I have complained in the past of trains. Of their penchant for being shit, considering what you pay to use them. Of their lack of comfort, considering what you pay to use them. Of how long it takes them to get anywhere, considering what you pay to use them (and how they operate on tracks that aren’t roads).
But I have never complained of the pain that is using coach services. After yesterday, where I spent nearly ten hours confined to a tiny seat in a piss-stinking coach with no air conditioning, I will still not complain.
Because it cost me a matter of £some to get from Liverpool to home. And the fact I paid a fraction of what I would have done for the plane or train means I am able to accept the fact that coaches aren’t exactly bathed in luxury.
In fact, it wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t have felt like I was on the verge of dying (mystery illness: GO!) and if the fat German twat sat in front of me hadn’t kept on jabbing his seat back into my knees.
(Clue: I am quite large. I don’t fit very well in coaches. “Snug” is an apt word, though it is too kind a word as it conjures up thoughts of the one thing I didn’t have – comfort. And the seat he was on didn’t actually recline – he was just pushing it back so he could sit in some weird, reclined way and laugh at shitty photos on his girlfriend’s iPhone. Fucking Apple fans. All cunts. Wait, what?)
But it was many hours sat in two confined spaces (two coaches, see), feeling nothing but uncomfortable and wondering just when the misery would be over.
But it was £14 from Liverpool to London. £12 from London to Bournemouth. And it was on roads. And it wasn’t £120. And it didn’t have the arrogance that comes with the trains where they assume they’re offering you something better than they are even though I have never, ever been on a train service in the UK where I’ve thought ‘oh, this is worth the money – I love trains!’.
I hate trains. Coaches may be shit, but they’re actually meant to be. What have you ever done, trains? Eh? EH? Piss off, trains.