That plane was big, hotel big, like the way it taxied down the runway said, “Get out of my way” and the way it lifted off from the ground said, “Screw you, gravity, you’re the weaker one here.”

You have to consider that plane as humankind’s victory over nature. And common sense. Common sense had been bludgeoned to death in the name of luxury to achieve that plane. Designed to seat 500+, it was carrying less than 40, including crew, that night. The entire upper deck was a flying nightclub. There was a full bar, pool tables, a hot tub, a lounge, a stage, and even a stripper pole.

The captain called it a “pimped out jumbo jet.”

The captain said, “Welcome to Party Air.”

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was the last to board and had no luggage. I was wearing nothing but a blue hospital gown and a pair of slippers, the reasons for which will become clear as this telling continues.

You will need to stay on your toes, folks.

I have a lot to get to and not much time to get to it.

So anyway, there I was on the plane, settling in, and I noticed the dude beside me, Eli “Rapture” Tate, was the winning contestant from Preacher Got Faith?

And across the aisle was Powers Livingston, the dude who built monster houses for poor people on Home Sweet Home.

And 2 rows back was what’s-her-name from Love Hurts (Or At Least Stings).

And behind her was plumber-turned-executive-chef, Turner Ames, the clumsy dude who chopped off the tips of 3 fingers during the filming of Don’t Shoot the Cook.

Looking around, it was like a who’s who of reality TV over the last years. I recognized a lot of faces. And they recognized mine, which, because of my past, was no big surprise. I got a lot of nods and smiles and knowing glances.

Ripley Watts, from Love Is Blind and You Go, Girl, patted me on the butt and said, “Nice gown, Ward. Drafty?”

Hunt Templeton gave me the double-fist-guns and a sly wink.

Okay, the blue hospital gown:

Let’s just say I didn’t have time to change before the limo picked me up after I “escaped” from lock-down in the first hospital built solely for reality TV show personalities.

This too will make sense as the story continues.

Understand that the limo was there for me and me alone. I was part of a plan I hadn’t been made aware of so I gave up trying. Scenery whizzed by anonymously.

The publicity tours I’d been on were like that. City to city. Talk show to talk show. The approved set of questions. The approved set of answers. Make up chairs were the only time I got to sit down without anybody wanting anything from me.

Then another limo, or maybe the same one, would whisk me off somewhere else. To another building. To another airport. To another living room set.

This was how to be famous and it wasn’t as easy as it looked.

See, once you reach even the lowest floors of fame, it doesn’t matter what city you’re looking at from the inside of a limo. From the inside of a bloated, stretched SUV. Home/away were concepts as abstract as eating and sleeping became for me in the hospital, filming Floor 3 under the numbing spell of my Chemical Punishment.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Wouldn’t want to serve the main course before the appetizers.

Anyway, then the plane took off.

And then the plane reached cruising altitude.

And then all kinds of chaos ensued as reality TV stars let loose because…why not? Because when life hands you an insane party on a private jumbo jet simply because you are who you are, well, this is when to play the sheep and follow the flock.

After the hot flight attendant passed out mini-bottles of Champagne, corks flew everywhere. The dude from Centre Stage, Delbert Leer, possibly the most inept singer modern society had ever created, took one right in the forehead. So that was pretty funny.

Reality TV stars in the aisle.

Reality TV stars racing around.

Reality TV stars making a beeline for the open bar.

Probably the best way to describe it is to say it was like we were kids in a candy store. And the door was locked. And the owner was on vacation.

Though not everyone started partying.

Eli Tate, for example, put in earplugs and studied his Bible.

Harold Speck read emergency instructions in case of a water landing.

Powers started doing push-ups, right in the middle of the aisle, his hands in a diamond pattern to make it harder. Last I heard, he checked into rehab after a memorable on-air-freak-out-and-cross-country-drug-and-alcohol-fueled bender.

Upstairs, in the nightclub, there was already a beer bong circle, and Mal Stevens chanting, “Chug! Chug!” while Brady Bradeson chug chugged. I hadn’t seen either of them since filming season 2 of Awake! when, among other things, we raced up the Eiffel Tower steps wearing chicken suits and clucking like idiots as we “accidentally” knocked over German and Italian tourists while being chased by security personnel.

Actually, the whole gang from season 2 was on the plane: Mal, Brady, Kitty Lap, Margaret Bidley, Lolita Carl. We’d done crazy, stupid shit in countries across the globe while cameras filmed every depraved moment because HotFire Productions never thought anything but out of the box.

And that was because, let’s face it, Franklin J. Adams, the brains/personality behind it all, never thought anything but out of the box. But we’ll get to him later.

Back to the party at 10,000 metres as bartender, Erika Saxon Kale, the mega-bitch from Those Hampton Days/Nights worked the bar.

As Jill Conrose pole danced in a skimpy miniskirt.

As reality TV couple, Johnny True and Tatum Dodge, both from Eye in the Sky, dry-humped on a pool table while Sierra St. Jane, the former porn actress and star of It’s That L.A. Life, offered advice and mocked camera angles.

I was wearing no saint medal around my neck that night either.

This is definitely not the kind of story where I pretend to be the calm centre of a raging storm. After months of Chemical Punishment, I was feeling the need to let loose, to sow some oats that had been withheld.

Months of crushing hard on Nurse Lane, who only thought of me as a pet that needed to be fed and cleaned, had left me craving validation.

Months of test-driving a new drug called A.R.T. had left me feeling fragile and cautious, all too aware of the past making its mark on the future.

Understand that prior to my “voluntary” placement on Floor 3 I never would’ve even put a sentence like the last one together.

I was a party dude looking for the next party.

I was a playboy looking for the next plaything.

I was Ward F. Hughes, reality TV “It Boy.”

So when Erika said, “Here” and passed me a tequila shot, I downed it. When a producer with a camera handed me a salmon puff and then asked for an interview, I gave a thumbs-up and said, “Beats the hell out of hospital food!” And when Kitty Lap handed me a tiny pill and then wanted to make out with me for old times’ sake, I swallowed the pill and jammed my mouth against hers because…why not?

Next Chapter: 03:51:32