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.
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.
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.’