Penned at Gatwick airport on Saturday as I waited for a train. Some bald Northern prick was blocking the escalator on the walking side. I said “excuse me.” He said “It’s not bloody London.” I suggested that rules about standing/walking up were national. “What’s your hurry you will only get stuck at passport control.” I pointed out it was my choice and rules were rules and as he moved aside I concluded my sentence “and you can fuck off” as I stormed on ahead to passport control where there was almost no queue.
I am not proud of myself for swearing but after four weeks of being left alone and hectored by no-one other than the Mrs exercising her uxorial rights Britain, the British and Britain are getting to me already. It started at Kalamata airport where I sought a seat as I waited to board. I put my bag on an empty seat. “That’s seat’s taken” snapped a sunburned old hag – that one over there is free.
Of course both were empty so neither were taken. The old hag was talking fucking cock. What she means is that she had mentally appropriated the seat for her oafish son. I shuffled off to the “free seat” and a cheap hat was placed on the colonised seat to ward off others until the oafish son lolloped up.
Of course, both incidents are trivial. As is a burning resentment at paying £64 for a one way ticket from Gatwick to Bristol. A London Bristol return is £57. I am being scalped and I know it. The train companies are run by prize bastards. But three encounters with Britain and the Brits in just a few hours has caused more annoyance and blood pressure rises than the entire Greek nation (including the windows man who is now redeeming himself at a rate of knots) managed in four weeks.
The Mrs needs to understand that a failure to emigrate is bad for my health.