Homeward Bound - Sunday

‘We just have three more pick-ups then I’ll be back to you in forty minutes with details of your check-in desk.’ Chirrups the annoying, tubby Newcastle girl, who only knows a lot of Greek because she’s shagged half the resort waiters in the last six months. We’re on the coach home and already I’m stressed. I’m still not sure the driver put both cases on board the bus, which could be a mixed blessing as I’ve a feeling we might be a bit overweight on baggage, as well as personally. The all-inclusive package majored on quantity not quality, but if it’s available…

‘Glad we didn’t stay there.’ I say to my wife, as the coach stops outside a budget option, with rooms on to the main road. She shushes me in disapproval. Apparently I have volume control issues. Something to do with pool water in both ears and playing my iPod at high volumes to drown out any chance of conversation with fellow guests wanting free, no obligation valuations on a home 2,000 miles away. I watch, as a hot and stressed chavvy family of five climb on the bus – not that I’m judgemental. The squealing kids are high on sugar and the tattooed parents look half-pissed. The wife is wearing an unflattering crop-top, showing a vast stomach with a pierced belly button that might prove challenging at security. The oafish-looking father of at least one of the kids, judging by the noses, is sadly sporting an England football top. It makes you want to give up.

‘Gate five, enjoy your flight home.’ Chimes Geordie Shore, as I think endure, more like. The big-arsed girl exits stage left with a swarthy-looking driver named Spiros. They clearly have time, or something, to fill before the next incoming flight. I grab the bags and start limping as fast as I can towards the appointed gate.

‘There’s no point in hurrying,’ says my wife annoyingly. ‘You can’t beat the system.’ God, I hate it when she’s right.

Needless to say the family of five future claimants are right behind us in the check-in queue. One that moves at a sloth’s pace, for the next forty minutes, while the youngest budding My Fat Gypsy Wedding starlet, whacks my ankles with one of those ubiquitous ride on cases the Dragons' Den moguls turned down. And they say travel broadens the mind.

‘Can you drink any more?’ Asks my wife, as we halt outside the scanners and join the undignified queue of quaffers all necking as much water and fizzy soft drink as they can hold, before being forced to bin all liquids. There’s a small mountain of unopened cans and bottles being harvested by a sly-faced cleaner. I fully expect to see, spookily similar items on sale at five times the price, just fifteen yards past the x-ray machine. The stress is building and that’s before the inevitable pat down by a vast Cretan with body odour and halitosis, after I set off the scanner buzzer despite having stripped to little more than my underpants and a t-shirt. I swear that back surgeon left some sort of surgical instrument in there somewhere. I should sue, like everyone else.

‘Nothing worthwhile in duty free.’ Reports my wife as I hop back and forth, guarding the bags but desperate for a piss after drinking several litres of water in short order. ‘It’s all a bit overpriced.’ She continues. Like the London property market then, I think, as I leave her with the hand luggage and check out the grim Greek plumbing for the last time. Look, I’m not putting the toilet paper in an adjacent flyblown bin, no matter how many languages you put the sign in. You’re in the EEC now - sort your sewerage out.

‘We have a zero tolerance policy for disruptive behaviour.’ Warns the camp cabin steward, seconds before announcing the ninety-minute air-traffic delay. Then the five-year old kid with a nose stud, sitting behind, starts kicking my seat.

Five and a half hours of coughing, sneezing, seat battering and incipient deep-vein thrombosis later – the knee length socks with shorts are best kept to the imagination – we plunge into a murky Gatwick airport.

I need a break.

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All Too Typical - Monday

‘I’d rather you go in first.’ Says lettings lush B as she pauses on the doorstep of the flat with the dodgy tenants. She’s given the requisite notice to inspect but as they haven’t paid rent for three months and the chavvy woman in the flat opposite - who is still watching us - has told us they are long gone, I’m not expecting a welcome.

‘Cautiously, I move forward, heart pumping audibly in my chest. I’ve had a few punches thrown at me, and several pieces of office furniture, but usually there’s a bailiff when we’re taking possession of properties. Obviously it looks better for the company if male members of staff get assaulted, and they only pay for rape alarms for the women, but I feel pretty vulnerable.

‘God knows what you’ll find in there.’ Says the fat neighbour with a hint of glee. Her mewling baby is demanding a feed and the dead-eyed toddler is tugging at her tracksuit bottoms for attention, but she’s too busy watching the show to take any notice. No sign of either of the Dads.

‘Ugh, what’s that smell? Asks B throatily. A stench of something decaying has almost physically assaulted us as I swing the door open to reveal a dank hallway full with black plastic bin bags. A big bluebottle zigzags towards the light and not for the first time I wish I’d paid more attention at school.

‘They’re dirtbags.’ Suggests the neighbour disdainfully and for a horrible moment I think she’s referring to the plastic liners slumped ahead of me. It wouldn’t be the first time my day turned into a bag of shite. But I realise she’s referring to the late, none to lamented, tenants.

‘I’ve had to call the police, the social and environmental half a dozen time.’ Moans the woman as I think uncharitably, they’ve probably got your number too love. ‘You lot shouldn’t let scum like that rent in here.’ Continues supermum as the toddler starts to whine about missing a Peppa Pig episode. There’s a sty here you can wallow in kid.

‘Who’s going to clear up all the mess?’ Persists the woman as the baby paws at her ample breasts and my stomach churns unpleasantly. I’m just waiting for her to ask about compensation but B shoves me inside the hall and pulls the door shut. ‘Fat slapper.’ She spits ungraciously. B’s never been called fat as far as I’m aware but a pot, kettle, black line runs through my head until I see the kitchen and much darker cooking utensils.

‘Oh terrific.’ Moans B surveying the detritus. The hob has several months’ worth of spillages baked onto the enamel and the work-surfaces are covered in unwashed crockery and saucepans. By one of the gas rings I can see the remains of home made baking of some description. I’m no expert, but a tarnished spoon, some tin foil and half a dozen spent matches doesn’t look like they’ve been cooking cupcakes.

  

‘Junkies. I knew it.’ Says B gloomily. ‘Who the hell are we going to get to clear this mess up? The Polish guys have gone home and nobody local will touch this place for sensible money.’ She has a point. The flat needs stripping, disinfecting and redecorating before any new tenants can be shown round. I have a feeling group legal will be getting involved.

‘This is what you get if you give low-life’s free accommodation and drug money.’ Rails B in a Daily Mail moment.’ God, she’s got it worse than me. From bitter experience I look to the fridge. Yep. It’s been unplugged.

‘Watch where you tread, there might be needles again’ I advise B, as I decide not to open the grubby Electrolux door. The maggots will wait. I’m just here to make sure B isn’t assaulted, other than her nostrils.

‘God.’ Groans B looking into the bathroom in disgust. ‘The water must be off. The toilet bowl looks like that rainy festival when I had to have a dump in the chemical loo. There were things in there nobody should be excreting.

‘I f***ing hate humanity.’ Says B - ahead of me for the first time.

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