It’s been a while, as I’ve been travelling, something I have a love-hate relationship with. You know that cheesy saying,

‘It’s not the destination—it’s the journey’?

Well, quite frankly, whoever came up with that snippet of wisdom was completeley cuckcoo.

It’s always about the destination.

I hate the actual travel side of the transit coin more than I hate visiting the dentist to have something removed—and I’m not talking about teeth. I’m talking about money from my bank account.

The flights alone are long enough: around 23 hours from UK to Australia, or vice versa, plus stopovers for refuelling. That doesn’t include travelling from home to the airport, then travelling from the destination airport to wherever you’re staying.

All up, I reckon it’s more like 36 to 40 hours on the go.

And it never starts well at the airport. At least, not for me. For reasons I've never understood, I'm always shouted at in security.

The fact I'm a customer, and therefore paying the wages of the clipboard commandos working in security, doesn’t seem to matter a tinker’s cuss.

And it doesn’t help that every country, and every airport in the world, seems to have different rules.

In Melbourne and Heathrow, you no longer have to pull out laptops and other devices from your backpack, and you can carry drink bottles through, whereas previously liquids were limited to 100ml. You do still have to empty your pockets, remove belts, spectacles and knuckle-dusters, then put them in a tray on the conveyor belt.

I politely asked if I needed to put my passport in the tray, which I hate doing in case it mysteriously disappears, thereby opening up a whole world of untold pain.

I was told, less politely, no, put it in your back pocket.

Which I did.

I then attempted to go through the body scanner, where you have to stand legs akimbo, arms out, like John Wayne with haemorrhoids in a Western showdown.

That didn’t go well.

I was asked what I had in my back pocket.

Obviously, my passport.

I was duly berated and lectured, then sent on my way.

But the humiliation wasn’t over yet.

I then had to place my passport on one of those new-fangled scanners, which presumably downloads every detail of my life, along with my internet browsing history, (yikes!) before the gates magically swing open.

Now, either I’m thick (reserve judgement) or the instructions weren’t very clear, but I assumed my passport would be sucked through the system and materialise on the other side.

I was wrong. Maybe I am thick?

That isn’t how it works, as I discovered five seconds later when I was shouted at again for leaving my passport behind.

Eventually, however, we migrated from Checkpoint Charlie into duty-free and the lounges, where I indulged in the rapid downing of numerous double gin and tonics to soothe my frayed nerves.

Now, here’s the thing I don’t understand.

We had to refuel in Thailand and, after getting off the plane, we had to go through security all over again.

WTF!

I’m not sure what the idea is here. How could I have smuggled something aboard between the first security checkpoint and the next?

Or perhaps they suspected I’d fashioned a lethal weapon from toilet tissue and a particularly dry chicken biryani during the flight.

Who knows?

Needless to say, I was shouted at again. I can’t even remember what for now. I must have one of those faces people enjoy screaming at.

Our final refuelling stop was in Muscat... the Middle East.

As we began our descent, I was less worried about security than about some amoeba passing itself off as a human firing one of those long, pointy things that makes a very loud bang when it goes off.

I survived.

Obviously.

Back in the cattle port, we went through security AGAIN, where liquids were back down to 100ml—goodbye, water—and this time you did have to remove laptops and devices from your bag.

Which I didn’t.

Another bollocking. But this time it was in Arabic, so I can’t confidently say whether they were chastising me for my ignorance or commenting on my haircut.

Then it was back into a lounge to top up my blood supply with gin and tonic.

The whole experience was utterly awful, especially when it cost me a small fortune—and a damn sight more than usual, thanks to someone’s masterplan for peace in the Middle East.

Mentioning no names.

How’s that going?

Finally, when we landed at Heathrow, I managed to avoid the ‘internal cavity search’ by an overly large man with a bushy beard and fingers the size of Lebanese cucumbers.

Count yer blessings, missus!

We collected our luggage and made our way to the on-site train station, where we were told our particular line was out of action.

Welcome to Team Great Britain.

Now we had a choice: take a different train and haul two suitcases and three bags onto crowded Tube trains, or get a taxi.

The taxi won.

I didn’t even complain. Not that I can remember much at that stage, due to the amount of gin and tonic in my system.

I blame the tonic. It can wreak havoc with a sensitive constitution.

Eventually, after four weeks overseas, ten different beds and living out of a suitcase, I returned home exhausted.

The next morning, as I stepped out of the shower, I noticed some red spots under my right arm and across my back. I naturally assumed I must have been bitten by a nasty insect.

Bedbugs, perhaps? Scabies? Bubonic plague? Piers Morgan?

I wasn’t sure.

But after a quick and expensive trip to the doctor the next day, I learned I had shingles.

Don’t you just love it?

That was four weeks ago. I got off lightly compared with some of the horror stories I’ve heard about the excruciating pain people go through, but let’s just say it wasn’t pleasant. And I’m still not quite myself today, as you’ve probably noticed while reading this rubbish.

So, the next time I hear some smug, sincere, overprivileged tosspot say, ‘It’s not about the destination—it’s about the journey,’ I’ll put on my shouty voice and pretend to be an airport security officer.

Anything to declare?