feeling much better.
I stood up, and cowering behind me in a corner of the cubicle was a revolted Miss Palmer - vomit staining her shoes and the cuffs of her culottes.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, pointed to the vomit and said, “There’s your fuckin’ strawberries.”
CONTACT WITH REALITY
Emerging from the darkness of the longhaul limbo, I found myself staring out the window at a dim and watery sky (Doreen didn’t want the window seat), and was suddenly aware of a green and watery landscape below. It was 5.10 p.m. local time - mid Autumn. The sun was still a while off but the predawn light revealed a landscape that would have had Turner and Constable duelling at dawn for the right to commit to canvas.
We landed in a cold drizzle. The first class passengers were first to leave the plane - a privilege bitterly resented by the losers in business class, but those crammed into economy were largely ignorant of the slight. Doreen and I walked quickly, trying to beat both the cold and our fellow passengers to Customs.
I had intended to have a go at the dark-faced stranger, but he never rejoined the plane in Bangkok. The red-haired hostie, however, was back to wave goodbye as we left the plane.
“Goodbye, Mr Judd,” she said with an evil grin. “I trust you enjoyed first class as much as the loud, drunken Glaswegian enjoyed business.”
“Loud, drunken Glaswegian?”
“Yes,” she clarified. “The loud, drunken Glaswegian who was upgraded to seat 4B after you were upgraded to first class. Miss Palmer found his company … unrelenting, shall we say?”
I was still laughing as we made our way through the terminal to locate Customs.
Quickening our step around a couple of corners, I was expecting to be at the head of the queue, but ours obviously wasn’t the only plane landing at Heathrow that morning. The Customs queue stretched forever - winding back and forth for fucking kilometres.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I muttered under my breath, causing Doreen to giggle. Once again, I was reminded of the difference between uptight Shona and other more sane and relaxed women.
Slowly we shuffled, surrounded by hordes of immigrants, or so I presume, because the Customs people were taking their time about letting them through. Time and again some family from India or Africa would get to the front of the line, be surrounded by all available officials and then shunted off to a holding bay for special scrutiny. All of which took time.
I did manage to get one bloke’s attention and asked if there was a fast lane for Commonwealth citizens, but his stiffly bureaucratic answer was like listening to a lecture from a referee. Those bastards know they hold all the cards.
If anything, Doreen seemed amused by my impatience, smiling and giggling at my every whimper and snort of annoyance. And before I knew it even I was amused. Doreen was a calming influence and I found myself regretting the fact that our shared adventure was about to come to an end.
Finally, I was directed to a counter and handed over my shiny new passport.
“Your reason for entering the United Kingdom?”
“Erm … football.”
The fellow looked up at me.
“You wish to attend a football match?”
“Heaps of football matches. I’m here to join Manchester United.”
The fellow threw his head back and laughed.
“Course you are, mate!”
He stamped the passport and said, “Right, Tourist visa. Not to work in Britain and must be out of the country within six months, yeah?
Enjoy your stay.”
I collected my passport and hefted my backpack. Six months? That meant I’d have to be out of the country by April. Well, the Cup Final’s in May. No doubt the United staff would be able to sort that out.
* * *
Four hours later, I was sitting on a British Rail train at Euston Station, bound for Watford, Rugby, Birmingham and Manchester. I was still wearing my Man United shirt, which was more than a tad whiffy after approximately 30 hours. But start out as you mean to finish, I always say.
Doreen and I had parted ways after collecting our luggage. She was being picked up by her friend Gina. It felt strange saying goodbye. We just sort of stood there for a while with our bags around us, avoiding eye contact. I felt like asking for a phone number or something, but I didn’t really know her status. Come to think of it, I didn’t really know my own status. Had I broken up with Shona, or were we simply separated by half the planet and different universes?
In the end, Doreen pressed something into my hand, pecked me on the cheek, swept up her bags and was gone. In my hand was a card:
Doreen Bender BA (hons) MSc (Music)
Musicologist
I’d never been terribly internet savvy, but I recognised an e-mail address when I saw one, and vaguely wondered whether she had to be in Australia to receive an e-mail, or whether I could reach her in England.
Anyway, that could wait. I was still in a bit of a daze from jet lag and alcohol, but began to take note of my surroundings. England was similar to Australia, but also very different. Everyone spoke English, but it was a strange English - the language of football, I decided, and found myself grinning. I was here! I was actually here in England. The home of football. And it was Saturday.
I’d managed to pick up a couple of newspapers and couldn’t believe how much was devoted to the game; the back eight pages in The Sun and the back twelve pages, plus the front page in the Daily Mail. You’d get half a page, six pages in from the back in Australia. This was fuckin’ paradise.
The front page of the Daily Mail was concerned with rising football violence which, largely buried since the 1980s, seemed to be making a return. Jeez, but even that was something to be proud of - in a way. I mean, at least they give a shit.
At that moment, I was disturbed by a bit of a commotion out on the platform. Two young blokes in Manchester United shirts bolted along the platform, weaving among the alarmed bystanders. Then three more United fans followed suit, pursued by about twenty thugs, most of whom were wearing Chelsea shirts.
Ten seconds later, a couple of police appeared, chasing after the Chelsea boys and shouting into walkie talkies.
Yep. At least they give a shit.
* * *
Half an hour into the journey I suddenly felt thirsty so decided to head for the bar car.
As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with a wave of singing. It was hard, at first, to pick out the words but the tune was Teddy Bears’ Picnic. About 50 United fans were clustered around the bar and, gradually, I was able to make out the words: If you come down to the Stretford End You’d better not come in
