Chapter 13: Homeward Bound
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Previously Deleted/Lost Scene
Restored Outtake:
I forgot to mention the security checks we had to go through on our
way back to the UK. These were the kind I had expected on our way in,
but for some reason didn’t get. Realising their mistake they made up
for this by making us go through about 20 minutes worth of scans, bag
checks and the like before we got on the plane in Boston.
I learned that my trainers contained metal staves.
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With the time differences in effect we landed at London Heathrow
around 7.00am. Exceptionally long passport control queues greeted us,
yes, this is definitely Britain. As we waited for our bags at the
carrousel I noticed that nobody else from our flight was with us.
Oops, wrong BOS-LON flight, wrong carousel.
Picking up our bags we phoned home, had coffee and flicked through a
discarded copy of The Sun. ‘Beckham something’, ‘pervert planned perfect
prank something’, ‘Jim Davidson something’, ‘Shoot an Iraqi and Win a
Ford Escort something’.
Utter Dross.
Needing to catch a bus back to Nottingham, I strolled over to the bus
terminal to find Stand 14, as suggested by our tickets. The stand numbers
ended at 9. Enter a typically unhelpful & thoroughly British jobsworth,
a man of small importance dressed in official airport luminous waistcoat:
“I’m looking for stand 14” I said.
“What is it you are looking for sir?” he replied.
“Stand 14” I repeated.
“Yes sir, what is it that you are looking for” he repeated.
“Er, stand 14” I once more stated.
“Yes sir, what is it that you want” he added,
“S t aaaaaaa nnnnn ddddddd, nuuuuumbeeeeeeer 14” I told him with a
look designed to indicate that we seemed to be going in circles.
“Look sir, I’m trying to be helpful here” he said in a manner more
akin to I’m Important, You Are An Idiot.
“I appreciate that” I nodded, obviously lying.
“Now, what is it that you are looking for sir?” he tried again.
Changing tack, I tried “A bus that goes from stand 14”.
“A bus?” he replied, “now, that’s better, try the National Express
Office” he said, pointing to the office about ten meters away.
The fact that we were having this conversation in an area where all
there was were busses, as we were standing in a bus terminal, seemed
to pass unnoticed by this horrible little man.
Tourist tip: This is TYPICAL British helpfulness by small time officials. You have more chance of getting a smile out of Boston music shop owners of Dominican origin than of getting anything pleasant from one of these horrible little men.
The difference between Chinese-American bus company employees and
their British counterparts is worthy of a sociological study IMO. In
the US bus company folk are rude but this is dispensed with curt
efficiency. All over and done with in a single bark, designed to save
everyone time – they are rude and you know it, no doubt, deal with it
or move on. In Britain the same rudeness is patiently inflicted over
a period of time, apparently designed to make the employee feel
better about their crappy little position in life. This type of
rudeness is disguised, more subtle, less overt, lingers and festers
in the mind.
Just before we got on our 9.30am bus [different terminal, which that
little arsehole must have known all along] Ricardo and I briefly
chatted with a visiting Venezuelan professor, who was on a tour of
Oxford and Cambridge. “Dimension Latina mate” was one of the
exchanges I caught as the bus arrived.
Here we encountered two more typical little British jobsworths and
could not simply board the bus, oh no. Our open tickets were NOT a
guarantee of a seat and we were forced to wait until everyone else
was seated to see if THEY could accommodate us. Clearly there were
enough seats, but only when the Jobsworth Senior had ascertained this
fact were we ALLOWED to embark. The French woman with lots of bags in
a similar position to ourselves was made to wait until we were seated
first for reasons not made at all clear.
4 dull hours later we got off at Nottingham. For the money, the Lucky
Star Bus Co busses are cheaper, as efficient, as friendly, as
comfortable but, unlike UK busses, left and arrived on time.
Tourist tip: There are more weirdo’s, odd-bods and low life’s
hanging out at Nottingham Central bus station than in the whole of NYC.
Well, certainly more per capita.
Ricardo took us for Special Baked Potato [you had to be there] before
we got a taxi to Suzy’s workplace to pick up the house key. Our
driver was from Pakistan, but being in Britain said absolutely
nothing to us.
Within a few minutes of getting into his house we, come on you know
what we did, yes, we played some of the music we bought. Ricardo
phoned Norman and told him something he already knew “we had a
friggin’ great time man, you should have been there”. Before we left we had
politely asked Sizzla what his weekend was looking like.
“I have a dinner party” was the edited highlight of his response.
“Hey Norman” I said, “how was the dinner party?”.
“It was cancelled” he replied, laughing in the manner of a man who had
nothing to laugh about.
Ricardo and I hugged and agreed that this was indeed a fantastic
trip, worth every lost hour of sleep and every penny/cent we had
used. I left around 4.00pm and followed my amended route home, which
took in the A50 that turns into the A500 to the M6 North, playing CDs
bought Stateside.
Arrived home and …..zzzzzzzzzzz……
THE END