There has been of late, it’s fair to say, train trouble
On the one hand, things have been going fairly well. Certainly, I’ve broke my own train sprint record. Last summer I could make the train in the morning if I saw it coming over the bridge and I was by the newsagents. God knows what the actual distance is, I prefer to measure it in the time it takes me to recover - which is 20 minutes or four stops. On the plus side, being a sweating heap with breath coming in ragged bursts and eyes practically popping means that I often get a seat to myself.
Recently though, I’ve caught the train from a standing start at the crossroads. This means that for the first twenty yards or so you have to really fly. Then for the next twenty yards or so you settle into a pace that ensures you are not going to shed wallet, phone, iPod or keys. Dignity has been shed about three seconds ago. Past the window of the bakery and you start to accelerate because by now you’ve realised that you’re in a right state and if you’ve made all that effort and you miss the train…there will be a scene of epic emotional outburst that will make one of those Middle Eastern funerals look like a gathering of anal-retentive introverts.
Made the train but it’s not pretty.
The evening story is a rather different one. One can’t run in a crowded station as you might slip, hit somebody or, more likely, be blown out of your socks by the police. What you can do is walk quickly, a stiff legged walk that is not tooooo dignified and only looks a little bit like you’ve poo’d yourself.
If, however, as happened the other night the bastard bastard bastards on the railway platform the train somewhere so far away from the main station you need a ticket and passport to get there and then the driver decides to pull out of the station thirty seconds before departure time - I’m afraid tutting won’t do.
The trouble with leaping onto the first twat in a day-glo vest and pounding their shit-filled skull against the station floor until it splits like a rotten melon is that it can get you into trouble. I waited around hopefully for somebody else to do it before resigning myself to just getting the next train and amusing myself by swapping the model train enthusiast magazines with the porn mags in the station newsagents.
The truth is that I’m getting too old for impotent rage. Oh, don’t get me wrong, internally I was fizzing, but the trouble with losing your rag with faceless organisations is that it’s pointless. What’s the point of abusing some station staff, they are unhelpful, ugly and thick-as-shit sure but look at it this way - they spend all their working life in a shitty environment with a lot of ugly stupid people - they are already being punished for the many thousand slings and arrows of misfortune they shower upon passengers. Of course, if I get a chance to nudge one into the path of an oncoming train, I may, but judging by the size of their arses it will have to be a goods train hauling twenty billion tonnes of coal to have a chance of doing any real damage.
Killing time in the newsagents I was, as always, amazed at the number of specialist magazines on offer. I though porn was big business but jesus Christ have you seen the amount of magazines about modelling there are? Train modelling (of course), boat modelling, military modelling. If I had time to look I’d of probably found magazines about modelling the countryside, ‘tree and hedge modeller’ - not to be confused to ‘hedge and tree modeller’ who think the staff and readers of ‘T&HM’ are a right bunch of bastards who probably paint after the assemble.
If tree and hedge modeller doesn’t exist, I should start it. And sod internet publishing, how the fuck do you attach a free gift to the cover of a web-site. I’d be giving away a leaf with issue 1. Genius, it’s autumn and the place is COVERED in the things. I want a gloddy cover, with a picture of a hedge. Sod actually building a model, just photograph a hedge (or a tree) and photoshop a hand a tube of glue in proximity.
Hummmn, men and porn and modelling - wonder if men just like having something to keep their hand busy. And, you know, tits.
Anyway - who has the time to make models? I’ll tell you who, people who catch their trains. People who catch their trains and people who don’t drink. Hummmn, come to think of it, ‘pissed modeller’ would be a pretty good publication. Each week you get a magazine with a bottle of plonk and a really, really simple model, all painted and - most importantly - with all the transfers and stickers already done! So you go home, open a bottle, read the magazine (hey.,.this is full of porn) and snap part A to part B and ta-dahhhh! A 1/25th scale replica of the Victory, with working cannons!
Next week, scotch and the Lancaster Bomber!
Hell, I’d buy it!
Recently though, I’ve caught the train from a standing start at the crossroads. This means that for the first twenty yards or so you have to really fly. Then for the next twenty yards or so you settle into a pace that ensures you are not going to shed wallet, phone, iPod or keys. Dignity has been shed about three seconds ago. Past the window of the bakery and you start to accelerate because by now you’ve realised that you’re in a right state and if you’ve made all that effort and you miss the train…there will be a scene of epic emotional outburst that will make one of those Middle Eastern funerals look like a gathering of anal-retentive introverts.
Made the train but it’s not pretty.
The evening story is a rather different one. One can’t run in a crowded station as you might slip, hit somebody or, more likely, be blown out of your socks by the police. What you can do is walk quickly, a stiff legged walk that is not tooooo dignified and only looks a little bit like you’ve poo’d yourself.
If, however, as happened the other night the bastard bastard bastards on the railway platform the train somewhere so far away from the main station you need a ticket and passport to get there and then the driver decides to pull out of the station thirty seconds before departure time - I’m afraid tutting won’t do.
The trouble with leaping onto the first twat in a day-glo vest and pounding their shit-filled skull against the station floor until it splits like a rotten melon is that it can get you into trouble. I waited around hopefully for somebody else to do it before resigning myself to just getting the next train and amusing myself by swapping the model train enthusiast magazines with the porn mags in the station newsagents.
The truth is that I’m getting too old for impotent rage. Oh, don’t get me wrong, internally I was fizzing, but the trouble with losing your rag with faceless organisations is that it’s pointless. What’s the point of abusing some station staff, they are unhelpful, ugly and thick-as-shit sure but look at it this way - they spend all their working life in a shitty environment with a lot of ugly stupid people - they are already being punished for the many thousand slings and arrows of misfortune they shower upon passengers. Of course, if I get a chance to nudge one into the path of an oncoming train, I may, but judging by the size of their arses it will have to be a goods train hauling twenty billion tonnes of coal to have a chance of doing any real damage.
Killing time in the newsagents I was, as always, amazed at the number of specialist magazines on offer. I though porn was big business but jesus Christ have you seen the amount of magazines about modelling there are? Train modelling (of course), boat modelling, military modelling. If I had time to look I’d of probably found magazines about modelling the countryside, ‘tree and hedge modeller’ - not to be confused to ‘hedge and tree modeller’ who think the staff and readers of ‘T&HM’ are a right bunch of bastards who probably paint after the assemble.
If tree and hedge modeller doesn’t exist, I should start it. And sod internet publishing, how the fuck do you attach a free gift to the cover of a web-site. I’d be giving away a leaf with issue 1. Genius, it’s autumn and the place is COVERED in the things. I want a gloddy cover, with a picture of a hedge. Sod actually building a model, just photograph a hedge (or a tree) and photoshop a hand a tube of glue in proximity.
Hummmn, men and porn and modelling - wonder if men just like having something to keep their hand busy. And, you know, tits.
Anyway - who has the time to make models? I’ll tell you who, people who catch their trains. People who catch their trains and people who don’t drink. Hummmn, come to think of it, ‘pissed modeller’ would be a pretty good publication. Each week you get a magazine with a bottle of plonk and a really, really simple model, all painted and - most importantly - with all the transfers and stickers already done! So you go home, open a bottle, read the magazine (hey.,.this is full of porn) and snap part A to part B and ta-dahhhh! A 1/25th scale replica of the Victory, with working cannons!
Next week, scotch and the Lancaster Bomber!
Hell, I’d buy it!
1 Comments:
oh, how i do love reading your blog. I start out by thinking that maybe I should stop reading and check my email or play solitare instead, but out of a morbid curiosity I keep reading and in the end, am laughing hysterically (almost).
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