First class
Call me a snob, but there’s something about travelling first class. What I think it is, more than the free tea, coffee and snacks, more than the wide seats (wide enough to comfortably seat the widest of businessman arses) and more even than the slight, artificial sense of superiority - is that you don’t have to sit with the proles.
Or stand, or crouch or, my favourite, be pushed up against. My commuter train is not that far removed from the cattle truck in ‘Shindler’s List’ where they had to spray the top of the carriage with water to stop all the folks fainting, you know, before they carted them off to an extermination camp. Rather, one forks out a shocking amount for a season ticket and for that you get a service more or less identical to that in some third world country, but without the people sitting on the roof of the carriage. Having said that, I believe that may be what a ‘peak saver’ fare is.
But the other day I was travelling on the firms’ ticket and so it was first class. Benchmark of travel is the loo and this one was bigger than my office. The only thing it lacked was some type in there trying to spray you with scent and relieve you of your small change.
Truly, class still exists in Merrie England. If I had travelled the usual cattle class I would have swayed to the buffet and had my usual breakfast order of stella and crisps thrown at me by a surly troll. As it was, I had a bacon bap (greasy but acceptable) and so much tea I could have actually have floated to my destination, all served in proper china (instead of a paper cup that is designed to transfer the heat of the beverage to your hand in an instant, so scalding you and leaving the tea tepid) by some sort of waiter type who had obviously got a qualification in mincing.
Result, I arrived refreshed and smug at my destination.
Return journey, much the same, with the added bonus of seeing somebody arrested for fare-dodging as we pulled into London. Point of information: police officers do not like it when you shout ‘CS gas the fucker!’ as a form of encouragement. Tut.
Or stand, or crouch or, my favourite, be pushed up against. My commuter train is not that far removed from the cattle truck in ‘Shindler’s List’ where they had to spray the top of the carriage with water to stop all the folks fainting, you know, before they carted them off to an extermination camp. Rather, one forks out a shocking amount for a season ticket and for that you get a service more or less identical to that in some third world country, but without the people sitting on the roof of the carriage. Having said that, I believe that may be what a ‘peak saver’ fare is.
But the other day I was travelling on the firms’ ticket and so it was first class. Benchmark of travel is the loo and this one was bigger than my office. The only thing it lacked was some type in there trying to spray you with scent and relieve you of your small change.
Truly, class still exists in Merrie England. If I had travelled the usual cattle class I would have swayed to the buffet and had my usual breakfast order of stella and crisps thrown at me by a surly troll. As it was, I had a bacon bap (greasy but acceptable) and so much tea I could have actually have floated to my destination, all served in proper china (instead of a paper cup that is designed to transfer the heat of the beverage to your hand in an instant, so scalding you and leaving the tea tepid) by some sort of waiter type who had obviously got a qualification in mincing.
Result, I arrived refreshed and smug at my destination.
Return journey, much the same, with the added bonus of seeing somebody arrested for fare-dodging as we pulled into London. Point of information: police officers do not like it when you shout ‘CS gas the fucker!’ as a form of encouragement. Tut.
1 Comments:
You're a snob. But then anyone who has experienced first class learns to hate anything less. You can't miss what you don't know though. Unfortunately, there's a lot that I miss...although I pretend like I don't.
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