To Hell With The Bastard That Told You This Was A Test – A Tale Of Outrage.

This is a test. But that doesn’t mean you can ignore this. Sit down you bastard, let me throw some words at you. What this is a test for? You shall never know. A secret I’ll take to my grave. Try me. I’ll willing slaughter any man woman or child who dare approach me with that magical truth serum you see injected into the hero of terrible movies. The reasons shall remain a mystery. The only truths I can disclose to you at this point, whoever is reading this, is that I’ve just arrived back home from a trip to Cyprus.

I’ve been back on friendly soil for a mere 14 hours and I can already feel my tan fading and my skin reverting back to its usual milky tea complexion. The sun is shining here but the air is cold, any exposure to the external elements will render my body pale and frozen, possibly impotent. The sun shone everyday in Cyprus. Which was a nice trade-off when you consider the british weather I’ve grown accustomed to. Weather that sucks hope from the soul, warps the mind and leaves the homeless frozen to the pavement.

It’s a strange thing to board an aircraft capable of travel to almost any destination on the planet, in a foreign country no less, and find it solely occupied by your fellow countrymen. All deeply saddened by the reality that they have to return home to the country that bore them. But then again, nothing can make you appreciate home more than a stretch of time away from it, self-imposed or otherwise. And that longing for home tends to last as long as it takes you to walk from the exit door of the plane and into the airport.

London Gatwick has done away with the moody, sullen passport control officers that disdainfully eye you up and down as you stand there trying to look as least guilty as you can, and replaced them with something much, much worse. Robots. Now a robot has the power and authority to lock you within a clear plastic containment area while you feed your passport into a little hole and stare into the unfeeling, unloving camera eyes of a murderous Terminator. Should you pass its test, you’ll be rewarded with your freedom and the opportunity to stare anxiously at a baggage carousel for an indeterminate amount of time, all the while hoping that your luggage will soon crest he brow of a conveyor belt stocked by baggage handlers who could care less if your case even makes it off the tarmac. Should you fail the Terminator’s test, I don’t know, I’m guessing a trap door of some sort will open up beneath the plastic containment area where you’ll be mercilessly ground up into a meat paste and converted into robot fuel.

You see, that’s the secret of the airport. Not the robot paste, for all of our sake’s I pray  that was something I made up. Yet, I cannot be sure. No, the secret becomes obvious to anybody desperate enough to leave their lives in the hands of airport workers in the hope of a brief respite from their day-to-day lives. That is, in the airport; everybody hates you. The check in staff, hate you, the flight crew hate you, the pilot, the service worker pouring your coffee, everybody. Everybody hates you. Those gleeful holiday makers flanked by their loving wives, children, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, will too, soon grow to hate each other under the airport’s impure, vengeful influence.

So, yeah. I don’t want to harsh anyone’s mellow, but the airport is a terrible place. Your vacation is not worth your soul or the love of your fellow man.

This concludes the test.

I wish you all Godspeed. Please do not bother me for autographed beer coasters for any longer than necessary.





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