It’s that time again. The last few grinding hours before I finally go home. The time when I drink as much beer as I can pour down my neck in order to stave off the sense of impending doom, and the guttural rejection of going back to the UK.
Monday morning, and the weather was bright and sunny. The skies were clear and blue, the air was crisp and cold, but the sun reached through it to lay a warm and gentle hand on my upturned face and closed eyelids.
Enough of the poetry, it was time to clear up the shit-tip of a hotel room. I threw out the leftover Krispbreads, 4 day old un-refridgerated spreadable cheese, blended chicken & mayonnaise filling, and a ridiculous number of coffee cups. Honestly, sometimes I look at the detritus from my existence and wonder how I am still alive.
Checking out of the hotel was not what could be described as a complex process; drop the key card in a glass jar and fuck off. Winner. I like it when things are that simple.
When I had jumped off of the flybussen on the way in to Oslo, I had quite accidentally gotten off at the closest stop to my hotel, so despite my ticket being from the actual bussterminalen (a stop further along the line) I thought I would take a chance and try getting on the bus at the same place I got off; Prof. Aschehougs plass. It was a short, bright and lovely walk from the hotel down to the bus stop, and my timing was impeccable – the bus pulled up just as I was crossing the road.
The driver looked at the ticket and waved me on board without question. I settled myself in, and as soon as I stopped moving or having something to think about, the crushing reality of going home set in. I spent the 40 minute journey to Gardermoen airport sighing wistfully, doing mental comparisons between what I could see outside the window and what I knew I was going home to.
Incidentally, have I shown you the front of my new notepad yet? I don’t think I have…
Security was just as fast and straightforward as it was through Gatwick… if a little bit uncomfortable. There was a guy in a wheelchair directly in front of me, and the staff were being helpful and friendly as his friend/carer was helping to prepare him to go through scanning. Where it got awkward as an observer was when they started detaching false limbs…
On the way through the airport, I had noticed some of the staff zipping past on scooters with what looked like big baskets on the front. I was thoroughly impressed, since I cannot imagine anyone in the UK getting that past a Health & Safety assessment.
I headed straight for the bar once I had established where my gate was; going home always requires at least one pint before I get on the plane.
It’s always interesting to do beer price comparisons, and on this occasion I paid 104NOK for 60cl, which calculates back to approximately £9.48 a pint. By no means the most expensive beer I have bought in Scandinavia, but neither was it the nicest. Also, it speaks volumes that I no longer wince when I work out the prices…
I’d like to take a moment, brothers and sisters, to talk to you about Wifi. Norwegian airlines have free wifi on their planes (or at least some of them), the flybussen has free wifi, as does Gardermoen airport. It pleases me to see how much better they understand the important things here.
It was just before 11am and I had settled myself in for a round of people watching, and thinking about how the rest of the day was going to pan out. I was fairly confident that I was going to drink enough beer to keep me content, while enjoying the process of getting from one country to another…
However, after I landed back in Gatwick, I needed to take a 2 hour train back to Bedford, followed by a 1 hour bus journey back to Northampton. Factoring in time standing around waiting for public transport, I expected to arrive back in the town centre around 6pm. I strongly suspected that once I got there, I would be so demoralised that I would end out going to the pub for a few before being able to consider heading home.
Thinking about it, my one complaint about traveling to Norway is that no carrier flies from Luton Airport anymore. Luton Airport is a couple of junctions down the M1 motorway, and takes roughly 40 minutes from my front door to drive. The first time I travelled på Norge in 2009, Ryanair operated a flight from Luton to Oslo Torp [‘Oslo Torp’, also known as ‘Not Really Oslo At All’] but these days the options are pretty much limited to one of the three main London airports.
The net result of that is either 1) a dismally long, circuitous trip there and back on public transport, 2) asking someone else to take 3-4 hours out of their day to drop me off and then the same again to pick me up, or 3) driving directly and paying extra to park at the airport. I am sure there must be an easier or quicker way, but I am yet to find it.
The time came to get on the plane and it was somewhat chaotic to say the least. It was packed full of people with lots of luggage, lots of children, and absolutely zero fucks to give. I did make an observation which I may pass on to the airline; people might have a greater sense of urgency if the cabin crew changed “Could we please ask customers, once they have found their seats, to please stand out of the aisle in order to allow other passengers to pass” to “Sit. The Fuck. DOWN.”
It always strikes me that the people on planes headed to the UK are more obnoxious, less interested in co-operating with the staff, and much much louder. I am assuming that’s because the percentage of British people is higher, and they are probably just as pleased as I am about going home.
The flight landed in Gatwick without incident, and I scuttled through the terminal and down to the train platforms as quickly as I could. I managed to get there just before the next train out to Bedford, and by 3pm I was heading home. The view out of my window was precisely as inviting as I had been expecting it to be.
The award for my favourite passenger of the trip so far goes to the incredibly well-spoken but utterly fraught woman in her mid-40’s, who was despairingly trying to negotiate better behaviour from her disdainful 9 year old daughter, whom she insisted on referring to as ‘darling’. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to strangle more, but in the end I decided it was definitely the mother.
We arrived in Bedford with me successfully avoiding assaulting anyone, almost solely thanks to this Buzzfeed article;
The bus was 20 minutes late, but that is nothing to be surprised about. I was grateful that there weren’t many people on it, but I did end out spending the last 10 minutes of the journey on High Alert.
There was an old man in a strange hat who was repeatedly leaning across the aisle to talk to a young girl who was traveling on her own, and had spent most of the trip dozing. Every time he got close to her, she physically shied away from him, and she did not look happy at all. I sat coiled, ready to pounce at the slightest indication he was about to do anything untoward. He ended out getting off the bus a couple of stops before her, and I was able to relax again. He had probably only just been being friendly, and wanting to pass the time chatting with a pretty girl, but I know too much about the dark side of life to not be cautious as a default response.
I ended out getting back to Northampton for 6:30PM, and as expected a wave of dejection washed over me. Pub time, suspend reality for a little while longer. There are two main pubs I choose to spend time in while I am in town, the King Billy and the Racehorse. Since the Billy was closest, I wandered down there.
What’s become apparent over the years is that while the Billy is great if you’re out with people or if there is a band on, it’s a bit of an odd place to be if you’re on your own, and its also bloody uncomfortable – especially if you’ve been traveling all day. I had a pint and decided to head up the Racehorse, where there was a cushioned corner that pretty much has my name nailed above it.
The Racehorse changed ownership a while ago – possibly getting on for a year even – and it is clearly steered by very different hands these days. Most significantly, it doesn’t smell like piss and manky dogs any more, which is a thing to be very pleased about. However, on a slight downside (for me at least) it’s not as alternative as it used to be. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a nice place to go, as long as you are prepared to be hassled by a variety of strange old men. It’s just…different…these days.
As I was sat there, the new flat screen TV was playing some ‘retro’ music channel. It started off as being ironically funny, but got progressively more painful as time passed; Right Said Fred, Charles & Eddie, Boyz II Men, and ending out with Emmylou Harris, Glenn Campbell and Merle Haggard & Willie Nelson. I had no idea what the actual fuck was going on, but no-one else seemed concerned and the chances of anyone changing the channel any time soon were getting more and more remote.
Just when I was starting to think that I was going to have to abandon the Racehorse too, I remembered that I had my tablet with me. Whenever I feel frustrated with life, or angry, or just low, there has always been one thing and one thing alone that will boost me out of a bad place; the Prodigy.
Some people like to feel soothed when they are upset, comforted, reassured, looked after. That doesn’t work for me. I need to feel energised, snarling, primal, battered by obnoxious basslines. The Prodigy have a mystical power over me, and can fix me when nothing else can.
Leeroy bouncing around the stage like a happy deckchair. Maxim howling, with a kilt and a gauntlet. Keith KILLING IT, wearing what looks like it might have been his Nan’s sofa in a previous life. Liam decked out in Fresian-cow-print trousers doing, well, everything else quite frankly. The tension and irritation of the day just bled out of me – I owe a good deal of my sanity over the last 22 years to this band.
Now that I am home, I have choices to make. While I fill my daily life with things that make me happy, as soon as I consider my existence in a larger context or a longer time period, I am dissatisfied with where I am. Northampton has long since gone past being a place I enjoyed living in; the things that made it good have been eroded away over time. The places I loved simply do not exist anymore. My friendship circle has moved on, grown up, left. Also, I am a different person these days and need different things out of my world. There are other places on the planet that are not only achingly beautiful, but that make me feel an inner peace that I have never experienced anywhere else.
My choices are quite straightforward, and I instinctively know the answer before I have even asked myself the question; do I wait and see how things evolve, because I am safe, and comfortable both physically and financially at the moment…or do I drive as hard as I can towards the thing I actually want, despite the discomforts it may bring?
It’s a no brainer really. I am too old to be doing the things I don’t want to do, and I am also no longer the kind of person who is prepared to just put up with things because that’s easier.
Watch this space, because shit is about to get REAL.