From Hell’s Heart, I Stab At Thee

Taking over the world, one tweet at a time

Ten bags, one train, one bus, two planes, three airports, and a taxi.  One lost bag, one baggage-left-on-train heart attack, one killer hill, four dodgy meals, two severe cramps, three agonising kneecaps, and a headache.  The journey begins.  Or it will, for me at least, when US Airways deliver my fucking bag.

After weeks of preparation, panic, hastily scribbled notes, and frantic emails, E3 is nearly upon us like a lecherous frat boy.  We went from having a blissfully blank schedule with plenty of walk-around time to having bugger all time to ourselves and a boat load of meetings, presentations, and hob-nobbing sessions.  We’re about to be worked harder than a defiant submissive.

I’ve largely spent my time in the run up to leaving, arranging meetings, trying to get us into the key presentations, fielding late night emails thanks to the LA time difference, and panicking about the lack of research done about the games that were steadily filling up our schedule.  As such, time seemed to vanish and suddenly, before we knew it, Ben had arrived, meaning that we were leaving in two days.  Next thing I knew, Lee was here, and the two were once again plotting on their sofa, while I was watching the clock count down until departure as I buzzed around dealing with pets, emails, and packing.  Out came notes, laptops, and magazines and we started to prepare as best we could, with help from the ever awesome ZeroMark, until it was time to drag ourselves into bed, ready for the off.

Thankfully, we didn’t have an early start, but after several last minute panicky checks, we were left heaving to haul serious arse to the station.  Uphill.  With ten fucking bags.  Never has something so close seemed so far away as that platform.  The asthmatic among us practically bound up it in nauseating fashion, while I ended up trailing at the back wheezing like a sixty a day pensioner who has just been kicked repeatedly in the tits.  Note to self: more cardio.

At first all seemed to go well, and the journey into Glasgow was peaceful, but that was all about to change.  We sprang off the train at Glasgow, excited… only for Lee to reach for his camcorder and realise that the bag containing it was still on the train – the bag which contained his passport, E3 documents, laptop, etc.  And the train?  The train which was about to pull out of the station.  He dove on, to the amusement of the other passengers who were openly laughing, and rescued it just before the doors closed.  This wasn’t to bode well.

Eventually, checked in, chuffed, and puffed, we were well and truly on our way.  The flight was tedious, but we had wrangled a ton of leg room.  While Lee and Ben continued plotting world (and Portal map) domination, Mark and I did some research, tried to sleep, and watched a few scraps of various films and shows.  Well, I did.  Mark mostly fantasised about the pointy-ended demise of the rude bitch and her fat-twat husband who were (foolishly) sat next to him.

Next panic moment came at Philadelphia airport where we were to clear immigration and try and make our connecting flight.  The backstory to this is one of equal, if not greater, woe.  Having been led to believe, through various horror stories, that we would need an I-Visa, we decided to do the simple thing of calling the US Embassy helpline.  Which turned out to not be very fucking helpful at all.  It took several calls to be told to email them more details.  Calls which cost £1.23 a minute.  Then we were told to make an appointment for an interview at the US Embassy.  In London.  Over four hundred quid in flights, trains, and cabs later, we spent most of the day waiting.  Waiting to get in the embassy,  waiting to get through Embassy security, waiting for close to three hours to get our fingerprints taken, waiting to see our interviewer.  The actual interview lasted less than five minutes, after which time we had to pay to get our own passports sent back to us (over thirty quid), and sloped off to the train station to head back to Glasgow.   Ben and Lee couldn’t get meetings, so were stuck with their ESTAs and a gut full of worry.  In the meantime, BT cheerily informed us that our phone bill of £125.77 was to be debited at the start of June.

The E3 show floor turns out to be a bit of a let down...

Meanwhile back at the airport, present day, we spent ages… waiting.  Shocker, eh?  This time we were in a fucking massive line to clear immigration, which we all eventually did with no problems.  Hurrah!  Little did we know at this point, as we grabbed our bags and dumped them on the transfer belt, that it would be the last time we’d see one of them.  One hellish flight later, we were there.  LA.  Land of dreams, plastic people, and the hallowed hallways of the Cheesecake Factory.   Only… my bag wasn’t.  It was somewhere on another plane from Philly to LA, for whatever reason.  We waited (of course) in a queue along with a dozen other pissed off people to speak to a bored lady about it.  Bored Lady informed us that it would be delivered that night or early morning.  In the meantime, we’d have to wait.  Really?  Look love, had GL and Peoww’s rockin’ writer Richie been here, you’d be feeling some exquisite pain right now.  Dejected and fed-up, I crammed into a cab with everyone else and headed to the rented apartment, which was surprisingly nice.  It would have been nicer had it had my fucking bag in it, but never mind.  Bed was huge, bathroom was shiny, and the war-room (formerly a dining room) was perfect for four laptops, various notebooks, and trailing cables.

The tracking website for US Airways didn’t work properly (big surprise), so I vanished off to bed, pissed off, worried that my hair looked shite for our dinner appointment the next day, and every toiletry, pair of jeans/trousers and US adaptor that we owned was in the missing bag.

On the way...

The morning brought more website tracking and two attempts to speak to something vaguely human at US Airways about the bag (which had now arrived in LA and was presumably sunning itself with Whitman, Price, and Haddad somewhere).  Bag would be en-route to the apartment in a few hours (allegedly), so, marginally consoled, I did a shop run for Pringles and Snapple.

I may have my Snapple, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and the oh so civilised wonder of English Breakfast tea now, but this ain’t over US Airways.  You’ve spoiled the start of what is supposed to be an exciting trip, given me undue stress, and, worst of all, still not yet delivered my fucking bag.  I’ll chase you ’round the moons of Nibia, and ’round the Antares maelstrom, and ’round Perdition’s flames, but I won’t give it up.  I want my luggage.   Then, I can really start to enjoy the pre-E3 buzz that I should be wired with right now…  US Airways, you task me.  From hell’s heart, I stab at thee.

Last five articles by Lorna



  1. Victor says:

    Fingers crossed your luggage will pop up. And I am sure that you will do magic and will look splendid for your dinner appointment.

    Best of luck getting the stuff back.

  2. Tania Tania says:

    “sunning itself with Whitman, Price, and Haddad” I remember them! :D Laughed my fucking ass off at this ;)
    Glad you guys got there ok, (other than the maverick bag). Still at least you know it’s in L.A! Looking forward to more news and keep those piccys coming! So excited for you guys. :)

  3. Mark R MarkuzR says:

    My “plane neighbour” really was a bitch. I mean, the stewards are there to do their best for you and there were thirty two rows of six people so, with one of them dedicated to the poor souls in Business Class who paid over £2k per seat just to have a nicer pillow than us, that means three people had to deal with 192 passengers… 64 each. When you demand two bottles of wine while they’re only offering water and orange juice at that precise moment, and then start slamming your glasses case repeatedly on to the top of a magazine like a petulant child because it’ll be an hour before they’re going round with the alcohol, there’s something wrong with you.

    To THEN push the buzzer while the guy is STILL dishing out water and orange juice and ask AGAIN why you’re not yet getting wine… only 15 minutes since you’d been told that it’d be an hour… you’re a tosser. To wait another twenty minutes and push the buzzer AGAIN… you need someone to deal with you and shut you up. All this time, Puffy (as I called her… she had a bright orange face and a huge strawberry blonde hairdo) was bang, bang, banging this glasses case and I’d taken just about all I could take from her. I swung my face around so that I was looking her square in the eye and she slammed her glasses case down, THREW a napkin to the site and slammed herself back in her seat muttering profanities and when her husband Growly told her to calm down, she snapped like a shrill harpie and started doing lobster claw impressions in his face telling him he’s “giving her all that”.

    They got their wine in the end, with no pleasantries from the steward whatsoever. They’re just lucky that they weren’t on the NEXT flight with Izzard Paisley roaring down the aisle trying to offer mortgages for pretzels.

    Also… classic: The asthmatic among us practically bound up it in nauseating fashion, while I ended up trailing at the back wheezing like a sixty a day pensioner who has just been kicked repeatedly in the tits.

  4. [...] looks Greek by the way!) and U.S. Immigration. May I recommend taking a read of Mark’s and Lorna’s accounts of the day. As it stands at the moment we’re just waiting to head off to the convention [...]

  5. Chris Toffer says:

    I hate flights with retards. My friend once got chatted up by a drunk 40 something year old on a 10 hour flight to Oz. He just kept drinking with her till she passed out, and then promptly asked the stewardess for a blanket and a pillow. He did plan to smother her, but I convinced him to just let her sleep.

  6. Edward Edward says:

    Bah, US Airways seem like a bunch of cocks, and you shouldn’t worry too much about the rocky start they’ve caused you. Hopefully the wonder that is E3 will end up being more than worth the trouble.

    If not, sneak an exquisite knife through customs, or hope Richie snuck himself into your luggage and stabbed her upon release.
    It’d explain why he’s been so quiet lately. ;)

  7. Samuel Samuel says:

    Fucking hell, that’s amazing. I laughed at Lee’s diary of the day, but your one I can hardly see for tears of laughter… you’ve got pretty much every comedy trope about travelling in there somewhere. The obnoxious passenger, sat next to the one member of your party who will actually disembowel them. The bag left behind, and the more rotund owner of said bag having to bolt after a departing train to get it back. And a rant about lost luggage that makes Rhod Gilbert’s story of Ryanair woes seem trivial.

    I’m sorry, I should be more sympathetic, and I am sorry for you, but I can’t stop laughing. Schadenfreude is a funny thing.

    Also really loving the Wrath of Khan reference at the end there. It just works so well, but if that were me in your place all this would read as would be “BLAAAAAAAAAAAARGHMOTHERFUCKERSGETFUCKED!BLARGH!” I really respect anyone who can take such a massive amount of ball ache and make it hilarious.

    On the bright side, it can only get awesome from here on out Lorna.

  8. Joeydale13 says:

    I think these E3 Diary’s and write ups are going to be the best thing I read all year. Hopefully all of your bad luck has gone now and you get to see some pretty awesome stuff at E3.

    Good luck to all of you :-)

  9. Kat says:

    I heard you got your bag back before reading this. Fucking spoilers.


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