Flughafen Gatwick: Gott helfe mir!

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A man’s got to eat

Hier esse ich, ich kann nicht anders

Dalrymple passes through Gatwick Airport, which, he explains,

is just south of London, and is the place from which the enormously fat people of that area start out on their summer holidays.

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Early-morning repast

Different rock music

comes at you from every angle, jangling your nerves. If we must have inescapable sound, I should much prefer it to be the speeches of Kim Il-sung because they are easier to screen out of one’s ears. Announcements of special offers for fragrances exclusive to Gatwick compete with requests that passenger X go to gate 539 to join his flight to some fishing-village-on-the-Mediterranean–turned–giant-nightclub-and-drug-distribution-centre.

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Preferable to rock-music drivel

The only silent people are

the behemoths of South London grazing on their early-morning hamburgers. If Luther were alive today and a South Londoner, he would pin not ‘Here I stand, I can do no other’ to the doors of the Wittenberg Schlosskirche but ‘Here I eat, I can do no other.’

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