Travel Day 2 - Heathrow to Bermuda

I awoke in Heathrow’s finest Premier Inn, unemployed, my life in a cheap suitcase, no income, Donald Trump has ravished my pension fund and now I’m apparently going to blow what cash I do have on a holiday I can’t afford to Bermuda. My mother was right, I should have followed her example and worked until I was 73. 

I pull open the curtains revealing the majority of my body to a woman loading her baby into a car. The last time she saw something this amazing David Attenborough was stalking it in a jungle. Still asleep on the bed my princess slumbers. As air enters and exits her beautiful ickle mouth, the smallest whisper of breath indicates she’s still alive. Ahhh, the love of my life. My angel. “Wake up bitch you’re snoring again!” I shout. She gasps the morning air like someone just slapped her awake. Oh what an absolute joy it is to be married to me. The negotiations start… “5 more minutes” she pleads. “Ok snuckems no problem”.  The coffee machine thunders into life at my behest. Like an old bus starting up it violently vibrates everything in a 100 metre radius. Snuckem’s ass leaps a clear foot off the bed as the noise ruins her 5 minutes of extra sleep after just 53 secs. Oh what an absolute effing joy it is to be married to me! 


We have a plan for the day and it doesn’t involve sleeping. We have an hour to execute the three S’s and we are heading for the airport. Right on time we leave the hotel and bag an uber Tesla driven by a blonde Hungarian female wrestler. She’s lived in the UK 13 years, she is married with a boy of 5 who speaks better English than her. She studied IT at college but now has found fame and fortune driving a taxi. It was only a short journey so I didn’t really get to know her. Let me know if you want her home address. Our conversation ended when I bragged about being retired and going to Bermuda. I’m pretty sure I heard her mutter Hungarian for “dickhead” under her breath. 


We enter the airport and check in. No I hadn’t done it online. I don’t work with bloody computers anymore, so it’s not my job. We head through security and the little lady gets her traditional groping from a female employee. Her crime this time was illegal metal buttons on her blouse. What if they weren’t buttons? They could be bombs, or ninja throwing stars, or they could harm the Australian agricultural industry. There follows a long, 100% platonic tantric massage and a wave of a magic wand. She was free to go. If they’d asked I could have told them they were just effing buttons. Sigh.


Anyway, before you know it we had traversed an area mostly occupied by commoners, and entered the Cathay Pacific Business Class Lounge.  We aren’t flying with them, but they could tell I was class and I meant business so they let me in. This was noodle heaven with a full Asian cuisine restaurant almost begging us to take a seat and fill up with noodles. Well, it would be rude not to, but what’s this. Oh sweet lord they are still serving a full English breakfast. Get yourself in my stomach you delicious sexy fried loveliness. Ok if you insist I’ll have a coffee, and a smoothie and a bowl of fruit… and…Time to go already!?! 


Literally next door is the Qantas lounge. We aren’t flying with them, but they could tell I knew how to handle a didgeridoo so they let me in. Strewth Shiela, throw another prawn on the barbie and show me to the buffet.  Well how do I describe this sight for sore eyes, this culinary extravaganza that awaited us. Well, “shit” is the word that springs to mind. There was a selection of two identical mini cakes; something I believe the wokies call “s a l a d” and not a lot else. No Fosters or Castlemaine XXXX. No kangaroo burgers. Not much of anything other than lots of 70s looking furniture and some sad Aussies who clearly didn’t know they could pop next door to Cathay Pacific if they wanted a proper lounge. 


I soon tired of being in a shithole, with shit food and shitty people. We made a sharp exit, the British Airways lounge was calling me like a siren to the sea. Oh BA you’re spoiling me. It’s nearly lunchtime but you still have some sausages left from breakfast, oh and Nachos, oh and chicken goulash, and and and… Prosecco, self pour spirits, Union coffee. You know what. I’m rather full and we still need to eat the meal on the plane. So that’s why I just had some crisps, oh and more or less everything mentioned above.


On exit we’d intended to go and get noodles in the Cathay lounge but as our flight was boarding we decided to give it a miss and began the route march to gate 40, so named because it takes 40 effing minutes to walk there! 


I appreciate I’ve wittered on a bit so let me summarise the flight for you quickly. The steward assumed I knew where my seat was. This was a sure sign he recognised me as a regular business class bitch. I realised that there was a danger of being sober before the end of the flight, so I went in on the champagne and whiskey. You know the expression, “Work hard, play hard”. Well if you retire you need to remove “Work hard” so that just leaves playing hard. I’m honestly not sure my body can play any harder without entering rehab.


I admit there came a point on the plane sometime after the red wine and lamb cutlets, as I could feel my stomach was about to pop, I reconsidered my life choices. But honestly, apart from feeling like I wanted to vomit because of my abject gluttony, I think my life choices have been pretty damn good. 


Could I criticise anything about my experience? Well, the stewardess was as thick as. She didn’t know anything on the menu and had to check the seat number of every passenger every time you ordered something. I mean at the pointy end it’s like a single digit and one of 2 letters. How hard can it be?


Also annoying was the cutest baby in the world. Toddling down the plane, waving, giggling and screaming like an effing banshee. Don’t worry, I tripped her up as she walked past. Kids gotta learn not to disrupt my flight. Noisy little bastard. 


Anyway, we are now 20 minutes from sunny Bermuda. Nestled at the heart of not the Caribbean. The weather forecast is for cloud, wind and rain. It’s basically Rhyl minus the Sun Centre and coach loads of Brummie pensioners on the pull. I hear Bermuda is actually the home to millionaires. I did discuss the prospect of me having an affair with a local blonde millionairess to help finance my retirement moving forward. The stewardess suggested I should probably be talking to my wife and not her. 


Women eh?

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