By the time you read this, I will be dead. Well, not “dead” per se – more “on a train”. This is a part of the ritual I and my girlfriend, who shall remain nameless throughout, take part in quite often. She doesn’t remain nameless to protect her identity, it’s just so I can hilariously refer to her by comical pseudonyms throughout this non-stop folly which I have been crafting for a couple of weeks now. It’s a hard life…
Anyway, I would like to make a few predictions covering what I think will happen on my train journey as I travel up the country to meet Melvyn Bragg’s Soggy Wart, as I lovingly call her.
1. Some idiotic knobends from the Army will get on around Brockenhurst, or somewhere like that, and spend at least until Birmingham talking loudly to each other, drinking four cans of Stella between ten of them and talking about which girl they managed to get pregnant last time they were ‘on leave’. Don’t get me wrong, I have a fair few mates in the forces, and while I respect the job they do (while not really supporting what/why/where they do it, bar the obvious humanitarian work and blah blah I don’t have to justify myself to you), I cannot abide by morons.
2. I’m not going to tell said morons anything I’ve written here, nor am I going to complain to them or politely ask them to keep it down. I value my life more than I value not being irritated for a couple of hours.
3. There will be a girl sat either directly behind or in front of me and she will be crying. Sobbing her eyes out. Really taking the train to tear town.
4. I will not care about said girl to my front/rear.
5. Some idiot sat nearby will stare at my home-made sandwiches with a confused look on their face. It won’t be disgust, pity or sadness – nor will they be coveting my poorly-made near-meat and cheap-cheese surprise. No, they will just look at it as if I had just pulled a hammock full of pre-filleted haddock from a sling. Confusion tinged with delight, really.
6. I will get PSP Claw, leaving my hands in a small amount of pain for an hour or so post-journey.
7. I will never want to make the journey up the country again.
8. I will remember about Captain Cous-cous and her veritable jamboree of a personality and realise I do actually want to make the journey up the country again.
9. I will remember I have to get back down the country before I can come up it again, thus reminding myself it’s a two-way trip and wondering why the fucking hell Bournemouth appears to be the most remote place in the country.
10. I will vow to abandon all pretence of environmental consciousness (first step: stop reading the Grauniad, second step: burn tyres) by deciding I will now fly from Southampton to Manchester and back.
11. I will realise this costs too much and is a bit of a ball-ache, so will instead get back to playing on the PSP/DS.
12. I will pity the fools without PSPs/DSs’s’ss.
13. I will think of Mr T.
Then, once arrived, I will have to deal with Manchester. That’s a whole other post in itself. Probably a better one. That’s actually funny. And has more casual fucking swearing. Nevertheless, I will arrive and demand tea from Ego Destructis, and she will refuse and I’ll have to make it.
It’s a hard life.