Tuesday, 12 February 2008
I will say nothing about the glorious defeat of the RAGS. The fantastic double over the red scum will not be commented on here. I will make no reference to the way that we outplayed them in every area of the pitch. Nor will I speak of the lame attempts to excuse the defeat by the overpaid autocrats at the Sty. Suffice to say that we won.
I will instead speak of my trip to erstwhile Barry Fry country today. A city which appears to be defined by its pointlessness. Just another collection of Cardfairs and Halifaxes; bus stations and roundabouts; Wetherspoons and Costa Coffees. The highlight of the day was the astounding obnoxiousness of the woman who (ultimately) sat opposite me on the 9.00 ex-Kings Cross. I admit that I shared her revulsion toward the shaven-headed moron who was eating a McDonalds breakfast in the seat next to mine (clearly there had been no socialisation in his personal history, and besides, who could stomach those strange McMuffins - let alone dipping the "hash brown" into a plastic mini pot of ketchup - at such an early hour?) but I wouldn't have dreamed of expressing my feelings in such a cold way. For fuck's sake, we weren't even travelling First Class. Things only descended down the wooden hill to Wakefulshire after that.
It was (surprise surprise!) a very crowded train, and those happy few with seat reservations were poking their fingers towards stinking fast food breakfasts with gusto as I arrived at my seat. Though my ticket clearly displayed 'A' for aisle seat, aforesaid McD muncher was already firmly ensconced, liberally spraying his Metro with TM ketchup, and I thought it churlish to press my point as I shoehorned myself into the window berth. It was to be, after all, a journey of only 45 minutes. But - ah, how long can 45 minutes seem as marked by the tyrannical hand of the ticking clock? At long last, following the National Express Train Manager announcements, the loco began its gradual climb out of the station. Nasty Cow - who looked a little like Dame Shirley Porter - flicked her eyes around, and, seeing no takers for the supposedly reserved (KX-Berwick-Upon-Tweed) seat next to her, scooted over to deposit herself opposite me. Buried in my Guardian, I heard her say:
"Excuse me..." (in none too friendly terms) "Can you move this?" She gestured dismissively toward my bag, perched on the table between us. Ketchup Boy was by now slurping unattractively at his McDonald's coffee, so I forced the bag down between my legs with a scowl before distractedly returning to my George Monbiot. It was 9.12.
By 9.21 NC was making a point of unfairly encroaching on my foot space (in between which my bag had come to rest) in a manner which could only be described as aggressive, whilst at the same time spreading the celebrity splattered pages of her Daily Telegraph across the table. She then took a call in the most eccentric way, cupping her hands over the mouthpiece but speaking at sufficient volume for everyone to hear. God, this country fucks me off.