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.

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.

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.

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