On airports
A few weeks ago I saw that unfortunate film, ' Love actually'. Its premise was - love is all around, blah blah, especially in Terminal 3 at Heathrow airport, London. I won't deny I've had a few happy teary moments in that same terminal, but for tonight, my point is, I've just had an Airport Experience, and love had nothing to do with it. Frustration and anger and sweat, yes. Threats and boredom and uncertainty, yes. On the plus side, some bonding, too, and a large amount of free beer provided by a commiserating bartender.
Oh, and, to quote Cartman, I'm gonna be on television, I'm gonna be on television., because after waiting in some God (and Ryanair) forsaken airport for 17 hours the local TV station was sent in to document the crisis. Nothing much happens in Clermont since cattle fairs became obsolete, so they have to make do. The TV crew turned up and, with great empathy, filmed us , poor stranded passengers, first despairing like goldfish out of water, then, much, much later on, giving a standing ovation to the deserving engineer, freshly flown in to fix the defective engine and save us. I know I make really long sentences, it's a bad habit of mine. Anyway, we took off a bit after midnight; I can safely say that most buttocks were clenched on that plane during take off and landing, oh, and in between, too. We got to Stansted at 2 am and slept there. A lot of airport exposure of one day. I shared a minuscule bench with a pair of Scots who were no strangers to a black pudding and deep fried Mars bar supper, and woke up fresh as a daisy at 5.00 am sharp, in time for a coffee and an express train into central London.
Hey, I don't care, my mum just called and said I was on television explaining to the nice reporter why Ryanair are a bunch of fuckers. Time well spent.