Grumble On.

The airport is a Cathedral of invisibility. A Dutch man shouts into my face as I walk along. He has seen his gate number and wishes to communicate this to his colourful family. His spit lands on my collar, and he's gone. 

I'm in "Vagabond", a restaurant in Heathrow where the music is very loud. I order some mayonnaise for my chips, and Susan sees the waitress deliver it to another middle-aged man in specs. He accepts it as without a glance. He's been getting free condiments his whole life. He just doesn't question it anymore. 

I step out of the way for a couple of stern Italians so they might get to their table. They do not acknowledge my polite gesture, except with a murderous, sidelong glance. I feel certain I will wake tomorrow with the smiling end of a horse on my pillow. 

People in crowds stop, spin, pull and push into me, coral and kettle me. Many of them seem unable to see me, as though my average white man vibe renders me a phantom presence. I'm middle-aged. I have grey hair and glasses. I'm average height and weight for my demographic. I look like every other gammon in the room. They're all getting my mayonnaise. 

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of slender means, must be in want of a pint, a sit down and a brood. 

I was in the Turf Tavern in Oxford, licking my lips at the prospect of a ruby-red pint of Theakston's Old Peculiar. I arrived at the bar just ahead of a middle-aged woman but  gallantly allowed her to be served before me, which she did without a smile or a thank you. She was ordering lunch for her entire family, of course and, mystifyingly, it was perhaps her first time ordering food. The cooking of steaks was baffling to her. As the server rattled off the various degrees of charring that could be applied to the meat, from "charcoal" to "blue" she asked "What's the normal way?"  The normal way of cooking a steak? I'm guessing that's medium rare but who knows? A sauce for the steak was an equally fresh experience, meaning the server had to attempt to describe the very concept of a peppercorn. For a flourish at the end of the order she added "Oh, and a bottle of red," meaning the server then had to reel off the complete wine-list. The whole transaction took ten minutes and I stood there next to her the entire time thinking "I only wanted a pint."

How is this bad service, John? C'mon mate, it's just a bit of bad luck. Well, I've tricked you, haven't I? Like a bad whodunit writer, I've held back a key character late into proceedings. There was another server standing behind the bar. I'd said hello to her, we'd made eye contact, I'd smiled, not showing my teeth so I didn't frighten her. And she continued to text for the entire time the woman next to me went on her journey of discovery into how pubs work. After her order had been completed - she paid with her phone - and I'd been standing there for ten minutes wondering if it was, in fact, me who'd been getting pubs wrong the entire time - the server put her phone down and asked, with what can only have been astonishing sarcasm - "Are you waiting?" To which I replied, disappointingly "I am, yes." "Just a drink is it?" "An Old Peculiar." And she adjusted her head in a saucy way, so I thought "Is she saying I'm old and peculiar? With my sticky up hair and glasses. Does she think I'm some dusty old queen of academe? And if so where's the respect? I bet people loved my thesis. A few people have assumed I'm local since I arrived in Oxford. Even "The Friends of Pitt Rivers" at the lecture on magic and anthropology we attended assumed we were local. I've got the local look. 

The server poured my pint but didn't handle the money - maybe she's not allowed to - but what she did do was shout "Yes love, what can I get you?" to a man who had just appeared in the bar while I was still trying to pay the other server, and the steak woman was still standing there, clutching her bottle of Rioja, all in a space the size of my bathroom. It was a cat's cradle of confusion. I took my red pint of bitter out into the empty garden, and scribbled, shoulders hunched, ink red as blood. The beer had an aftertaste of soap. But then it always does. 

Walking down the road and a couple of young white van men are cranking Elvis Presley's "Trouble" at incredible volume. I am surprised and pleased - it sounds great. I beam at them. But the lads aren't having it. One of them leans out of the van. "What you laughing at, feller?" he says in his Cotswolds burr. I didn't come back with a snappy one-liner, disappointingly. I could have said "Hey! I'm not looking for trouble, lads." But what I did was shrug awkwardly and they drove off. I cannot catch a break with my fellow man. "Let's play a record that was made thirty years before were conceived incredibly loudly in our van." "Yeah, but no fucker better smile at us doing it, right?" "No, I want no reaction at all to this counter-intuitive thing we're doing." "Yeah, anyone smiles, I'll wanna know why, mate." "Me an'all, boy. Me an'all." 

Airports are degrading, humiliating circuses of misery. At best you are a problem. More likely, you are a threat and if left unattended you may be removed and destroyed. You carry your toiletries in a clear plastic bag like a goldfish won at the fair, as you queue in stocking feet, your belt flapping in your hand waiting to be swabbed. Swabbed for what? What's on a belt? Who's cutting their cocaine with a buckle? Who is utilizing a yard of leather in their bomb factory? They make you take your belt off in prison so you can't hang yourself. Is that it? Are we suicide risks? That's one way to keep the crowds down. 

There's a Harrods in this airport. There's a Fortnum and Mason. There are any amount of high end fashion shops, places to buy expensive perfumes and watches. Nobody goes near the Penhaligon's stall the entire time we're here, so who are these shops for? Do people suddenly think they're millionaires because they're bored and trapped and near a Hermes scarf? Five minutes earlier they've been waving their midget deodorants and corn plasters about in a plastic bag, but now it's time to treat yourself to a Rolex. After all, you deserve it - you had to take your shoes off in public, so it's time to treat yourself to pickled Brussels sprouts from Fortnums. A man just made glancing contact while frisking your penis because the pins in your knee set off the metal detector, so it's time to splash the cash. 

They made me take off my glasses this time. I've never had to take my glasses off before. Is this some sort of Pol Pot ruling? People in specs are dangerous intellectuals. I swear they make this shit up. 

So I don't understand how the airport shops operate. They seem to be designed for Russian oligarchs, but they must sell enough to justify their existence. I've long suspected people were a lot richer than they let on. There are big houses everywhere - SOMEONE is living in them. They can't ALL be owned by Elton John and David Walliams. We got turned away from Pierre Victoire (PIERRE FUCKING VICTOIRE!) despite it being a wet Wednesday in November because it was rammed. People are in restaurants all the time. What for me is a rare holiday treat is just a wet Wednesday something-to-do for these jaded lotus eaters, wrapped in their Hermes scarves, staring idly at the jeweled precision of their Rolex watches. The fuckers are rolling in it. 

We booked our dinner in No 1. Ship Street two weeks in advance, and I'm very glad we did as it was one of the best dining experiences I've had in a very long time. Quiet, dark, intimate, attentive. Charming staff, unobtrusive music, delicious food. I had a Dirty Martini, Snails, Deviled Kidneys and a Beef and Game Suet Pudding.* It was like being at Greyfriars, but the waiter came over and commended me for my "classic choices". Also, he said "Thank you" each time we finished a course, which was odd, but made me feel like a good boy who had cleaned his plate. 

So there, it can happen. In rare cases, good customer service is possible, even for me. I was with Susan however. I don't know how well I would have done on my own.  I wouldn't have got through the door. She is my Bona Fides. My appropriate adult. 

*Susan had a Champagne Charlie cocktail, a pork, pistachio and pigeon terrine, duck breast, confit leg, parsnip, black cabbage and hazelnut and poached pear, vanilla almond and praline. She enjoyed it.