Spewing Boris (Post 1)

If the phrase “start as you mean to go on” was enshrined in International Law, I probably wouldn’t even have reached Vientiane.

For various reasons, it was decided that I should reach Heathrow on the Bus link from Woking airport. I was assured that this was a fantastic service, with buses running smoothly every 30 minutes. I stood outside Woking station for about fifty minutes until I was informed that no bus had been seen for over three hours. Overreacting somewhat, I jumped into the nearest taxi that was heading for Heathrow, sharing my journey with a panicked Swedish couple who had just over an hour to catch their flight. I glanced at my watch expecting to be overwhelmed with dread as my Planes departure time loomed. It was 4:20 in the afternoon. My flight was at 9:30. Even by my own very punctual standards, this was slightly over the top.

I don’t think I have ever had such a lengthy conversation with anybody about ‘Boris Bikes’ as the one that I reluctantly exchanged with my new Swedish friends. I carefully recited to them the little-known fact that these were public bicycles introduced to London by Boris Johnson. Unfortunately, 20 seconds is clearly not a worthy conversation length in Sweden, as the conversation continued to an uncomfortable extent. Attempting to change the topic onto Politics, a topic on which I could at least hold a conversation, I discovered to my horror that my taxi chums had no knowledge of this, and no desire to be enlightened, unless I arranged my Political discourse around Boris Bikes. Compared to that conversation, my lengthy stay in Terminal 2’s departure lounge was much less arduous. Thinking back, I wondered if my Scandinavian posse realised that I knew next-to-nothing about Boris bikes, or whether Boris-esque, I had managed to alleviate their raging desire to find out something that I knew absolutely nothing about. There’s a mayoral election soon…

I actually really enjoy airports; I fully intend to include them as part of my ‘travel experience’ and I thoroughly investigate each one I visit. Heathrow Terminal 2 was a dream: Bangkok, not so much.

Please don’t get me wrong, Bangkok Suvarnabhumi is a very nice airport with a vibrant atmosphere and plenty to see and do (I’m hoping they’ll sponsor my blog) however this was not something I could particularly enjoy upon arrival.

I’m going to quickly interject with an embarrassing story of the only time I have ever been sick on a plane. It’s summer 2012, and one of my Dad’s best friends has agreed to take me up for a stunt flight over the Surrey hills in his Tiger-moth aircraft. I was buzzing- quite unlike a tiger or a moth- as we corkscrewed and loop-the-looped over beautiful countryside, with the wind rushing in my hair and face. Upon landing though, my elation very turned into nauseous retching. Unable to see what was in front of me, we bounced around on the un-tarmaced runway. My stomach felt like a washing machine that had been put on to ‘spin’ whilst recovering from a hangover.

A Tiger-moth plane is very small, with the two passengers sitting one in front of the other. My Dad’s friend had chosen to pilot the plane from the seat behind me, meaning that he had to lean either to his left or his right, in order to see how he should be steering. My stomach had already given up and gone home and I had a decision to make: left or right?

The pilot could already sense something was wrong as I had been very chirpy during the flight, but was now not responding over the headset for fear of coating the microphone with a half digested sandwich. I could hear his very clipped accent through my headphone, concerned, “Harry, Is everything ok?”

I had to make the decision, left or right!

“Harry?”

I chose right! Bad move.

“Harreeuggghhh.”

It turned out that I had emptied the contents of my stomach all over My Dad’s friend, and all over my Dad’s friends little plane. To his credit, he still recounts the incident with a smile!

From Surrey to Thailand, I could no longer claim that this was the only time I had ever been sick on an aircraft. Flowing with coffee and orange juice during the 12 hour flight, my stomach surrendered to turbulence like a French snail when confronted with a lebensraum-seeking thrush. In fairness, I expertly caught the escaping volume in a bag. Unfortunately, Thai airways had severely underestimated the copious amounts of coffee and orange juice that I had drunk, and the bag welled over like the moment you forget to pour coke into your glass gently…

I assessed the damage. To my huge relief I seemed to have expertly targeted my thighs, with very little collateral damage. That relief was soon fully purged when I realised that all my changes of clothes were sitting in the hold awaiting my connection flight. I have never known nightmares to smell as bad as this one did.

Deciding that the best plan of action was to pursue a policy of total denial, I covered the stains by wearing my satchel in such a way that it completely concealed the offending areas from the front. I got off the plane, walking with my legs splayed as if I was about to engage in an epic wild-west duel. I wasn’t, I was just just trying to avoid the chafing, but nobody else would ever have guessed that.

Picture this, a small, remarkably tanned (and freakishly handsome) young Englishman, heroically striding through the plush labyrinth that is Bangkok Suvarnabhumi Airport with an awkwardly placed satchel. Midway through his journey, watch him begin to grimace as he realises that his awkwardly placed satchel is hopelessly incapable of concealing odours. Notice how he turns around and heads towards the clothing shops that judgementally await people like him.

I desperately turned Bangkok airport upside down in order to find a cheap pair of trousers do don for the rest of my journey. I failed, and arrived in Vientiane, exhausted but clean, with a new pair of Polo Ralph Lauren Chino’s and a big hole in my Bank account.

Oh how I love travelling.