I am currently sat in the wonderfully modern Charles De Gaulle Airport, Paris. It has taken me fourteen long hours to get here, after I woke up at 6am full of excitement for the few days ahead. A bitter Copenhagen air cracked my face as I walked through the governmental grounds to the train station, clad in my new suit and shoes so shiny I accidentally caught a glimpse up an old woman’s knickerbockers from their polished reflection while queuing for my train ticket.
Of course, I didn’t actually… she was wearing trousers.
A four-hour train journey up to Gothenburg went as swimmingly as… well let’s just say it went swimmingly. I arrived at the internationally renowned Landvetter Airport, Sweden. And what an airport it is too; I should know: I spent five hours in the damn thing.
‘But Joe, why spend so long in an airport, and yet wake up at 6am? Why not have a lie in and be refreshed for your journey across Europe?’ Well, why indeed. (Excuse me at this point while I clear up the spleen that has just vented all over my keyboard)
I’ll say this nice and clear: those miserable, whingeing, adolescent, ungrateful, work-shy, quivering-bottom-lipped, floppy haired, greasy haired, cigarette devouring, begrudge-thy-neighbour, useless French tossers. How dare you delay my flight for three hours while you ponce around with your banners and mottos as though it’s your right. I’ve been so stressed out today hoping I can catch my connecting flight – both with Air France – that my hair line has receded so far back I doubt I will have to shave my shoulders ever again.
So, roughly forty minutes ago I was waiting to depart the plane, when the lovely stewardess on the tannoy explained there weren’t enough staff to trawl the stairs over to connect with the plane door. Ten minutes later and one solitary, surly looking bloke moped over and attached the stairs. I bolted out and looked around – we’d parked in what looked like an aeroplane graveyard: hundreds of them, with no buildings. So, five minutes later and we all clamber onto a shuttle bus, ten minutes after that and I fall into a man on his mobile as I try to squeeze past the garlic muncher and out of the bus.
By this point I’m knackered, hungry, sweating heavily and stressed out. I quickly gamble into the terminal and greedily devour the departures board: Barcelona, 20:20 – now delayed, 22:00.
All that stress for nowt. All that running for nowt. And, if you can see by this picture, if you wish to complain like the poor man here, you will get nowt in reply. So, thanks France. I realise how unashamedly inappropriate I have been in mentioning a whole cheese board of criticisms; but if you’re going to strike, I think I may be justified with the other stereotypes I have mentioned.Ah, only 75 minutes to go now. I wonder if they sell berets, or cheap red plonk anywhere…
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