Land of the potato faced men

by awindram

Landing at Heathrow today, I could swear the airport itself was trying to gently ease me back into Britain. “Look,” it seemed to be saying, “things haven’t changed so much since you left in 2007.” Indeed, the same posters for The Lion King musical that have been greeting visitors for the last 12 years or so were there, and as I emptied my bowels and bladder on British soil for the first time in some time, the forgotten  sound of a Dido hit from the mid-noughties was piped through the tanoys. All that horrible newness – the rise of both Michael MacIntyre and UKIP – could wait. “Indulge,” Heathrow said. “Have an elderflower cordial and buy yourself a copy of Viz? Enjoy some comforts from home you normally never get to enjoy, because a few more minutes home and you’re going to start noticing how many British men have heads like soft boiled potatoes – and that’s going to make you self-concious about your own head – and it own spuddiness – for the rest of the day.”

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