The great un-washed un-washed of _Paul_And_Land_ were training t’other day. On a train, strangely. And the training involved, curiously, trains; travelling upon certain ones which those buggers at Northern Rail had attempted to the bugger up. Buggering up the job seems to play a large part in the Job Description of Northern Rail and they fulfil it with consummate ease and professionalism. Admittedly, as yet, they’re not in the stellar league of RyanAir but Northern Rail are doing a fine job of Sunday League buggering the job up. They still deserve applause for their wonderous buggery. Buggers.
It started with one of their old tricks: Hide the Train. Take one train and hide it where the passengers, or potential passengers, replete with requisite screamy young ‘uns can’t find it. Then, this is a hoot, tell the passengers, or potential passengers, replete with requisite screamy young ‘uns where they can find the train. Watch as they, the passengers, or potential passengers, replete with requisite screamy young ‘uns head off in the direction of the alleged train. But the real entertainment value is in the fact that the train isn’t where the passengers, or potential passengers, replete with requisite screamy young ‘uns are headed. No that would be far to easy, far too customer-focused, far too bloody sensible. Indeed all the passengers, or potential passengers, replete with requisite screamy young ‘uns are headed in completely the wrong direction as the train they want is on Platform 1A, yet they’re away to 3B which is the train heading to Huddersfield.
Cue the angry passengers, or potential passengers, replete with requisite screamy young ‘uns when they return to Platform 1A. Oh, do they start kicking off, yes kicking off. And, interestingly, a whole cadre of angry passengers replete with requisite screamy young ‘uns, on a train with heating stuck on full, the air conditioning failing to do the requisite and the strong smell of vomit filling each carriage, is far from a heady mix. But kick off they do, such joys. Change trains, quickly.
Phew, that was lucky. Now for the pleasure of the stopper train. Whatever level of hell this brings can be no worse than the last experience. You blind fool, you poor blind fool. Even Dante could not describe this misery. Read on.
The strong smell of cheap alcohol and even cheaper fags fills the air. Grunts, snorts, wheezes and farts add to the ricketty clunks of the elderly train. Some of the standing male passengers gain pleasure in adjusting their tackle openly. Such elegance. Fortunately, the ball jugglers and the seriously hammered soon depart the train. Only to be replaced by the Friday Night Party People with their lack of clothing, shared bottles of voddie and high volume tales of sexual exploits. However, prior to their departure one or more of the ball jugglers or seriously hammered worked a number on the khazi, and soon tales of sexual conquests are replaced with terrified shrieks as liquid floods from beneath the door of the WC. Sploshing about up and down the train, the liquid runs everywhere and the destination is welcome in its rapid arrival.
Quickly leaping from the potential king-sized mobile cess-pit, our intrepid traveller is met with a station teeming with angry travellers. This is only a teeny-tiny station, there’s nowhere to hide a train and only few destinations so the pleasure to be gained in sending people to Huddersfield is non-existent. The only trains from here go to either there (I) and there (II) and the crowdly anger, it seems, emanates from the fact that trains to there (II) have been cancelled and replaced by the ever beloved Rail Replacement Coaches. And people have been waiting for two hours with no sign of Rail Replacement Coaches. Chaos. Utter chaos.
All this bloody nonsense. All of it. Thanks in no small part to the privatisation of railways. Imagine the lunacy of privatising hospitals. Ball jugglers and the hammered in A & E, Administration in the hands screamy young ‘uns, urine and worse sploshing through the wards and crazy controllers controlling crazily, with service users misdirected, abused and misinformed. Err, no thanks. No feckin’ thanks.