England, what do I make of it

I awake....

In a room that I call mine but its just a rented studenty property that looks like a million others in Oxford. Its 7am on a sunday and I have no food in the house and feel like shit. I get up and take my washing out that I put on, hang it out in the freezing cold and put another load on. I make a coffee using the rubbish pot of instant I bought in Greece in some desperate dash for nostalgia. I have been drinking beer and Ouzo all night at Jamie's house. I could hardly help but decide to get up and write something.

Riding off the ferry was probably one of the most strange experiences yet. For a start I have to drift over to the left, along with adjusting to the fact that I understand the road signs. As we rode up the A2 I felt nothing from the other drivers, as our GB stickers were no longer unique, funny or out of the ordinary.

I begin to feel unusual.

We are trundling along at our usual pace of 40mph but it doesn't feel right, some people are angry. I decide to pull over at a petrol station to fill up my back tyre. I've had a slow puncture for about 5 days so its pretty imperative. Here's why I hate the air machine I found myself with:

a) It costs 20p for 2 minutes. Anywhere else in Europe its free, regardless of your other purchases.
b) Its overly complicated. You have to set it to the amount of PSI you want and it does it automatically. Why? Can people not let air in and out until its as they require?
c) Its obviously not built for a C90 as I can't get the thing onto the valve within the 2 minutes, thus I lose 20p and have to pay again.

So...I kick the machine like a little frustrated child and call it various obscenities. Bon tells me I should have thought about how to get the nozzle on previous to paying, my response is equally childish as I tell him to f**k off (sorry Bon, we're all hurting).

We ride on. I can't help but notice the colossal amount of speed limit signs. We ride through smaller towns and absolutely everywhere, I mean everywhere, there are speed cameras telling you that you are getting a fine and you are doing wrong. I realise that my every move could cause me to get some sort of ticket.

As we come into London we pull into a sort of gated community driveway thing so have a quick stop and chat, there is a sign:
"Private property. By parking here you are agreeing to pay a £60 fine as it is now within your knowledge that this is private property"....or something to that effect. There are little pictures of video cameras everywhere and notices saying that the police monitor the traffic flow in the area. I feel totally at a loss. I can no longer cut across things or whizz up a one way road the wrong way just for a second, or ride on the pavement for absolute fear that I will be prosecuted. I feel more restricted here that all those places where I didn't even speak the language.

I continue to act like a total baby. I remember the ride down to Dover when some chav prick threw a magazine out a car window at Bon and it drives me to fury. I jump to a million conclusions and decide I hate England. On my arrival home Aiden (my housemate) tells me that the only thing worth noting is that somebody tried to steal his bike. Tom woke up (was staying in my room) so they fled but they cracked one of my bedroom windows on their exit.

Why can I leave a C90 with stuff strapped all over it with the keys in the ignition in Greece for as long as I please? Nobody would ever bother to steal it.

Jamie even said as we met him yesterday "remember to lock your bikes up lads, we're not in Greece now this place is full of pricks"

What's going on?

This is a right old whinge but I'm really really upset....the adventure is over.

Liam