If you don’t own a dog, you will not know that feeling of deserting it and going on holiday.

It knows you are going somewhere, but it doesn’t have a clue how long for. “Perhaps it’s forever?”, it thinks. It is a pathetic lump in the throat moment. Dogs and their master become incredibly attached.

An early morning arrival at Gatwick was a painful reminder of how much I hate the place. A paradise of irony as rabid, track-suited Brexiteers prepare to utilise cheap travel and freedom of movement across Europe.

That’s right, I fucking hate Gatwick. It’s enormity never ceases to amaze me. It only adds to the living hell that comes with being over 50 and constantly believing my passport might still be on the mantelpiece along with my wallet.

Only just recovering from a 60 mile journey through the disco lights of 3:00 AM contraflows, convinced my car would breakdown, it was time for baggage drops.

There is nothing quite like surly underpaid and overworked staff followed by removing belts, phones and anything such as toothpaste, a terror threat if there ever was one.

Then, a journey through endless malls and past the zombies already on the piss in JD Brexitspoons, the worst pub chain on the planet. I’d join them to numb the whole miserable experience, but since my mid-forties, a pint and a plane is the equivalent of hitting myself on the head with a mallet.

Eventually, it was on to the plane. Not only was I placed in the crying baby department, in the seats next to me I had to endure a couple as close fornicating their way to the mile high club as you can possibly get.

Complete with 30 layers of makeup the stewardesses hated me and everyone else. With some irony, the captain announced that he was pleased that we had chosen to fly with them.

I buried my head into my newspaper but the brexit stories were not good for my soul. To boost my morale, I read a column by Suzanne Moore about how great it is getting old. I’m going to email her and ask her to rewrite her piece at Gatwick surrounded by savages modelling for Sports Direct.

The babies continued to cry. Crying babies cannot be attached to class or creed. One mother, demure, tired and embarrassed, kept admirably calm. Another, harsh looking, with a head full of X Factor and Love Island, was at boiling point and a walking advert for improved social services.

I looked at the time. 

8:00 AM. Normally, I would now be crossing the hill from Clatford down into Fulllerton, across to Wherwell and Chilbolton. My dog would be dancing happily through the fields, his enthusiasm for life rubbing off on me.

What the fuck was I doing here?

I guess it is because I love to go to different places and like anyone, I love a sunshine holiday. I just can’t stand the travelling part for much longer.

I hate Gatwick airport and I hate all the people in it, including myself for being there.