anniegray

Very few places actually sell stovies!

JapesUK

The Cosmopolitan hit the mark, just as you'd hope, the immediate zing of citrus, making its presence known, guided by the sharp, yet comforting caress of lime juice and the gentle, lingering embrace of orange liqueur. Then, the cranberry juice steps in bringing a sweet, tangy complexity, colouring each gulp in deep, inviting shades of red, layering the drink with a depth that whispers secrets in the midst of a bustling crowd. But the real hero here? The vodka. It doesn't just show up; it makes an entrance with a smooth, confident glide, the kind that Carrie Bradshaw would exchange a week of Martini’s to emulate.

The chocolate martini was an absolute joyride, teetering on the edge of being dangerously deceptive. It's either that our bartender has a heavy hand with the chocolate and a featherlight touch with the alcohol, or this concoction is devilishly adept at cloaking its potency beneath a velvety chocolate embrace.

And now, the moment of truth – off to the restaurant to see what culinary wonders can be wrangled from the classic pub menu. You know the type: a menu that promises everything from gourmet burgers that think they're in a Michelin-starred joint to fish and chips that wouldn't look out of place in a seaside postcard. Let's see if these dishes can live up to their ambitious descriptions or if my taste buds are in for an adventure of the "Well, at least I tried it" variety. Here's hoping for a meal that's more "Wow!" and less "Well, that was food."

JapesUK

Kicking things off, I threw caution to the wind and plunged headfirst into the piri piri wings. Expecting the culinary equivalent of elevator music, I was met instead with a symphony of spice that had me questioning my life choices—in the best way possible. These wings didn't just whisper "chilli heat"; they screamed it from the rooftops, making them an instant re-order in my book.




Then came the main act: the katsu curry, adorned with enough hot red chilli slices to start its own fire brigade. It was a masterpiece of heat and flavor, making it a shoo-in for my "Would Eat Again" list. My only quibble? The sauce was so thin you could read a newspaper through it. But, never one to let a little curry water dampen my spirits, I paired it with a glass of The Ned, a wine so familiar it's practically got its own drawer at my place. Here's to dishes that pack a punch and drinks that feel like a warm hug from an old pal.

JapesUK

For dessert, I decided to live dangerously and venture into the unknown territory of baked cheesecake adorned with what was promised to be Crunchie pieces. The adventure ended before it began, as the "Crunchie" turned out to be as elusive as a polite conversation on social media, and the vanilla ice cream was having an identity crisis, forgetting it was supposed to taste like, well, vanilla.




Licking my wounds, I retreated to the bar, only to stumble into another culinary twilight zone. They were fresh out of Woodford Reserve – a blow to my spirits – so I defaulted to the trusty embrace of a Jack Daniels. When it came time to settle the bill, I found myself in a Dickens novel, haggling over the cost, not because it was too high, but because it seemed suspiciously low. Turns out, in this wonderland, a single JD is priced at Ł5.40, but make it a large, and the price tag barely wiggles up to Ł6.40! At that rate, I half expected them to pay me to drink it. Ah, the bewildering economics of booze – it's enough to drive one to drink.

JapesUK

After luxuriating in a solid eight hours of shut-eye, a rarity in my often sleep-deprived travels, I decided it was high time to investigate the much-anticipated breakfast spread. Breakfast service kicks off at 7am, which in the fast-paced world of airport hotels feels akin to a leisurely mid-morning start. Yet, it was perfectly timed to cater to my somewhat less hurried schedule this morning.

Now, let's talk about the financial aspect of this morning feast. Tacking breakfast onto your stay will lighten your wallet by Ł10.99 at the time of booking, which seems a bit steep until you consider the promise of unlimited refills. The in-room menu was like a culinary treasure map, outlining a bounty of breakfast goodies with the enthusiasm of a pirate flaunting his gold. The highlight? The 'unlimited' tag attached to the breakfast, clearly a beacon for every famished soul dragging their luggage through the lobby. It seems the hotel has recognized and capitalised on the universal truth that nothing builds an appetite quite like the prospect of a flight at ungodly hours.

JapesUK

The continental breakfast buffet was an adventure in culinary déjŕ vu, featuring all the usual suspects—minus any rogue meat or cheese daring to crash the carb party.







The hot breakfast items seemed to have been cooked with a certain... je ne sais quoi. Let's call it 'creative indifference.' It was clear that the food hadn't been marinating under a heat lamp for eternity, though the hash brown might beg to differ, possibly plotting its escape. The sausage was strategically positioned to camouflage its charred ego, a futile effort on my part since I subscribe to the 'the closer to carbon, the better' school of thought. The eggs, meanwhile, were a testament to the 'less is more' philosophy, except when it comes to the oil needed for that elusive perfect over easy. In summary, the breakfast was unexpectedly agreeable, serving up a slice of humility with a side of amusement.

JapesUK

Making the pilgrimage from the Premier Inn to the airport is as easy as pie: just a casual jaunt across the street, a secretive passage through the gate (pro tip: snag a code from the front desk, it's like a speakeasy), and a quick duck under the DoubleTree's watchful gaze.




The airport's arrivals zone was eerily quiet today, so much so, I wondered if I'd stumbled into a private viewing. It was the emptiest I've ever seen it, a ghost town. But the mystery unraveled faster than a cheap sweater—the entire population was bottlenecked outside security!






Despite all four scanners working overtime, humanity was doing its best to clog the system. Boots on, belts buckled, watches ticking away—everyone seemed to forget how to airport. It was a veritable shoe-removal extravaganza, the likes of which I've never witnessed.

I steeled myself for the upcoming trial by security. It's a peculiar sort of gladiatorial arena, where one's fate hangs in the balance of a conveyor belt. The pressing question wasn't so much whether I was ready to face the scrutiny of the security apparatus, but rather, whether my bag would pass muster without triggering the dreaded ordeal of secondary screening. It's these moments, standing in line, that one truly ponders the mysteries of air travel.I believe I've finally deciphered the enigmatic code of the airport scanners. By judiciously removing my cable bag, I've now managed, for the second consecutive time, to glide through without the ignominy of secondary screening. It's a small victory, but in the world of air travel, one savors these triumphs like a fine wine.

JapesUK

My first port of call in this airport landscape is the recently inaugurated Aster and Thyme, strategically nestled beside the currency exchange counter. This establishment has usurped the spot formerly occupied by the Cabin Bar, rebranding itself as "An Elegant Premium Outlet" – a lofty claim in the bustling microcosm of airport dining.









Boasting splendid views across the airfield, the menu at Aster and Thyme reads like a love letter to foodies, promising culinary delights. But let's be real – today's not the day for that adventure and so I tip my hat to the fine dining I'm bypassing. Maybe next time, Aster and Thyme.

JapesUK

My next adventure led me to the Aspire Lounge, freshly unfurled from its renovation cocoon this very morning, now bigger and more splendid than before. The transformation is nothing short of spectacular, with the lounge now flaunting a trio of access levels. Thanks to my BA status, I was whisked into the luxe lounge's cozy embrace, a mid-tier haven, while the crčme de la crčme suite remains the exclusive domain of Emirates travelers for the time being.

JapesUK

And there we are, caught up in the whirlwind of my journey. I've got just a sliver of time left to indulge in my travel trifecta: a steaming cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and that celebratory swig of Prosecco. Soon, I'll amble over to the gate, where our plane sits patiently, ready to soar me off to London Heathrow.

JapesUK

Spotting the plane touch down, I was clued in that our departure would be from gate three. Seizing the moment, I meandered over to the gate ahead of the official announcement and the ensuing rush. A swift check of documents and boarding pass, and I was aboard the plane, G-EUYP, marking my first encounter with this particular aircraft.




The crew was surprisingly upbeat, a mood not dampened by their recent jaunt to Newcastle. Perhaps their spirits were buoyed by the anticipation of Stockholm and the promise of an overnight layover awaiting them.

Now, as a steady flow of passengers boards the plane, I've strategically positioned myself on the tray table of seat 1B. This tactical move is to dodge the customary jostling that plagues seat 1C, thanks to its unfortunate placement jutting into the doorway's realm. London Heathrow, here we come.

T8191

Sheer poetry, Sir!

JapesUK

The flight, along with its crew, was top-notch; service kicked off swiftly and wrapped up in ample time for everyone to relish a few extra rounds of refreshments. My seatmate in 1A was a delightful fellow, and we spent a good chunk of the journey exchanging tales and insights on the art of air travel.

For these four flights, I had the foresight to request special meals, though it's been so long since I made the selections that each meal promises a hint of mystery—fingers crossed for the pleasantly surprising kind. Predictably, I opted for the Kosher breakfast, drawn irresistibly by the allure of its cinnamon bun, a choice that never disappoints.





Despite touching down a tad behind schedule, about ten minutes late, we made a swift beeline to the gate. A brisk walk through the unexpectedly bustling Terminal 5 has now found me in the sanctuary of the BA First Lounge, penning this update. Soon, I'll embark on a foraging expedition around the lounge, gathering sustenance for the upcoming five and a half hours of transit

JapesUK

With a luxurious expanse of five and a half hours to fritter away in the lounge, I decided it was imperative to approach the situation with a strategy akin to a long siege—first up, fortifying myself with a freshly brewed cup of coffee and whatever accompaniments were laying about like loyal foot soldiers.


The buffet, in a moment of culinary confusion, was awkwardly transitioning from its morning allegiance to breakfast to a more ambiguous breakfast-lunch coalition, prompting me to delay any photographic evidence of its existence.

Having successfully killed an hour and change by immersing myself in the digital soap opera that is FlyerTalk and catching up on the world's latest shenanigans, I ventured back to the buffet. What greeted me was a display of predictability so profound it could only be likened to finding out that water is wet— the standard buffet fare, as unsurprising as a rain shower in England.

JapesUK

Three hours into my lounge odyssey, the urge for a bit of leg-stretching and a change of backdrop became too compelling to ignore. Thus, I upped sticks and set off towards the B gates and the beckoning oasis of the T5B lounge. The journey through the tunnel is a highlight for me, a serene interlude in the otherwise frenetic symphony of airport life.





Upon arrival, I found the B gates lounge to be a bastion of tranquility, a marked improvement over its First Class cousin back at the main hub. Among its charms, a popcorn machine stood out, infusing a dash of whimsy into the refined ambiance. The culinary and libation selections mirrored those of its siblings, but with a delightful twist: a staffed afternoon tea station, a veritable cornucopia of scrumptious indulgences, promising to make the remainder of my wait anything but dreary.