(Author's note: These are presented without editing, as per usual, as I sat in various places with my laptop on the journey from England to New Zealand. Good luck and god speed, my poor readers, as the first content in an age is the ravings of a man without sleep.)
I've never been one to travel well, which is ironic how many times I actually have. I've toured parts of the world I never thought when I was a boy that I'd ever see, and despite this I still get the jitters when it comes up that I'm going to have to get on a bus, board a train or pack for a flight. I just don't like it. I'm a remarkably sedentary person when I can be, known to remain still for periods of hours, even days, with breaks only to roll over slightly or to make an emergency dash to the bathroom when necessary. If I thought I could avoid peeing without the messy business of having a catheter installed? I'd be on that like a shot, you can believe me. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm lazy, but I definitely favour an economy of motion that might be best described as 'borderline responsive.'
Somehow, though, I'm at Heathrow International Airport's terminal four waiting for a plane to take me to Seoul, where I will then be whisked away the rest of the distance to Auckland, New Zealand. I can't really say with any degree of certainty what it is that's actually going through my head at this point. I'm running on empty, operating on reserve power; the usual euphemisms for being out-of-my-mind blank and drifting through security checkpoints and baggage carousels and clouds of lost, chattering people staring at screens they're far too far away from to read properly. I can't help but think that at some point I made a fairly poor decision, or maybe the right decision for the wrong reasons. I'm not going on holiday, you see. I'm going home.
I don't know when it was that England and I first started to have difficulties in our relationship. First it was subtle things. The little things that England did were really starting to piss me off irrationally. St George flags would erupt like teenage acne at the first mention of the FIFA World Cup (or whatever bloody sporting event that England happened to be competing in at the time on the world stage) accompanied by a marked increase in hooting, cheering and shouting random obscenities down the street. When, invariably and without fail, this was then followed by England being promptly shot off the world stage by a superior sporting opponent, all signs of patriotism were flushed like a bad curry and everyone immediately forgot the words to 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.
I mentioned to England that it might be a good idea for us to visit other people for a while, just to get our heads back in the game together. England was sullen, noting that it hadn't actually had an empire in a few years, but it understood my decision and that if that was what it took for me to stay, it was prepared to make some sacrifices. I shopped around a little. Visited America. Spent some time in Germany, which I went back to a few times to really get a feel for the place. I came to the strange realisation that people in the streets of those countries were smiling, often for no apparent reason, but England assured me when I got back that this was the behavior of lunatics, terrorists and recidivists who couldn't be trusted at any cost. I had to maintain vigilance and squeal on my neighbors if I heard anything funny happening late at night, early in the morning or past four in the afternoon on Sunday.
When Tony Blair stepped down rather unceremoniously from office and paved the way for Gordon Brown to slop his unceremonious bulk into the Prime Minister's seat, I was apprehensive. I wasn't above pointing out that no democratic process I could mention had lead to this strange, grey man coming to power. I was assured that all that had happened, everything bad which had taken place over the last few years, it was all Tony's fault. He was a well-meaning villain, Gordon and England told me together, but he was not to be trusted. I should prepare a stake and be ready to tackle him in the street if he was to stray close to residential areas. At no cost was I to even mutter that I'd seen weapons of mass destruction, or Tony would be 'round my house to wreck the place looking for oil. Alright, I reasoned. His eyes are too close together and his smile makes him look like a stoat. I suppose everything could be Tony's fault and everything would be good from now on, right? People would smile in the streets, that'd be a nice change of pace.
No, no. If I was apprehensive before that was nothing compared to watching the poll results on the latest general election, my gall rising as it became obvious that for some bizzare reason the country had decided that the best way to haul itself out of a depression was to elect a pack of hyenas in blue ties, lead by a man who can best be described as a pillock. There are other terms, more offensive, but I can't any longer muster the energy to express my loathing for David Cameron with anything that takes longer to say than pillock. The observant may note that this is also roughly the amount of time it takes to say prick, knob, asshole, cunt, tossbag and willy, so you should feel free to substitute 'pillock' for whichever of those you feel most appropriate. England promised me again that everything would be okay, that I had strong, economically minded leaders who were prepared to make the hard choices to correct the mistakes that Labour had made while in power. Goodness, didn't you realise? It was all Labour's fault that we were in a mess to begin with. Gordon Brown, the grey man, was nudged from the Prime Minister's seat with little fanfare and England immediately set to pestering me about how fantastic the Basketfoot Club Ball Series was going to be this year.
I threw up my hands. On my desk there has always been a small red button under an innocuous plastic cover. It looked like something out of a nuclear submarine and that if you pressed it Abu Dhabi would immediately cease to exist in a brief, violent nuclear fire. Not so. Marked underneath it in simple white script was 'EJECT' and all I had to do was hit that button and I'd be catapulted back to New Zealand. An emergency extraction staged by my family (who will be portrayed in the movie of my life as the A-Team) to return to me to some semblance of normal life. I flicked up the little plastic cover, but I was apprehensive. This would mean travelling! This would mean quite literally relocating my life for the second time. Leaving behind my friends, familiar territory, starting from scratch.
David Cameron began his war on the EU, the Euro and the entire EEC for a 'safer, more progressive Britain' that presumably didn't include anyone that kept a beard, wore a turban or had been educated outside of Eton. I pushed the button.
Now I'm in Heathrow grappling with the internet access it's trying to offer me. I have to pay for it, of course, but I don't think that's really much of a bad thing. I have a fair few hours of flight to sit through and I'd like to have access to my Steam account in order to play some games while I'm in the air. My luck has already begun to turn. For reasons unknown it informs me dutifully that I cannot connect to the Steam network. "That's fine," I tell it, "just start in offline mode and let me access my game library." Don't be silly! You can't access offline mode without updating Steam online. Trying to wrangle the airport wifi access point I start to think I may as well try to recite the Emancipation Proclamation in reverse. In Dutch. It's okay, though, I shouldn't worry. I've got a couple of games on this venerable beast to keep me entertained. I'm sure, if I'm very careful and I ration my resources, I could even watch Star Trek for twenty three hours. I just can't get too excited or enjoy it too much or I'll want to watch the whole thing in one fell swoop and ruin my chances at entertainment. Don't you worry, though, gentle reader. I have access to Notepad, of course, so you are safe. You are provided for by my immense boredom.
I've got a camera, too. A little Sony Cyber-shot which claims to have megapixels (some) and shoot high-def video to a recommended memory card (not supplied). Here! My first picture with it.
[Actually, this is taking much too long to upload. It's just my ugly mug, anyway.]
For the moment I'm going to try and find something to eat that doesn't cost me the use of my kidneys. I'll update more throughout the trip, don't you worry, since I'm not sure that even I have the ability to play Panzer Corps for twenty three hours and find it entertaining the whole way through. I'm sure there's potential for a joke about the gravitas and severe nature of war, but... yeah, I'm wiped out. This is what you get, people, this is all I am at the moment. Do not just me too harshly for this. We're in for one long-ass ride.
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