Sunrise over France.
Land at Heathrow.
Cold.
Wet.
Grey.
Windy.
Miserable.
Welcome back to Britain.
It’s a scrum to catch the underground transfer train to another part of Terminal 5. Cramped conditions. Cattle are treated better.
Unable to Fast Track through Immigration, even though I have the appropriate Boarding card, as I’m a British Citizen. Foreigners can whizz through in a matter of minutes. We have to queue for 20mins. I’ve been through New York immigration quicker than this rigmarole.
Welcome to Heathrow Hell. No one is smiling. Lots of unhappy looking people. Notwithstanding the early hour.
London Cabbie transfers between Paddington and St Pancras. He’s a diamond geezer. Awright. He asks where I’ve flown in from. Explain. He loves travelling as well. It’s a good old natter.
“You’ve made my day. I love having people like you in my cab. Really interesting to meet you. Have a good day.”, he says.
He’s cheered me up no end as well.
Very pleasant East European sorts my train ticket out which continues my cheery state. England’s not so bad after all. Still raining as the train whizzes through the lush green countryside. Makes you realise how green Britain is. Especially as I’ve had months of brown landscape to look out onto.
Arrive Nottingham station. Chucking it down. And cold. And windy. Grumpy.
Walk the short distance to the bus station. Along the vomit and urine stained streets. At least the rain is giving them a good wash. Welcome back to Britain. Arrive soaking wet. Now if I’m really lucky there’ll be a nice warm bus ready to depart home.
There is.
It’s £3 for the single fare. Hand over a £10 note.
“Don’t you have anything smaller?”, the cocky Asian says. Looking at me with disdain. We’re going to get on like a house on fire.
“No. It’s all I have.”
“I’ll have to give you a change voucher.”
Not used to travelling on public buses.
“A what?”
“A change voucher.”
“What’s that?”
“You can use it on your next bus journey.”
Er, I don’t think so mate. Only use the bus about once a year.
“Why can’t you give me change?!”
Raised voices now.
“Don’t have any change.”
“What……for a £10 note. That’s ridiculous.”
“Well….you should have the right money then…shouldn’t you.”
Getting ready to thump the cocky sod.
“Er no. You should have the right change.”
Huff.
Puff.
Jump off bus as there’s a few minutes to spare to find change from a kiosk.
Except there are no kiosks. Find a competitor bus company’s office. They don’t carry cash. But the young manageress very kindly asks one of her drivers to change the tenner. And at the same time asks my driver to wait one moment whilst she gives me the change. I’ve also motioned to him through the window to wait a moment whilst the girl hands me the change.
So I can get on his bus.
Deliberately. As I’m steps away from his gate. He shuts the door. And starts reversing. The little whatsit. Manageress is mad as anything.
Though not half as mad as I am.
Stand in the bus bay shouting expletives at a big red, reversing bus.
Bloody country.
When’s the next flight back to Africa? And happy, smiling, friendly people.
Another bus arrives. Jump on with my fellow passengers. The tattooed and obese dregs of society. It’s clear I’m the only one that can string a sentence together. It’s like being on the retards bus. Walk the mile home. In the pouring rain. Soaked.
Welcome home.
Whenever I return home from abroad I’m always reminded of the time Michael Palin returned to London after his “Around the World in 80 Days” trip in 1988. The usually amenable Palin lost it with a moaning London newspaper seller. Palin’s rant ending with a mocking “Oh yes….welcome back to Britain”, already fed up with his fellow countrymen.
I know exactly how he feels.