Hi Folks,

Last time, I mentioned that I hate travelling. That’s not entirely true. I still enjoy going to different places, despite becoming more of a home bird these days. No, what I really hate, is airports.

Not all airports are made the same and, of course, everything changes. I used to really like Heathrow, but now I avoid it like the plague. Conversely, I thought Schipol was terrible, but nowadays, I don’t mind it. As for Charles De Gaulle. Well, I hope there is a special place in hell reserved for the designers of that particular hole. No, over the years I have had to spend a lot of time hanging around airports and have developed my own league table of best and worse.

Believe it or not. This is an airport. Changi In Singapore

At the top of the list is Changi in Singapore. It’s big but well thought out. Efficient and with interesting eateries, bars and shops. You can also get a good massage, enjoy a movie or go for a swim there if you are so inclined.  So Changi is No. 1 and has been for some time.

At the bottom of the list, it’s a little different. Whilst Charles De Gaulle has always been there or there or thereabouts, the absolute worst airport tends to change.  Currently sitting at the bottom is Manchester. My Airport Hell.

Manchester Terminal 2

When I used to live in N Wales, I used Manchester quite a lot. I recall a smallish but pleasant enough regional airport. Nothing outstanding, but nothing particularly bad about it. That’s changed. I wouldn’t wish a trip to Manchester Airport on my worst enemy now. It’s like descending into Dante’s Inferno.

Abandon all hope…..

I cannot comment on Terminal 1 as I don’t use it. But Terminal 2 is awful. I fly with Qatar Airways to and from there, but most of the airlines seem to be of the budget/package holiday variety. Like most modern UK airports these days, after check in, you emerge out of security into a duty-free shopping area. The difference in ManT2 is they are invariably shut. At 6.00pm in the evening.

There are a couple of bars. The Spinning Jenny and another I can’t be bothered to remember. Because it was horrible and didn’t have any beer when I tried it. The Spinning Jenny wasn’t a lot better. Big, but rather empty, I joined a queue at the bar where a solitary Barman was standing.  I have rarely seen a more bored and miserable looking individual. He obviously hated his job.

When I got to the head of the queue, he refused to make eye contact, but robotically asked what I would like. There were 4 hand-pulls nearby, one of which proclaimed it was Doombar. A personal favourite, so I requested a pint of that.

“Sorry we don’t have any”, came the response.

“But it’s just there,” I said, pointing to it.   He took a look, then reached across and turned the label around. “ Sorry it’s off”

“OK”. Next on the beer pumps was GreenKing IPA. “ A pint of that one then, please?”  Another turned label later, “Sorry it’s off too. “

” Sigh, are any of them working?” Another look. “ No,” he said. So I ordered a pint of Guinness. “ May I order some food, please?”  “ No, it’s the other till. “  “ But there’s no one there”. This earned a look before he moved to the next customer.

With no other option, I walked with my Guinness to the other till at the opposite end of the bar and stood hopefully. After a while, having finished serving his last customer, the barman looked across at me and slowly trudged down.

Again, without making eye contact, he asked what I would like. I  smiled and told him I would like to order some food. “Do you have a table number? “ “ No, you just served me a drink, then sent me here?” “ Can’t serve you without a table number. “ And he wandered off.

I walked to a nearby table, deposited my drink and case, noted the table number and walked across to the first till where he was again standing.

“ Hi, could I order some food, please? “ “Other till”.  “Seriously? “ Apparently so.  Once again I walked to the opposite end of the bar and waited. After a moment or two, he joined me there. “ Yes? “  To cut a long story short, my first 3 choices of food weren’t available. Asking him what was available led to my ordering an ‘all-day breakfast’. Whilst I waited for this to arrive, I watched the bar and its clientele. Happy smiling people, looking forward to their imminent week in the sun would arrive smiling and soon leave looking disappointed and depressed. And that’s the problem. ManT2 is a thoroughly depressing and disappointing experience. Takes some skill to manage that so hats off to Manchester.

But if you think that’s bad, try ManT3.

Manchester Terminal 3

I usually transfer from T2 to T3 and vice versa. T3 is where FlyBe whisks me up north to Aberdeen and where many Hen and Stag parties congregate before heading off to wreak mayhem and vomit in Magaluf or some such. I don’t remember it being this awful a few years ago, but as I said, things change. On the airside, the waiting area is dominated by a pub called The Lion and Antelope. Given the number of Hen and Stag do’s, irrespective of the time of day, it is always full to bursting. A few weeks ago, I decided to grab a beer there before heading to the gate. I had been sitting in the lounge for hours and there is only so much coffee I can handle. It was past midday so I felt justified in a sneaky swifty. As usual, the place was packed with revellers. The bar is quite big, but it seems common policy at Manchester to stand in a line near the till. So I joined a queue and waited patiently. The young barmaid, having finished serving the guy in front of me obviously received an important call. She turned away and pulled out her mobile and became deeply engrossed. It must have been very important because she called across two other servers and the three of them proceeded to peer intently at the little illuminated blue square. Meanwhile, I carried on waiting patiently, speculating on the nature of the call. Was it from her accountant advising a good time to update her portfolio with a great tip? WHo knows. I tried coughing gently now and again to try and attract attention. This didn’t work.

Party central. The Lion and Antelope in Terminal 3

What did work was a couple of likely lads striding up next to me and yelling, “6 pints of lager please pet”. I was astounded. Instantly the phone went away, the other two went about whatever they do and pints of lager began to be poured. I put on my best-offended look and harumphed a few times but to no end so decided, waiting patiently was probably my best bet. Soon all 6 pints were delivered. Money exchanged hands and I smiled in anticipation of my impending service. But she turned her back and pulled out her phone again. I did a quick check to make sure I wasn’t wearing an invisibility cloak and then tried throat clearing and ‘excuse me”‘ing. To no avail until another guy turned up next to me and shouted out for 2 pints of lager. Instant service again. I realised what I was doing wrong. I was being polite and standing in line. This time I yelled across, ‘Any chanced of getting a pint of beer today please?” to which the response “You’ll have to wait your turn” came back.

Always busy.

Seriously?? This comment came out in a voice that had risen an octave or two, making it a bit high pitched and squeaky. “What do you think I have been doing, other than waiting?” “Well I didn’t know you were waiting to be served,” she said, continuing, “I didn’t see you at all actually”.

“I’m 6 ft 4 and 16 stone how could you miss me?” Sadly, this is where I descended into a bit of a Basil Fawlty style rant. ” Did you think I was just standing here for the fun of it? Soaking up the beer fumes and atmosphere of despair because I’m a masochist? Or did you assume I had mistaken the bar for Gate 46 and was waiting to board the EasyJet flight to Majorca? Of course, I was waiting to be served.”

At this point, a hitherto unseen manager arrived and asked me to leave. “You can’t speak to my staff like that. I’m not having it” he advised me. My jaw dropped open, I tried to think of a cutting comeback but had nothing, so, head down, I trudged off without a word. I did glance back to see a smug-looking barmaid gurning at me. In my head, the entire airport had gone silent and everyone was watching my walk of shame. In reality, it was as noisy as hell and no one gave a monkey. But I was flabbergasted. I have never been thrown out of a pub before.

My walk of shame

I sat at a nearby Gate and rang wifey to tell her the story. I expected sympathy and outrage in equal measures. Instead, she laughed like a drain. This was the funniest thing she had heard in a long time. Suitably chastened and just a bit depressed, I wandered to the gate and pondered on the injustices of life. At least the plane was on time.

I’ll be back in Manchester T3 in a few weeks. I wonder if they will have a poster of me up in the bar – Do NOT Serve this man? Probably not, but I think I will give it a miss anyway. Perhaps Charles De Gaulle might be a better bet? And on that bombshell…..

Talk soon.

Graham