things move around

Travel, give me a break. You ask anyone what sort of thing they enjoy, they say ‘travel’. Bollocks, what those people enjoy is holidays. Travel in itself is just rootless anonymity, a vague sequence of slights and humiliations culminating in another vague sequence of slights and humiliations. Because ordinary people, local people, people of a locale, spit on travellers, and rightly so. Travel at its root is a Kafkaesque guffaw, a moving airport walkway forever against you, and anyway, always full of fat immobile golfers; a bland 737 crammed with those total cunts who recline their seats on one-hour flights, who by the way are not travellers, but a constituent of travel itself - an incarnation of my nemesis.

I don’t think travel broadens the mind, either. I don’t see evidence for that. People who travel come back dull and monomaniacal, rhapsodising on the glories of the place they’ve been. If they like it so much they should stay there, imbibing that Polo-flavoured ichor, absorbing enough ennui to stun a sloth, until they become so boring their voices disappear from human frequencies, and can only be heard by actuaries.