Gatwick Airport -- Welcome to Hell!

Of course, travelling is far better in the 21st century, isn't it? Secure and free from swarthy gunmen diverting one's flights from safe, civilised Miami to the dangerous unknowns of Cuba. Today, you do this . . .

You arrive at the bustling modern airport at the crack of dawn having arisen at an ungodly hour to meet your taxi. Dragging all your worldly goods you make your way to your airline's check-in desk only to find with a sinking heart that 2,757 people with seven times as many suitcases have made it before you. So, because this is your holiday of a lifetime, you cheerfully join the line. First that way for ten minutes. Then the opposite. Then back that way. Repeat. And again. Finally, your papers are processed. You wave goodbye to your worldly goods trundling seemingly of their own volition down conveyor belts into the darkness.

Confused, neck stretching for helpful signs, you join the walking dead to the next choke point. Another check of your papers. Machine, not unsmiling human, this time. Passport face down. Gates explode open. You move forward checking that your travelling companion is similarly freed. More snaking lines. Divest yourselves of your remaining property: much-needed medications in a clear plastic bag; treasured electronics in a plastic tray; half empty backpack containing emergency underwear in another! The Camp Commandant parades up and down the other side of another set of rollers. "Put your feet on the yellow footprints! No! Do not put your tray on the conveyor belt! Wait for my instruction!" You look around trying to find clues to the behaviour least likely to offend. A sign warns that if you fail to present yourselves to the machines in the correct way, "You vill be punished!". Too late you realise you placed your Kindle ON TOP OF YOUR TABLET in the tray. Sure enough, you watch the automatons clunk and shuffle your belongings further into another mechanical dimension, protected by another layer of blast-proof glass.

The Nazi horror is not yet over. As you shuffle towards the arch another Camp Commandant points imperiously at your waist and feet. Off comes your belt. Off comes your shoes. Back to the conveyor belt. Back to the arch. And, yes, just bloody yes, the arch pings anyway. So you are now spread-eagled in full view of the rest of humanity wondering if he's going to check your fillings. You try and reclaim your variously disassociated bits of property, clothing and dignity. One piece is in the hands of a young evangelical who fixes you with an accusing stare: " Are there any sharp objects in this bag?" You bite back the obvious retort. Remember the sign, "You vill be punished". Eventually you escape, sweating with the simultaneous need to dress yourself and reclaim all your stuff before the next pile of property clatters through.

Again, your fellow walking dead shuffle towards the only logical destination. And, Lo!, it is a yellow-brick road, winding through a glittering array of drugs and potions (all of which could be bought far cheaper in the High Street but would be confiscated by the Camp Commandant) while a host of well turned-out servitors wait to pounce on those unwise enough to hesitate and point: thus the economically naive are culled from the herd.

Finally, you emerge into a larger space. On each side are white-painted chipboard panels badly hiding open ducts and hanging entrails of electrical circuitry. An occasional worker stands around wearing a bright yellow safety hat. No head protection for you, so you hurry away looking for some small space of comfort. Ah! You espy a familiar sign. A jolly Weatherspoons. At last, an Inn at the end of a long, harrowing road. Safety, and maybe some refreshment you hope. But as you clamber over too-small spaces filled with families and far too may bags of cabin luggage you wonder why the Tie Rack or Harrods franchises don't seem to have this problem. You make it to the bar and queue in an extremely undignified fashion amongst other muttering, shuffling, pushing clientele. At the other side of the bar a gaggle of foreign students with crisp white blouses bustle around on indefinable tasks that, quite clearly, have nothing to do with serving you a single BLOODY BEER!

Realising again that, at your age, this is not doing your blood pressure any good, you leave, gently pulling your wife away from the throat of a pretty young girl who isn't old enough to know that she needs something solid between her and her beloved customers. Unusually, you find a sort of faux-cafe that serves alcohol and well-overpriced sandwiches with empty, if not exactly clean, tables. You approach the bar daring to hope. An unsmiling young Bulgarian serves you a Bacardi and Coke and a pint of Brahma beer. You are not sure what the latter is but accept it in a spirit of relief. "That will be £18". No "please". No wonder he wasn't smiling. You return to your table with your hard fought-for drinks thinking, "this is going to have to last for a bit".

Eventually, mercifully, your gate number is called. A long, very long, walk down an interminable tunnel with broken mechanical walkways leads you to your departure gate. You notice your fellow travellers, mainly because you are forced to sit knee-to-knee. They all have the air of those sitting in a police station having been recently mugged.

And you know this is just the beginning of a long, long, long flight in this century's equivalent of John Glenn's 1950's orbital capsule.

Oh, I just love looking forward to my holidays!