Friday, August 26, 2011
The Pain of Train
Travelling by Train can be a right pain. Who reading this hasn’t experienced a journey at one time or another packed pilchard like into an ancient, creaking carriage with your face jammed into some heavily perspiring bloke’s armpit whilst some twat, who, amazingly believing there’s room for 200 people and his copy of The Times in six square foot of space, repeatedly jabs you in the arse with his brolly? Of course this would all be water off a duck’s back to the seasoned commuter, but add in the sauna like temperatures and you can’t even be sure the river of liquid running down your back is even your own…………
But sometimes something happens on your journey home that makes the whole travelling by train thing worthwhile….
And so to Cannon Street last night – We’ve endured the rugby scrum on the platform and managed to squeeze ourselves on and even bag a seat. This is a good start, there’s nothing worse than standing up on the train home while the seated masses look smugly on. We’re even facing forward, which is a treat in itself. We’re making the usual after work small talk, when an old city type – all grey chalk stripe and brylcreem bounce – practically falls into the seat facing us. He looks nothing less than Sir Les Patterson’s younger sibling with burgundy stained teeth and lips, and reeks like a brewery to boot. The fumes are enough to get you pissed at ten paces. Wife and I exchange knowing glances.
This chap then whips out his mobile phone, somehow dials a number, and sets himself to Megaphone mode to chat to an old pal. What follows is a string of such utterly incoherent bollocks that it made Rowley Birkin QC seems both verbally dextrous and only mildly inebriated “Ah old Bean, mmm mmm mmm lunch……mmm mmm SNAKES!!…….mmm mmm mmm…removed below the leg….mmmmm” loud belch “oh the chaps……..bully for you……HOCKEY!!……..mmmm mm mm mmm….didn’t make it poor old sod…waaaah” During this, an unfortunate woman sits on the seat next to blatantly ignoring our warning eyebrows – little does she know what sort of a journey she in for.
Eventually, the 13th Duke of Wybourne shuts up and apparently falls asleep. We pull out of the station, and look forward to a journey interrupted by nothing more that the rasping snore of one heavily intoxicated individual. But oh no, he isn’t finished yet….
He snaps awake and realises he needs to make another phone call. As before it’s a megaphone volume, and once again it’s slurringly to his friend, the old codger we now all know as “Old Bean”. It takes several drunken minutes before he realises he’s already spoken to him and rings off. This is not before he’s regaled us once more with tales of Africa, Lions, missing limbs and “I’m afraid I was very, very drunk”.
Then rather then go back to sleep, he starts humming to himself – really, really loudly. It’s like a chainsaw on idle and he seems oblivious to the fact he’s doing it. This is, you can no doubt imagine, extremely annoying, prompting the woman next to him to abandon reading The Female Eunuch (well, she did have a moustache..) and dig out her headphones in an attempt to drown him out. This may or may not have been successful, because although he stops humming, he then resorts to the most bizarre behaviour I’ve seen on a train for many a year.
Forming one hand into the gun shaped kids use when playing cowboys and Indians in the playground (or Hoodies and Pigs as it’s more likely to be these days..) he proceeds, with appropriate sound effects, to shoot imaginary birds through the train window. I’m practically wetting myself with laughter behind my paper while Wife makes “loony signs” by the side of her head. I must confess, I’m not sure if I’m laughing at Sir Les and his antics, or the look of pure and utter horror on the face of the woman sitting next to him. Not even a walkman can drown out lunacy.
This strange behaviour continues for some time until, with the train having entered a tunnel, he stops. Well, even someone pissed knows you can’t shoot imaginary birds with an imaginary gun in a tunnel. That would just be stupid…..
By the time we reach Elmstead Woods and the Sanctuary of leaving the train, pissed gent has graduated from a hand gun to a rifle (bolt action by the look of it) and the sound effects accompaniment is that of a Spitfire and Messerschmitt Me 109 in furious dog fight over the White Cliffs. Woman next to him is weeping quietly, and most of the people getting off the train are simply moving to the next carriage.
Travelling by train is a pain? Not on days like this it ain’t!
But sometimes something happens on your journey home that makes the whole travelling by train thing worthwhile….
And so to Cannon Street last night – We’ve endured the rugby scrum on the platform and managed to squeeze ourselves on and even bag a seat. This is a good start, there’s nothing worse than standing up on the train home while the seated masses look smugly on. We’re even facing forward, which is a treat in itself. We’re making the usual after work small talk, when an old city type – all grey chalk stripe and brylcreem bounce – practically falls into the seat facing us. He looks nothing less than Sir Les Patterson’s younger sibling with burgundy stained teeth and lips, and reeks like a brewery to boot. The fumes are enough to get you pissed at ten paces. Wife and I exchange knowing glances.
This chap then whips out his mobile phone, somehow dials a number, and sets himself to Megaphone mode to chat to an old pal. What follows is a string of such utterly incoherent bollocks that it made Rowley Birkin QC seems both verbally dextrous and only mildly inebriated “Ah old Bean, mmm mmm mmm lunch……mmm mmm SNAKES!!…….mmm mmm mmm…removed below the leg….mmmmm” loud belch “oh the chaps……..bully for you……HOCKEY!!……..mmmm mm mm mmm….didn’t make it poor old sod…waaaah” During this, an unfortunate woman sits on the seat next to blatantly ignoring our warning eyebrows – little does she know what sort of a journey she in for.
Eventually, the 13th Duke of Wybourne shuts up and apparently falls asleep. We pull out of the station, and look forward to a journey interrupted by nothing more that the rasping snore of one heavily intoxicated individual. But oh no, he isn’t finished yet….
He snaps awake and realises he needs to make another phone call. As before it’s a megaphone volume, and once again it’s slurringly to his friend, the old codger we now all know as “Old Bean”. It takes several drunken minutes before he realises he’s already spoken to him and rings off. This is not before he’s regaled us once more with tales of Africa, Lions, missing limbs and “I’m afraid I was very, very drunk”.
Then rather then go back to sleep, he starts humming to himself – really, really loudly. It’s like a chainsaw on idle and he seems oblivious to the fact he’s doing it. This is, you can no doubt imagine, extremely annoying, prompting the woman next to him to abandon reading The Female Eunuch (well, she did have a moustache..) and dig out her headphones in an attempt to drown him out. This may or may not have been successful, because although he stops humming, he then resorts to the most bizarre behaviour I’ve seen on a train for many a year.
Forming one hand into the gun shaped kids use when playing cowboys and Indians in the playground (or Hoodies and Pigs as it’s more likely to be these days..) he proceeds, with appropriate sound effects, to shoot imaginary birds through the train window. I’m practically wetting myself with laughter behind my paper while Wife makes “loony signs” by the side of her head. I must confess, I’m not sure if I’m laughing at Sir Les and his antics, or the look of pure and utter horror on the face of the woman sitting next to him. Not even a walkman can drown out lunacy.
This strange behaviour continues for some time until, with the train having entered a tunnel, he stops. Well, even someone pissed knows you can’t shoot imaginary birds with an imaginary gun in a tunnel. That would just be stupid…..
By the time we reach Elmstead Woods and the Sanctuary of leaving the train, pissed gent has graduated from a hand gun to a rifle (bolt action by the look of it) and the sound effects accompaniment is that of a Spitfire and Messerschmitt Me 109 in furious dog fight over the White Cliffs. Woman next to him is weeping quietly, and most of the people getting off the train are simply moving to the next carriage.
Travelling by train is a pain? Not on days like this it ain’t!
# posted by Bucko! @ 6:33 AM 
