I stood outside the sleek glass building of Stansted Airport, a bizzarre edifice that rises out of grim Essex countryside. Snow was coming down like Britannia’s dandruff, showering down to say goodbye. After having a smoke and huddling outside with other smokers, including one woman looking askance at me smoking, despite she herself holding a glowing tobacco stick in hand, I left. We’d been puffing underneath a “No Smoking” sign, but neither blue-jacketed airport staff, nor FAMAS-armed filth seemed to care.
A fat, red-faced man told me to proceed through security, so I bought a copy of Esquire and went for a final smoke. Proceeding through security, I presented all my items of value to be examined by undertrained, tired staff. I recovered my things and headed through to Departures. I ate a disappointing wrap and wished for enough booze to make my 4-hour wait time pass quicker, but apparently this request is absurd, since a pint cost nearly as much as a pint of crude, so instead I emailed a South African writer friend of mine and pondered the grim steel tent in which I was encamped.
Now it’s time to go see what other delights are on offer in this love letter to capitalism. Death to the dollar, Mickey Mouse, Stansted Airport, and David Cameron.