It’s just after 5.00 am and I’ve arrived at Adge Cutler International Airport (Bristol) to deposit a group of young men, including two who happen to be related to me, and are taking the Costa Brava plane y viva España, or something like that, for a stag weekend for one who is related to me. And it’s busy. Long before we arrive, my SatNav is warning of congestion near the airport but by the time we arrive the congestion is merely inside the airport grounds. Once inside the drop off zone I have ten whole minutes to drop the boys off in order to avoid the already rip off price of £6 becomes £8. I make it with about two minutes to spare. On a Thursday morning, this is fucking mad.
The boys are on the 6.55 am flight to Gerona, the 21st flight of the morning. Before 8.00 am there are 37 flights leaving the airport and a further 90 during the rest of the day. It is absolutely wild. Sitting in the gridlock, watching the mice in their million hordes, as David Bowie might have put it, it is blindingly obvious that Adge Cutler International is way too small. Anyone who has ever taken a morning flight will know it’s true.
Driving from South Gloucestershire to North Somerset just as the dawn is breaking is actually a decent, refreshing experience. After 7.00 am, you move at glacial speed. Before, the M32 in particular resembles the road on which Parker drives Lady Penelope. It’s nearly deserted. I have to make a point of staying alert because my brain is still telling me I should be asleep. I’m semi-disconnected but I note very quickly that some drivers, particularly one woman who cut me up quite badly on a roundabout, seem wholly disconnected.
I should not be surprised, really. Back in the day, when I was a fraud investigator for the DWP, I’d be out and about by 5.00 am most days. The dawdlers would be out in force, but so would the company car racers, always Audis and BMW wankers, who would be undertaking and overtaking at great speed, in cars that didn’t appear to be fitted with indicators. They were all out this morning, too. How did these people pass their driving tests?
I drive a bit like Mr Bean these days. It’s not just that I want to avoid a speeding ticket, although I obviously do, I just can’t be bothered to drive quickly. It’s just so stressful and frankly at my age I don’t need any additional stress. Instead, I allow extra time for my journey. It’s so simple, I do wonder why so many of these early morning nut cases don’t do the same? However, just because I try to stick to speed limits, not everyone does the same. Instead, I am regularly tailgated, something I used to find a little uncomfortable before I hit upon the bright idea of slowing down even more when that happened and smiling at them when they finally accomplish a reckless overtaking manoeuvre, gnashed teeth, face bright red and, on a good day, shouting at me. Mission accomplished, job done.
As I neared home, I had a momentary lapse of reason and willpower and found myself at MacDonald’s, ordering a large sausage and egg McMuffin meal at barely 5.45 in the morning. This is not a regular ‘thing’ for me, rather a guilty pleasure, and while I do understand that in health terms my meal was roughly the equivalent of a packet of cigarettes, sometimes you just have to do it. Home again, I munched my way through my ultra processed meal with mixed emotions. Fuck me, that was nice but I really should have had some fresh fruit with 0% fat yogurt. Maybe, actually definitely, tomorrow.
That’s the airport run for you. I’ll be there again on Sunday, but during the evening, quite possibly in a car packed with sick bags. People have asked this: why aren’t you on your son’s stag weekend? And my answer is simple: are you kidding? I’d be going to bed at roughly the time they’d be going out. There would be nothing more pointless. I’ll do what other old people do. Get a cup of tea and a biscuit.
What do I do next? I’ve been up for nearly four hours already and it’s barely 8.00 am. At some point, the answer will be to fall asleep. I’ve enjoyed it though, despite the Audi and BMW wankers and the ultra processed breakfast. For now, the boys will be able to ‘chat a matador, in some cool cabaña but not meet señoritas by the score, España por favor’, because they’re all spoken for.
Hasta la vista, baby.
