A Luton Intolerance - Thursday, June 23rd

A 4:40am alarm roused me to the inevitable and painfully familiar journey to Luton airport. Unfortunately at this time of day the only reasonable way to get there is on a coach. A mode of transport so fickle,  untrustworthy and cruel that if it were a person, it would have been jailed before puberty. 

The last time I entrusted my airport journey to a coach they not only decided to change the company driving us half way but also unapologetically added an hour and a half to the schedule. How this kind of willing stupidity can happen on a route that is so nakedly time sensitive is beyond my reasoning. But then again, today is the the day of the EU referendum vote, and 50% of the country are considering leaving it. Reason has taken an extended leave of absence. 

But not quite as unreasonable as entrusting your airport journey to a coach. The driver was merciless, turning people away with the kind of gusto reserved for drunken chancers trying to get into The Box on a Friday night. 'Good', I thought. 'I'll back him to get us there on time'.

At the coach station the morning air hung close and hot after a night of heavy, foreboding storms. The atmosphere held an unexpressed, furious energy that made you bones ache and gifted our 5am coach party with a ruddy sheen of perspiration. 

Once en route, the heavens finally vented their frustrations and another storm of biblical proportions broke. Immediately, the accidents began. Every motorway sign seemingly warning us of approaching scenes of disaster, and all it's associated traffic. I hadn't really budgeted for this loss of time and was, predictably, aging just a little bit faster thanks to a coach journey. 

Amazingly, none of the seemingly endless succession of rain induced accidents seemed to produce traffic. But Luton had another Ace up it's sleeve. As soon as we pulled off the motorway the traffic was all there. A shit ton of it. 
"So, what do you think?" I try and sit at the front coaches to get the live delay forecast from the driver. 
"30 minute delay. Maybe more." Came a depleted, emotionless response. 

30 minutes wasn't acceptable. Not on my truncated timetable. 
"I've got a shortcut." Came the rather surprising follow up from the driver. 

Soon we were weaving through the lesser roads of Luton town. A tacit reminder of what career failure really means. It was a rat run worthy of some sort of medal. Or at least a kindly tweet. We made it with a 15 minute delay. A National Express record. 

There was a time when a journey through Luton was enviable. Thanks to a limited schedule of charter flights, it had nonexistent queues and was often a virtual ghost town.

Sadly those halcyon days are long gone. Luton airport entered into a Faustian pact with easyjet and Ryanair and the place now makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like a week end spa getaway. 

It would be just about bearable if they had decided to expand the airport and it's accompanying transport links first. But greed is a cruel mistress and the airport is now at 120% capacity, all the time. So now you must essentially wait in a line for over two hours to get to your uncomfortable but gratifyingly cheap flight. 

At the airport train station there is a long line to get the airport bus transfer. Once you've made it onto the bus you are immediately thrust into a traffic jam that could (and I've checked this) be walked faster. If you haven't already missed your flight when you arrive then you are in store for yet another endless queue for bag drop and then, of course, there's security. Just when you are about to give up all hope, you notice the added cruelty of a coin operated machine that dispenses plastic bags for liquids. Sheer barbarism. 

At this point most sensible people would turn around and go home. If you do brave it through then you are gifted further indignities. The 15 minute queue for the ladies loo being probably the most pained on offer. I can only make bashful eye contact and feign empathy as I saunter to the gents. 

Shuffling listlessly to the gate, I was passed by at least half a dozen unfortunate souls, frantically weeping at having succumbed to one too many of Luton's demonically curated waiting points. I'm quite certain they will be forced to queue for at least half an hour in order to leave Luton. A final little fuck you from the worst airport in the world. 

Boarding was smooth (yes, another queue) and I could finally sit down and ask myself why the hell I'm going to Iceland for a long week end. I'd like to say it was a means of escaping the EU referendum. Sadly I'm not that organised and it's merely a fortunate coincidence. 

The truth is altogether more prosaic. During a particularly quiet Friday at work I'd read about a half marathon that takes place at midnight on the longest day of the year. This seemed like an opportunity too good to pass up (and a good piss up). Iceland had been on the bucket list for some time and here was as good of an excuse as any. 

Save for the run, I have absolutely no concrete plan for my four days here. I scoured the Couch Surfing app for friends but it turns put that all the fun young people are watching the football in France. Over 10% of the country in fact. I only pray that means less queuing. 

So instead I've agreed to hitchhike around the island with a fellow runner who got in touch with me via the Couch Surfing app. 

Bernat Riera, from his pictures and bio at least seems like a charming and amiable Spanish engineering student. He's on a three month trip around Europe post exams and has a tent and one free sleeping space. I wonder how many other people he propositioned before yours truly unwittingly agreed to this glaringly idiotic venture. 

He does, at least, have solid reviews from fellow tent guests that don't contain any veiled references to attempted rape. So, I'm quietly confident. But all I have is his Couch Surfing mail. Neither of us felt like being organised enough to exchange numbers.  

So all I can do for the time being is hope that it works out. It always works out in the end. Doesn't it?