they wear them.

Ever been stopped by one of those security guards who test your clothes and luggage for traces of explosives? I'm all for it and suggest security staff be provided with an additional piece of equipment which registers bodily odours being emitted on a scale of one to ten. Anyone scoring more than seven would be pointed towards specially installed shower rooms.

When not campaigning for airline dress codes, you can find me wandering the aisles of Coles looking for food. This, you would think, would be a simple enough task in a supermarket.

So on this night my fiancée and I have emerged from a flight, on which most of our fellow passengers have apparently spent the previous night under a bridge or in a wheelie bin. We're hungry and tired. It's 7pm and we walk into Coles to buy some salad. There are three cartons containing three different types, or at least they did earlier in the day. Now they're empty bar a few brown, curled shreds.

Instead we try for some fruit, only to discover that this section has been ravaged by a plague of locusts. We search for a banana but there is not a single one. This is Queensland - they call us Bananabenders!

Then we head for the deli section to check out the fish, where we discover a single salmon cutlet lying forlornly in a tray. We pass on the salmon and go to buy some milk. There's a surfeit of milk - as long as you want full-cream and not low-fat. This is a supermarket allegedly "serving" one of the most densely populated suburbs in the city and it doesn't have a single carton of low-fat milk.

There are now two classes of supermarket shoppers; those whose schedules allow them to shop during the day and those who are forced to shop in those last few hours before closing time.