“I AIN’T getting on no plane!” said Mr T from the A-Team.

I sympathise with the big fella in the jewellery, but my fear of flying is because I can’t fall asleep on planes.

I’ve never managed to get any shut-eye in the air.

In theory, falling asleep is easy. You get comfy, close your eyes and drift away to the Land of Nod.

In reality, I find sleeping difficult in a pressurised cabin packed full of holiday-makers. The noise of the engines, movies, screaming babies and busy air hostesses is all too much.

There’s not enough legroom, people are climbing over you and, worst of all, you have to sleep sitting up. Nobody sleeps in that position except the elderly and trained assassins.

In short, I’d like to be cryogenically frozen or put under general anaesthetic before I board a long-haul flight.

I’ve come close to dozing off a few times, but the same familiar pattern begins.

It’s either too hot or too cold. There’s an attack of sudden cramp in my neck and knees. So I squirm about doing the hot seat shuffle, desperately trying to find a comfy position. But there is none.

You can’t lie on your side as you’ll trap your arm or roll on to someone’s lap. Nope, you have to lie back with your head rolling left or right and pretend that you’re very relaxed.

Just when you think you might be able to finally sleep, there’s DVT (deep vein thrombosis) to worry about.

Forget about ever finding that optimum position of comfort because you’ll be up every hour to do a few lunges and stretches outside the cabin toilets.

The only option for aeronautical insomniacs like me is to wait it out... watching those fellow travellers snooze peacefully for hours on end, snoring and occasionally dribbling.

The cruellest blow is that by the time they make the landing announcement, I’m ready to fall asleep. The joy at arriving in an exotic far-flung destination is replaced by grumpiness and a wrinkled complexion that resembles my luggage.

Whenever I feel like this, I cheer myself up by thinking about the brilliantly named Randy Gardner.

In 1964, the 17-year-old American clocked up 264 hours (11 days) without sleep. After four days he began hallucinating and believed he was a famous footballer.

At the time Randy commented: “I wanted to prove that bad things didn’t happen if you went without sleep.”

Sweet dreams.