London is basically a zoo of boxed-in human beings, the majority of whom are boil-in-the-bag chefs for chain pubs, that claim to be right on the verge of becoming the next big DJ/actress/entrepreneur. Conscious that delusion can be the first sign of psychosis — the type often found in caged animals — the government has has deemed it prudent to invest billions of pounds a year subsidizing public spirited local businesses such as Ryanair and Cheesy SleasyJet to make millions of pounds, by taking Londoners to Ibiza or Goa so they remember what it is was like "being wild".
Owned and operated by the type of people that have a talent for crippling efficient procedures with extremely stupid ideas, travel companies advise passengers going abroad to arrive at Heathrow airport at least two days early, to guarantee they will make the flight on time. Heathrow has 5 Terminals that are miles apart, with no indication of which approach road goes to which terminal — until after entering the one-way system for terminal 1. At that point you either say "sod it" and park there anyway, or be ejected back out onto a grid-locked M25 one junction after the one you needed, and now have to go to Watford and back to start over.
Finding a parking space is not a problem at terminal 1, however management have placed tiny lifts, travelators and styles (of the type that stop horses going on roads) from the car park to the building. One family of four and about half their bags fill the lift, which is preferable to attempting the assault course of styles, rotating doors and escalators, all too small for anything other than a wicker basket. Baggage trolleys adorn the front of the terminal, ready to ease the load of the holidaymaker, if only they would fit through the entrance barriers.
Terminal 1, as with all the other terminals, seems extremely chaotic. This is because it is. Passengers are often lulled into a false sense of security by the apparent calm of the smartly dressed assistants. Behind the scenes, Heathrow staff sit in a darkened ante room staring at the wall, quietly crying, popping Prozac, and wondering whether there is a worse place to work on earth.
It will take you 24h or so to get to the right terminal from terminal 1, and should one be unlucky enough to park by the arrivals hall, there will be about six miles of angry people stood in check-in queues to scythe through, before getting to any of the galactically overpriced refreshments on offer. After checking-in, emptying your bags and undressing, then dressing and re-packing again, it will be almost standing room only from here to the gate, only another four miles away.
Conveniently located in the cultural centre of Europe, Sluton is painted orange in recognition of its location below sea level and twinned with Athens - the birthplace of Stelios el-Haj-IOU, the Cypriot Muslim inventor of debt.
Built on the site of an ancient temple dedicated to the devil Arctophilos. Initial construction efforts were hampered by the discovery of the corpses of millions of sacrificed stuffed bears in mass graves surrounding the temple. After the first two concrete roofs collapsed due to ground subsidence caused by the stuffing compacting, it was decided to cover the rubbish unloading area with a large raft-like tent structure supported on steel poles instead.
In 1982 East-End Dustman and retired naval Captain Harry Gee purchased rubbish collection Licence Number P728 (tipping its hat to the Philippine fertilizer scam) from the council, authorising him to set up business in a dock on the Thames, placed downstream from London to allow flushing of the rubbish into the sea.
Founded 50 years ago by a flock of goats in response to the efforts of the herd of sheep at Dheathrow as an effort to offset their monopoly on large grazing areas around London.