Well, this is stupid. If you buy two packets of Galaxy Minstrels it's £1.75 but if you a get a share size bag, it's £1.70. The packets are 42 grams each, so that's 84 grams between two, but the share bag is 170 grams. 170 grams! That's 86 more grams, for five pence. If I was actually going to buy any Minstrels I might say something.
Christ! I'm bored. Christ! Airports are boring. You'd think somewhere full of jets and metal detectors and policemen carrying guns would be more exciting but ... Jesus! I've not been this bored since that f****** Guardian Q and A. I guess I could have a walk around F terminal. I know I said I'd save it until Monday but I'm gonna die if I don't do something soon. Go on, Edward, spoil yourself.
Man, what a crap terminal. It's not like The Terminal, is it? There's not even a Catherine Zeta-Jones around for me to f***. Unless there is. Maybe I'll bump into one later and we can have coffee and talk about, I dunno, planes or turbulence or something. Or maybe I could tell her I'm a spy. I am sort of, like, a bit of a spy now. I'm on the run from the NSA, hiding out in Russia. If I had a gun, a backpack and some laser correction eye treatment I'd basically be Jason Bourne. I wonder if there's anywhere around here where they sell contact lenses.
Oh my God my mind is turning to sludge! Why didn't I bring my iPad? I could have been watching series 4 of Dexter, or, I dunno, The Expendables right now. I'd even settle for bloody Torchwood. Just give me something to do!
Oh, hey, a phone call. Ugh, Julian. I don't want to talk to you, Julian.
"Hey Eddie it's Julian, now we're both best leaky buddies whaddya say we hit Ecuador and buy a house and have kids and blah blah blah?" No. Decline. I'm going over to B terminal, it's got the comfiest benches.
10:30pm. Seven minutes until the cleaner comes past. After that I might load up at the bar, maybe go and sit in the posh toilets near first class and have a cry or something. I miss Hong Kong. They had televisions EVERYWHERE.
10:38. Looks the like the cleaner's running la - oh no, there he is. Right, bar time.
What am I getting, beer? No I need something I can take out. Maybe I'll just ask for one of those magnums they have on the wall: "One enormous thing of Pernod please, my good man." Actually, no, I need something I can fit in my bag. Miniatures, I'll get miniatures.
Hey, that guy pushed in front of me! You better watch out buddy or I'll tell the Guardian on you. Do you want that, huh? Do you want me to blow the whistle on your ass? Cos I'll do it. I'll blow the whistle so hard it'll make your dick fall off. I'm a motherf****** spy motherf*****.
Oh, who am I kidding? Three days eating nothing but Chocolate Orange and free mints. I've got nothing in the tank.
12 vodka miniatures - that was humiliating. Maybe I should have lied and said I've got 11 friends hanging out in the departure lounge. Phone again. Oh go away Julian! Decline. Actually, he'll just call back, I'll send a text.
'Nt in th mood for u rite now but gt 12 vodka. cal me in a hour.'
That should do it. God his hair is weird.
Right, first class toilet. Wow, it's even got those sensor things that make it flush when you wave your hand. Check you out, Edward. A year ago you were just some crummy NSA guy with a boring job and a normal toilet. Now you're a spy ... IN FIRST CLASS. Leaking all that stuff was the best thing you ever did. No regrets.
Time to get drunk. Maybe I should give myself a cool informant name like Deepthroat or something. Razorback? Stingray? Genesis? No, actually, The Undertaker. Yeaaaaaah.
Six more to go. Gah, this is the life. If only those chumps at the NSA could see me now. Oh I forgot, they can, because they're spying on literally everyone. Well here's to you, you great big cyber t****. You won't mess with The Undertaker again, will you? Ha ha ha.
God, I hate this airport. God, I hate my life.