The world’s become a less cheery place since Michael O’Leary stopped dressing up. Back in the day he’d happily tog up as an archbishop or Father Christmas or in women’s swimwear. Or, if he was in normal daywear and there was a camera near by, he’d pick up a model of a Ryanair plane and thrust the fuselage between his legs for some fourth-form chortles. Now he’s more likely to be seen in waxed jacket and felt fedora as he goes all nouveau county Irish at weekends, flaunting the fortune spent on his Gigginstown horse racing empire.
Mr O’Leary hasn’t lost his sense of humour — why would he when he is a euro billionaire? — but even he didn’t have the balls to turn