So we’re booked onto the 6:25am Saturday morning flight out of London Gatwick to Malta, only it’s dark and foggy at 4:00am and we’re having real difficulties trying to find one of those easy to find car-parks supposedly but a couple of clicks outside of Gatwick, where a bus then takes you to departures. My eyesight’s not what it was, the interior light of the car isn’t all that, and the emailed directions are in very small print. So we end up driving up and down some country lane, hoping for divine intervention, when all of a sudden she appears; a woman in her fifties, walking home with a flashlight – yes, totally alone at 4:00am. When she leans inside the car to point out where we should have turned (thank God, as we’d never have found it otherwise), it’s immediately apparent that she’s had a skinful as her fumes nearly singe my eyebrows off.
No matter, we’re quickly back on track and comfortably at the check-in desk just under two hours before our ’plane is due to depart.?Mrs. Edge is holding the folder in which she keeps our passports. Our turn next, so she puts her hand inside and….whoa! There’s only one passport.
Where is it??
Where the hell has my passport gone??
“You can’t get on without it,” says a Sleazyjet employee dressed head to foot in brilliant orange, so we are forced to miss our flight and return to the compound where we’d dumped the car, and that’s when Mrs Edge spots it, wedged between the passenger seat and the hand-brake console, so it obviously slipped out of her folder when we were twatting about trying to read those directions. Bugger!?
Still, could have been worse. We could have dropped it somewhere (anywhere) and then we’d (maybe not) never have got it
Drove back home in silence. ’Phoned Sleazyjet and agreed to pay a £100 fee (what choice did we have?) for them to get us on their evening flight, and that was pretty much that.?Only it’s like I say, that sort of thing happens to other people, not me.
My favourite night of the week for vegging is undoubtedly Wednesday. Relocation, Grand Designs, Fresh Meat – all on C4 – then bed. Lovely-jubbly. Job done.
I don’t often stray from channels 1 – 5 as (a) it’s an upbringing thing, and (b) what would I want with 164 extra channels at my disposal anyway? However, the one thing I definitely do make a point of channel-hopping for is that Idiot Abroad programme on Sky whatever-it-is, only I tell you, I have got the right raving hump with series two and reckon it’s all that Gervais clown’s fault. Series one was incredibly refreshing and off the wall, so why change a perfect formula??“We’ve got to give the viewers a little bit of something different,” I’ll bet Gervais said to the beanpole that is Merchant.
So what do they do? They make it stupider.?No, no, no, no, no….we don’t want stupider. Least The Edge doesn’t.?Quirkier, maybe. Or just as quirky as the original series will do.
Writing this, I’m reckoning that plenty of you haven’t even noticed the not so subtle differences between the two series, have you??In a nutshell, series one was more about the places being visited, whilst series two is all about being, well, dafter, and that makes it nowhere near as good.
ON SECOND THOUGHTS
Having just watched this weeks most right rivet- ing instalment of An Idiot Abroad from Alaska, maybe I was being a little harsh? And what about that snake farting the other week, eh?!?!
CHELMSFORD HIGH STREET
The Edge hears that all those naff, washed out, yellowy looking concrete floor tile things are going to be dug up and replaced throughout Chelmsford High Street by 2012.
Good, because they’re disgusting.?Lay some slabs that are aesthetically pleasing to the eye and don’t make Chelmsford look like the Basildon’s of this world.?
What’s more, make take-away outlets responsible for jet washing the grease off the floor immediately outside their premises no matter where they are situated in Chelmsford. It’s called pride.