Home Sweet . . . Oh!

So maybe I've read one to many chapters of Jeremy Clarkson's book whilst away on my
“World Tour” this week, but the moment I stepped off the plane at Heathrow this morning, I suddenly shape-shifted into a grumpy old man.
You know the ones?, off of that BBC 2 program.
The funny thing is that as I sit and write this on the train back from Paddington, not only am I sat in 1st class (a train first for me) but I am indeed sporting the stripy woolly jumper as well! Is there no hope???
I tell you what someone throw a rain shower and a farmers hat into the equation and I''ll be propa fucked!!
I haven't even started ranting yet!

So after spending 19 hours on the new A380 Airbus sat next to a very grumpy Chines man and some stupid bitch of a Hypochondriac, I'm serious at one point in the flight she asked the beautiful air stewardess if the captain would mind landing somewhere so she could get off and and have a walk around because she still felt sick!
“Yeah okay we'll just drop down in the middle of the Afghan desert so you can stretch your chubby little legs whilst the rest of the passengers try their hardest not to get caught up in the cross fire of a fucking missile attack!”
. . . she was from Birmingham so what does one expect??
. . . I finally make it home to the UK.
After practising my best 'time-wasting' skills in Brisbane International and the new Third Terminal at Singapore airport, I knew that Heathrow's terminal 3 was going to be a disappointment not only on the eye but, well everything, right down to the smell of the mouldy carpets in that robotic walkway thing they attach to the plane so you can get off the plane without using the emergency inflatable slide.
They look awesome don't they???? What I'd give to have a go on one of them . . . Well a plane crash I suppose but we're getting side tracked here . . .
Heathrow was scanky, old and not far off starting a world flu epidemic! The passport control guy could barely manage a hello never mind,
“Welcome home Mr Hunkin.”
At least in Australia every security guard I crossed made a point of asking where I was travelling from, shortly followed by his or hers story of how they Used to live in the UK and knew Cornwall like the back of a beer mat! The guy who checked my passport on the way home at Brisbane even knew the Carlyon Bay Hotel, weird or what?
So as I practically ran to escape the black death at Heathrow, I followed the spaghetti junction of corridors to the all new Express train to Paddington, claiming it takes only ten minutes to get there. I'd book 1st Class in advance all the way to St Austell. So proudly I marched on to the empty 1st class section, with its flat screen TV's and air conditioned reclining sofa seats only to be confronted by some short streak of piss that this wasn't the Economy section and he proceeded to hustle me out the door.
Well you can imagine my delight when I produced my boarding card, wiping the smile off his face.
After a MASSIVE apology the ticket attendant stamped my ticket and scuffled off to another carriage leaving me and my suitcases alone for the rest of the journey.
15 minutes later . . . they lied!!!

At Paddington I was running early as my flight was earlier than expected, so I decided to grab some Breakfast from a, what looked okay from the outside, bar/pub place directly above the platforms.
The so called barman told me off for not knowing the table number I was sat at, even though I was the only person in the whole bloody place AND was sitting opposite the bar, where he'd watched me walk in and sit down, get back up and walk up to him to order as he was far to busy studying my every move to come over.
“Traditional Breakfast” ordered, stressing no bacon, I sat back down to listen to the interesting conversation that a police person was lecturing some poor old homeless women about not sleeping in the station . . . .
Hmmmmmm so my breakfast arrives, complete with bacon and warm orange juice and finally when my train rolls up, some retard is sat in my seat, resulting in him be physically removed by the ticket instructor.
Finally I can rest in the luxury of First Great Western's 1st Class, writing away my 'social issues' on my blog. Nothing else can annoy me, even if that old women's dog, hiding in her handbag, won't stop starring at my kitkat!
. . . Oh wait my train has been delayed because of cows on the line, that's a new one!!
This would never happen in Asia, welcome home Nath . . .