News that Idi Amin, former dictator of Uganda, seeks to return home from the inclement climes of Saudi has uncomfortably reminded me of my disgraceful role in his survival. I should have shot him. He presented me with the opportunity in 1976. We were squeezed into his Falcon executive jet flying north to his village in West Nile.

Beyond a ginger-haired Swiss pilot and a bulky air stewardess, there was only him, me and my crew aboard. Early in the flight, his Stetson-covered head slumped forward on to the seat-back in front. He was directly across the tiny aisle from me, and a holstered pistol dangled through the arm rest. I thought to grab it. Then I wondered what happens if you shoot a very fat man in a confined pressurised cabin? Does the bullet ricochet around inside him or go straight through, penetrating the aircraft skin, sucking us out after him? Then, is he asleep? Is the gun loaded? What will the Swiss pilot do afterwards? Anyway, how do you actually fire a pistol? Is there a safety lock or some such? Bravado failed me, and it is my singular fault that he is with us still.