Both of my regular readers will be aware that a UK visa for she who must be obeyed has been obtained, so that we can visit the homeland and see my son and daughter-in-law in September. The initial prompt for this visit was a request from The Son to mark his upcoming marriage.
The loving couple wanted to keep the event low key and it had been decided that only the mothers would attend. As biology dictates, I used to be married to one of the mothers so I felt it best if I help keep everything low key by not attending; hence the planned trip in September to compensate.
Then last week I received some communication from my ex-wife, suggesting it was sad that I was not attending my son’s wedding; and I received some communication from my current wife along the lines of “he’s your son, you should be at his wedding”. I considered both inputs and took an entirely independent decision, not influenced by any members of the female species, that I would attend. The decision was taken last Friday night and the wedding was the following Thursday; some sort of flight was required.
So on Saturday morning I headed off to an agent recommended by Ian of PattayaDaze and was met by a wild haired Indian gentleman who served me tea and toast and told me not to worry. Ninety minutes and forty six checked airlines later he was looking slightly less confident; but eventually he found me a direct flight which was great news. Less great was that it was direct from Kuala Lumpur, and the pricing mechanism seemed somewhat vague, but it was a flight.
Next on the list was clothing. A jacket and a pair of trousers were discovered in the depths of a cupboard; but anything that could pass as a shirt and tie had long since been discarded. Off to Central where a white shirt was quickly chosen; with an appropriate tie following on rather more slowly as the frazzled shop girl was hassled by my wife to lay out every tie in the shop in order that she could choose the correct colour. I played my part by violently agreeing that every suggestion was perfect.
Outfit acquired, it was off to the airport on Tuesday. A sign in the bus ensured a peaceful trip.
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The flight to KL was on schedule and the thirteen and half hour jaunt to Heathrow passed as pleasantly as might be expected; and at 0550 in the morning I was disgorged onto motherland soil; or more specifically UK Border Control, or whatever they call immigration nowadays. A lady perused my passport and waved me through; for the first time in around ten years I was in England.
Passed customs and the first sight to greet me was something called Costa coffee which I am assured is shit; but at that time of the morning it smelled and tasted wonderful. Bit pricey mind, even if a medium cup was the size of a small bucket.
My no expense spared accommodation was at the Holiday Inn Express in Collier’s Wood; a location I could reach via thirty five stops and many line changes on the underground. With a suitcase. At 0630 in the morning. I went for a taxi.
I then spent a very pleasant hour or so in the company of a traditional cabbie (“been driving taxis 35 years guv”) while watching the metre whizz round to a most unexpected seventy of her Britannic Majesty’s pounds sterling.
Arrived ragged, tired and significantly poorer at my hotel at 0800; and check-in time was at 1400; oh dear. I walked up to reception and met the first of what was to be many bloody immigrants. She was a very cute young lady of indeterminate European origin and spoke good English. With typical bloody immigrant behaviour, she apologised that the hotel had been full the previous night and they could not offer me a room until around 1000, but if I would like to have a free breakfast first and then relax, she would get me a room as soon as possible.
Didn’t feel like breakfast, so went for a walk. Collier’s Wood is not one of the nicest areas, but there was a little river that I took a stroll along in the early morning sunshine while assorted cyclists came past me with a tinkle of their bells and a cheery “sorry” and “good morning”; where was this miserable failed country I had read so much about? No doubt I would find it later. Then I came across a patch of public grassland which was being mowed and the smell of English fresh cut grass on a summer morning filled my nostrils with memories. The Englishness of the moment was reinforced by the mowing machine operator who had jammed the machinery with some twigs and was filling the air with good old Anglo-Saxon swear words. In need of food, I headed for a large building with the word Sainsbury’s on the outside. On the inside there was a cafe which served a passable vegetarian lasagne. There was also a sodding big shop so I headed in there and experienced multiple orgasms at the fruit counter where raspberries and strawberries were on offer for almost nothing. The orgasms continued at the cheese section; dear lord what have I been missing. Twenty pounds and a basket of goodies later; and I was back at the hotel with an interesting fruit, cheese and chocolate dinner selection.
The next day was wedding day and I was dressed far too early in my wedding gear. One stop on the tube and I headed for the registry office via a florist who knocked me up a buttonhole.
What flower do you want? You choose. What colour do you want? You choose.
I like to feel I am heavily involved in selecting my clothing and accessories.
An hour early at the venue and I bump into my younger step-daughter who is also attending unannounced; so when it is close to the wedding time we hide behind a wall and wait. The bride and groom arrive, together with their mothers, and photos are being taken. We step out from behind the wall and it is several seconds before The Son realises who is stood in front of him. He is rarely lost for words; and never shows too much emotion; so the next minute or so of a minor mental breakdown and extended garbled mutterings made the entire trip worthwhile.
The wedding went well. I became the nominated videographer and moved around the room like Wally Pfister on steroids. Unsurprisingly, the video was pretty crap. Then we took a few photos in the garden before whizzing off to a very fancy hotel for afternoon tea darlings.
My plan was to attend the wedding and then slip away and let the lovebirds have their time together. But the lovebirds have been together longer than I have been with she who must be obeyed, so they were having none of that nonsense and picked me up the following morning to take me home for lunch. On the way we stopped at something called Waitrose, and it was quite a revelation I can tell you. The branch was in a town called Farnham which, judging by the size of the houses is not a depressed area; so the customers were an interesting bunch. I spent a long time near the chilled meats listening to a conversation.
“Oh Lake Geneva was wonderful; and Lake Como. You could say it was a lakey sort of holiday {laughs like a horse in labour}. Giles is adamant he is going back there skiing.” etc. etc.
The main attraction was the produce. Whatever product you could imagine, they had variations and brands you have never heard of, often at astronomic prices. All manner of interesting foods were purchased and melded together to make lunch.
After lunch, I went for a stroll along a nearby canal with The Son. The sun was shining, the cyclists were tinkling by with “sorry” and “good afternoon”, and it was very pleasant. Very, dare I say it, English. There were even swans.
An evening meal at an excellent Indian restaurant (possible staffed by bloody immigrants; coming over here, serving us excellent food) rounded off the day.
Saturday was fly-home day; but first I had a hot date with The Son in London. First job was to go to Paddington and deposit my case with left luggage; then I met up with The Son and he took me on a guided tour of some London spots. We passed places that I had seen regularly when I used to visit London in a previous life. This for example:
Such sites used to be a backdrop to a boring business trip; but as a tourist in the summer sunshine, they looked wonderful. Of course I was surrounded by bloody immigrants disguised as tourists; but as they seemed to be having a good time too I didn’t wave a Daily Mail at them.
I will bore you with some London tourist snaps in due course, but here is a photo of a bank:
Later in the afternoon we met the ladies for lunch in a Peruvian restaurant in Soho. Excellent food and cocktails (see previous post for a photo), although all the staff were bloody immigrants (coming over here, being all smiling and cute, serving us fine food and cocktails).
Time to go, so it was off to Paddington for a shower (now there is a story that deserves a separate post) and then the train to Heathrow to arrive more than two hours before my flight.
It’s at this point that everything turned to shit. Two hours before take-off and the check-in queue was enormous, and the reason was that Malaysian Airways had three check-in counters for an A380 full of passengers. An hour passed and I was only half way to the front. After a while they made an announcement apologising for the delay in the check-in process, and assured us steps were being taken. The steps did not include having anyone to manage the desks, or increase the manning; oh no. The improvement was to apply “pot luck” to the seat allocation process such that my requested aisle seat was discarded and I was put in the middle of a row next to someone whose name was most certainly Mungo.
Of course, the flight took off an hour late, which meant I arrived in KL just in time to miss my connection to Bangkok. A surly member of the ground crew exchanged my boarding pass for another timed three hours later, and carried on the proud tradition of the aircraft crew by not apologising for the considerable inconvenience their Heathrow fuck-up was causing me and a number of other passengers.
The flight to Bangkok was a two hour ordeal. I was so bloody tired, and abandoned attempts to read on my iPad and just slumped in a corner (requested an aisle seat; given a window), just wanting to be home.
Landed at last, collected my luggage and was about to leave to find a car when I realised I had left my iPad on the plane. Collared a member of the ground staff who, after ten minutes hiding, gave me a number to call in the morning. Took a car and arrived home at 0200. Spent two hours changing passwords in case my iPad was compromised (actually unnecessary because it was retrieved) and finally slept around 0400. What a day. What a trip.
Other than the obvious pleasure of seeing The Son and The Daughter (I.L.) getting married, I was amazed how much I enjoyed being in my home country. No doubt the weather helped; but it was gratifying to see that the basic niceness of the English people is still in place, and that large numbers of people from other countries living and working there add to the pleasure and cosmopolitan feel of the place. Daily Mail readers can fuck off; England is still great and I can’t wait to share it with she who must be obeyed later in the year.
Comments 🔗
2015-08-05| Parry saysBlighty really is quite marvellous, Spike. If your wonderful account had been written by a Daily Mail staff trougher it would have read quite differently. Living in the developing World, for all its charms, does cause an appreciation for what Blighty really is, as you say, still great! (caveat: if you have money)
Bloody awful journey though. Likely doing the same next week and not looking forward to it, especially considering my now rather fabulous middle aged girth.
2015-08-05| genuinej saysLiterally a flying visit and a lovely piece. Glad you enjoyed the trip and congrats to The Son. Everywhere is nice when you’re with nice people as you undoubtedly were. Otherwise, perhaps your extended absence from this decaying shithole has deepened the hue of your rose coloured specs.
2015-08-06| Antz saysWell Spike, you haven’t seen anything yet…. Cornwall still awaits. It’s good to read your last paragraph, it really does sum things up. We’re having an absolute blast here. See you both soon.
2015-08-07| Parry saysBravo Antz! Just spent the past 18 months in Devon. What a marvellous way of life. Got to go to Thailand next week until mid-February and although it’ll be great to see the kids and paint the house and wotnot, I must say other than that I’m not really looking forward to it that much.
2015-08-07| Andrew saysnow that Spike has had a re-think on home I’m sure he has had a thought of where he might actually be able to live there…of course London is much too expensive so if I may I could recommend a few cheaper ( and full of “sorry!” “Good morning!” types who are probably nowhere near as pensive as his 1st pic from home)….these might include: Boggy Bottom, Abbots Langley, Herts Cockup Lake District, Cumbria Nether Wallop, Hampshire Scratchy Bottom, Dorset Titty Hill, Sussex ( especially popular with Americans ) Wetwang, East Yorkshire Frisby-on-the-Wreake, near Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire Pity Me, north of Durham Rotten Bottom, Tweeddale, Borders Upton Snodsbury near Worcester (Borsetshire) Nately Scures, near Basingstoke, Hampshire Lumps of Garryhorn, near Carsphairn, Dumfries and Galloway
any of them would be worthwhile living in just to write a return address on an envelope….
2015-08-08| Spike saysI have been to Pity Me; where I not I could buy a two bedroom apartment with laminated floors throughout for less than 100k. Tempting.
http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-52611056.html
2015-08-08| Bangkok Barry saysExcellent piece. And yes, London can still be rather pleasant. And the food counters are full of variety and of a far higher standard than one can find in Thailand. The only thing that spoils is that you have to be a millionaire to live there. And I wonder how far you could go in a Bangkok taxi for 70 quid.
The ‘bank’, by the way, is the Stock Exchange.
2015-08-08| Spike saysWe’re both wrong. It’s Lloyds; but not the bank. https://www.architecture.com/Explore/Buildings/Lloyds.aspx
2015-08-08| Parry saysSpike, a bloke I know with over 100 buy-to-let flats and houses is in the process of selling the lot, all of them bar two to keep for himself. He’s doing this to avoid the crash that will come with forthcoming rises in interest rates. Reckons as soon as interest rates rise the whole ugly edifice that is the UK property bubble is going to go bang. Early 2016 is when it starts. BoE already talking interest rates up.
2015-08-09| Bangkok Barry saysOf course. Slip of the brain. I even took my own photos of it. Sing along now - “Maybe it’s because I’m (no longer) a Londoner…”
2015-08-09| Andrew saysso it’s true - “more’s the Pity”….