Train shame

I know infinite monkeys bashing away on typewriters could have written the entire works of Shakespeare, twice, in the time since my last post but I’ve just witnessed a travesty that I hope will have been worth the wait.

I’d been working late and arrived at Finsbury Park just in time to get my train home. But arriving on a station platform to find a crowd bigger than my disappointment with series two of Downton Abbey (Heartbeat 1916) with a mood like the tabloid-fuelled lynching of a pediatrician is never a good sign.

The trains, as my grandmother used to say, were well and truly cunted. This is exactly the kind of thing thing that makes my teeth bleed with frustration. I’m immediately double fucked off, in fact I’d happily lynch Dr Barnado if it got me home quicker. The deteriorating atmosphere means First Crapital Connect staff call for back-up and a legion of community support officers arrive. Fuck me blue, we’re going to get kettled.

We all wait longer than it takes for the the Catholic church to apologise, and then a train appears. Lots of trains have crawled through the station but this one we can get on, or so we are told by the announcer who is talking  backwards through a kaleidoscope. It arrives at the platform, we all run to the train like a classful of children checking if snow is settling. We wait in the pissing rain stabbing at the door buttons like agoraphobics. We wait some more.  Fingers snap, children cry and a drunk pauses momentarily from his relentless not-in-the least-fucking-irritating whistling to bellow “Come on, you kaaaaaaaaaahunts!”. I forgave the whistling.

Then as if by magic, the train starts pulling off. Just as I think about kicking the train a very smartly dressed businessman of about 50 American-History-Xs the carriage. But the force of the kick makes him stumble backwards and, as his arms frantically bicycle around, he slips on the wet station and falls onto his back like a clown, cracking his head like a nut.

It was funnier than when a teacher of mine shouted “I don’t want to have a mass debate about this!”. Now, as then, I laugh my pancreas up.

A thousand laughter-wet eyes watch him dust himself down as he defiantly shouts “It was worth it!”.

It wasn’t.

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