58
58 COLUMN CLIVE AGRAN | THE LAST LAUGH
GBD APRIL/MAY 2009
GBD MARCH/APRIL 2011
This time it’s terminal
After a lesson in conference scheduling in our last issue, Clive demonstrates just how difficult it can be to get to the IGTM expo.
International Golf Travel Market. Te reasonable man on the Clapham omnibus might have thought that by double-booking a considerable number of slots I had manufactured more than enough pre-event problems for myself. Sadly, he would have seriously underestimated my extraordinary facility for screwing up. Anyway, armed with this impossibly congested schedule of clashing appointments I made my way very early on the morning of November 15th to one of my very favourite places on earth, Gatwick Airport. Just as there are some who prefer Turnberry to St Andrews, I know that there are others who prefer Heathrow to Gatwick. Although Heathrow has the tube, Gatwick has a monorail link between terminals which, for me at any rate, gives it an enormous edge over its west London rival. If I may anticipate your next question, I much prefer the North
T
terminal to the South terminal. I think the layout is altogether more challenging, the hazards are well defined and it’s much better presented. But let’s move on because I don’t want to become a terminal bore, so to speak. Well, there I was in my
HOSE who had the stamina to plough through my last column may recall the difficulties I created for myself by compiling not one, but two diaries of appointments at the then forthcoming
it to the terminal was still in place and so I had reason to hope. With what little breath that remained in my exhausted body I pleaded to be allowed on. But the lady said no. I muttered something about how unhelpful it was to have two easyJet flights both leaving for Spain at an identical time and dragged myself away. Accompanied by an airport official, I suffered the ignominy of going
through in-bound passport control without ever having left the country. Te bad news was that there were no other flights from Gatwick to Valencia that day. Instead of sobbing uncontrollably, I bought a map of Spain from WH Smiths and did some research. Te nearest big town to Valencia is, you guessed it, Alicante, which is about 100 miles or so south. And so I grudgingly shelled out what I would normally be paid for about two-and-a-half sparkling features, hung around for five-and- three-quarter hours, ensured that I went to the right gate, eventually landed at Alicante and went through passport control for the fourth time in one day (a personal best). If you have ever seen that classic movie ‘Planes, Trains and
beloved North terminal at 5.30 in the morning with hardly a care in the world other than a slight concern as to whether my carry-on luggage would slip into that mean little device that generates billions of pounds for budget airlines. I gazed up at the departure board, noted which gate the 06.50 easyJet flight to Spain left from and wandered about for a while soaking up the atmosphere before nonchalantly taking a seat alongside my fellow passengers waiting to board. A committed democrat, I despise priority boarding and also
refuse to become involved in the unseemly scramble that follows the announcement that ‘the remaining passengers may now board’. As a consequence, I was one of the very last to present my boarding card at the gate. Concentrating on trying to appear as big as possible to create the illusion that my carry-on bag was even smaller than it was, I hardly heard the young woman in the bright orange shirt tell me that I was at the wrong gate. “Tis flight is to Alicante, your flight is to Valencia.” Suddenly losing all the composure of the seasoned traveller that I try hard to cultivate, I let rip an expletive before morphing into one of those frantic individuals you occasionally see sprinting around airports. Te two gates could hardly have been further apart and by the time
I arrived sweating at the right one, I must have run at least a mile. Tere were two ladies in orange but no passengers quietly waiting to board. Te plane was there, I could see it. And the bridge that connects
“If I may anticipate your next question, I much prefer the North terminal to the South terminal.”
Automobiles’, that was me as I caught a bus into Alicante and took a cab to the railway station. So far, not so dreadful but things were about to turn south again, literally. Ignoring what the man who sold me the train ticket said about the next train, I jumped onto what my instinct told me was an earlier one. It was but it
was heading in the opposite direction. Te guard put me right and turfed me off at the next station. Now having reached what I hope will prove to be the lowest point
of my professional life, fortune took pity on this miserable Englishman and the next train in on the opposite platform had Valencia emblazoned on the front. Just as I arrived rather late that evening at the IGTM welcome reception, a spectacular firework display commenced. Tanks everyone, nice touch. GBD
“I became one of those frantic individuals you occasionally see sprinting around airports.”
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