Londonage

On this past Saturday I ventured to the abscesses of England, to London. Essentially this trip was to see the mighty David Gilmour at the Albert hall, but I also decided to pay a visit to an old army-buddy (Well, I say “old army-buddy”: a Uni-mate in his early twenties) called Cunzy11.

Anyway the roster for the trip was as follows:

1. Make it to London.
2. Find Cunzy11
3. Drink Alcohol
4. Purchase/Drink a Cosmopolitan with a Straight face.
5. See David Gilmour.
6. Break into the Big Brother house.
7. Get home.

Step 1: Make it to London.

First off: there was no fucking way I was travelling to the depths of England in a bus for like a Million hours so, I bought some of the bog-standard internet flight tickets from Glasgow to London.

After venturing for an hour on the Train I finally make it to the airport with 45mins to spare (as the tickets said). Well, I check in and the Big-Magical-Screen-of-all-knowing says “Flight Closed” so I fuck about in the airport, wander through WH Smith, eye-up the arcade machines, and purchase a wonderfully over-priced Cheese, Mozzarella and ham Sub. Now this Sub costs me like £4 and I grudge it in every way, the only motivation to continue walking to the till lady is that I am fucking starving and every other item to eat is either covered in green stuff (lettuce cucumber etc.) or Mayonnaise (Rancid baby-juice of the devil). I then park myself a at a table on-looking the Big-Magical-Screen-of-all-knowing, which incidentally still says “Flight Closed” (it was now 30mins to take off and counting). I opened this stupidly expensive “gourmet” sub, much to my dismay there is one crappy piece of ham, and a sprinkle of grated cheese (which doesn’t really resemble Cheddar or Mozzarella, let alone both). So I think, “Fuck it” and take a bite: at which point I believe all the moisture in my body proceeded to be absorbed by the bread, which, given the lack of ham and cheese, is all I could taste anyway. I eat about ¾ and then leave the wrapper and sub scattered around the table, that way the staff have to do extra work to clean it up, which is about the most I can do to get revenge on the fuckers for endorsing such a sub-standard (pun definitely not intended) misery-inducing, soul-destroying, wallet-lightening, pile of shit, food produce.

Now it’s 15mins to take off and I am starting to question the Big-Magical-Screen-of-all-knowing. I ask the fat-balding, possibly gay, boarding ticket guy, “What’s happening with the flight? The Big-Magical-Screen-of-all-knowing still says flight closed”.

He replies (with a VERY camp voice, previous suspicions have been confirmed), “Oh the screen is on the blink, everyone is boarding now”

…

I stare blankly

…

I rush through dumping as much metal crap as possible (keys, rings etc) in the plastic box, but of course the cunting metal door beeps. After being felt up by another guy with questionable sexuality, I run through the myriad of toblerones and perfume, through to the boarding lounge just to find that the kids have been let through and I am somehow at the front of the queue. BONUS. Not only did I not need to fuck about in the boarding lounge where anxiety frustration and boredom collide, but I was first on the plane. The window seat is mine!

Step 1: Make it to London. CHECK.

Score: Richie 1: London 0

To be continued....