My England '05 photos can be found in the gallery

This morning is washing morning. This means I am forced to stay home so that I don't have to walk around London naked, or wearing Mostyn's clothes (which, without sufficient duct tape, would probably amount to the same thing.)

So I get to sit down, contact some family, and write on my website. Quick summary in mathematical form: Liverpool > Manchester > Bangkok > The French.

I carry a notebook around with me, so I get to write diary entries if I am feeling up to it. Just to get everyone (i.e., my mum) up to speed on things, I'll transcribe some of them below:

2005-11-02: Hurtling at 550mph 40,000ft above the earth, somewhere between Perth and Bangkok

An immediate and horrid torture. It took the cunning ingenuity of the Thai to devise such a fate, expressed on my person for hours on end.

First, of course, the regular isolation of the corpus that is common to all airlines. Pressed into a small seat, hopelessly denied what refuge sleep might offer, I sit in stunned hopelessness watching the most horrific collection of god-awful movies. The 5-foot viewing screen is directly in front of me, and I can see the images through my closed eyelids.

The Butler: Brooke Sheilds and Tom Green. Yes, the headphones are 'optional', but you soon discover that no sound and all image is even worse. Two cheeky kids looking for a dad, too-busy working single mum (Shields) estranged from her cheeky children. Unorthodox butler (Green) with a heart of gold. Annoying French boyfriend the kids don't like but mum likes for some reason. Final scene, Sheilds running down a pier after Green, having realised she loves him after all, just before he leaves forever. This movie may have given me cancer.

Trying to sleep, I discovered that the most comfortable position was, curiously enough, the most difficult to describe in words.

2005-11-02: Stop-over in Bangkok

A quick guide to all you need to know about Bangkok for people not intending to leave the airport, but who must stay for 6 hours:

• Arrival on the 2nd floor, but you MUST go to the third floor, even though nobody will ever tell you this, and there are no signs to indicate this fact.
• Plane departure details are made up on the fly. This means that nobody will be able to tell you ahead of time where you need to go to depart. You have to keep checking the screens. Again, nobody will tell you this, they will just try to push you on to someone else.
• 30Baht=1AUD. For some reason though, I was charged £3 ($8)for a coffee. Lesson learned: I am a gullible twat.
• The Bangkok Cafe & Bar is actually a nice place to sit and wait for your plane. French people can ruin this however.

The wait was formidable, but kind of interesting. Lots of brown smog, very humid. Although not helpful, the people working in the airport are nice. For about $20 AUD you can get a 45 minute massage, but half the people massaging are guys, and I wasn't really up for that.

My French people experience: While waiting in the aforementioned bar, having snagged a nice set of couches to myself, three attractive French ladies came over and asked if they could join me (with many a 'tee hee hee'). Being a Nice Guy I said yes, calmly accepting the fact that my hours of lonely beer drinking and reading were to end. However, upon sitting down a couple of previously unnoticed French GUYS came over to the seat and joined them. I am certain that they hung back only because their group would be less likely to get the seats were they all present. I spent the next two hours being ignored by all the people sitting around me as they spoke in French. I asked if I could use their laptop to put some MP3s on my new iPod, and was met with a few seconds' blank silence then an incredulous 'no!'

2005-11-02: In the air again
For the long leg of the trip, I started feeling more like precious human cargo, tended carefully like so much well-paying cattle in our battery cages. Our troughs filled like clockwork, warm towels handed around to lessen the cattle stink and ostensibly satisfy our need for a modicum of hygiene.

Then the movie about a disillusioned alcoholic ex-baseball star who takes over as little league coach. Only catch is - these kids are really bad! I got the feeling his unorthodox teaching methods could be just the kick they need, and maybe he'll learn something about himself along the way.

"Motocross" is a movie about two brothers who are great at motocross racing. One brother gets badly injured, the other has to ride to avenge him against some bad guy motocross rider who wears all black and rides a black bike. Spoiler: the brother wins by a knuckle hair[1], in slow motion.

2005-11-02: 7:30PM arrival in Heathrow

Glad to be in, the immigration guy gave me shit about not knowing the exact address of the place I was staying, and said he could easily not let me into London. I suppose he was offering to put me up for a month. I told him as nicely as possible I had friends waiting for me in the reception area, but he kept saying "what if they're not there??? Eh? What happens then???" Well, I said, I'll call them. "What if you can't get hold of them???" Look, they're gonna be out there, stop stressing.

Anyway, they weren't there. I wandered around for about 40 minutes, and got onto a phone to call them. Neither of them were responding. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I'm gonna kill them sumbitches... as soon as I see them, I'm gonna start ripping holes in their skins, making me carry this fucking heavy bag around...

Then they turned up, and I was so glad to see them I forgot all about it, and we all went home happy. Mel bought me an Oyster pass, so I can travel anywhere I'll likely be going for free for a week. Al gave me a £5 phone away card so I could call Australia, and his girlfriend Lisa gave me a pre-pay mobile phone card, which I charged up the next day. These three things and a map of London are seriously all you need (plus money) to survive.

Events since then have been all good, but I'll summarise them some other time. My washing is finished, and I'm gonna head into the National Museum today, then into Covent Gardens markets for some good food and beer.

Next entry I'll talk about London: why Manchester sucks (an ode to Liverpool); wandering lost and in desperate need of a toilet in Trafalgar Square at 4am; and Leicester Square - my favourite tube stop.

Footnotes:
[1] the kind of knuckle hair you get on the second segment of your finger - really fine.