Posts archive for: October, 2011
  • Chef De Jour And His Sidekick, Aiden...

    October 29, 2011

    CE40 Aiden Byrne DPS v1

  • Why Does It Always Train On Me?

    October 29, 2011

    Twitter and Facebook chums have for the last few months been subjected to an unrelenting barrage of undoubtedly tediously repetitive status updates about my train journeys into Manchester and back.

    I should apologise, really, but seeing as it's evidently amused a few people along the way (me included, in fairness, but only hours and hours and hours later, and only with the help of industrial amounts of Russian Standard vodka) I'm not going to. So there.


    Tonight something else happened.

    Tonight, the train I was getting home actually left on time (18.07 from Piccadilly to Lime Street, fact fans).

    No unannounced delays; no suddenly missing train; no football fans attacking the buffet bloke; no fat stinking goth playing loud shite through his iPod while half sat on top of me; no menacing pissed Scouser with "MAD CUNT" tattooed back to front with a blunt compass on his forehead sat opposite me; no earnest woman on her way back from a course reading "How to be a better absolute fucking pain in the arse"; no illegal immigrants looking shifty with their backpacks while drinking Stella; no twat who clearly only sat next to me because he knows I want his iPad (see also: Kindle) and, best of all, no old people looking longingly at me sat down while they're stood up and genuinely thinking that after everything I go through on that journey that I fucking give the slightest shit if their knees are about to turn into crumble and make them die.

    No, no.

    None of that.

    Instead, allow me to introduce Kelly and Hayley: Two shrieking Scouse orange-coloured eyebrow-scoured shrews who, with their begotten trio of vile, disparate offspring and complete lack of social skills, have left my ears and nerves more shredded and abused than your average late-night council kennel mongrel.

    I board said train at just after 18.05, with a sparkly feeling of delight that I have somehow managed to cheat the Perpetual Cloud Of Bad Luck that follows my each and every transportation move.

    Alas, there is but one table almost free: But lo, it features a rather pretty girl sat by the window, who is wearing quiet earphones - always a bonus. She is wearing a pained expression, though, and I naturally assume it's the same one I affect when someone invades my double-double seat, too. Tough, I think. Share my pain.

    But then I discover really why she's looking so pained.

    The two pissed Mancunians that I, a trained observer no less, have somehow completely managed not to spot, are lounging over the back of the seats of the table on the other side of the aisle where Kelly and Hayley are sat.

    An enormously loud exchange is taking place about swapping numbers, meeting up, your kid's gorgeous, wish she was mine, I mean him, but yeah her as well, but sound, let's meet up, so what's your number, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, no way dickhead, oh sorry can't say that can I?, fuck, oh fuck!, I mean soz, shit!, Oxford Road! Textmetextmetextmetextmetextmetextme.....

    A collective sigh of relief is drawn throughout the carriage - imagine the noise a high tide makes when sucking itself out to sea, and then double it, and perhaps add some enthusiastic applause.

    It is in any case a long, slow, relieved sigh, that says with a certain poetic eloquence: "Thank fuck the cunts have left."

    But alas, again, no.

    Only two of them have.

    For Hayley and Kelly, who are sisters, and their offspring Kylie, Miley and Smiley, are to then spend the next 48 minutes variously:

    * On the phone to Manchester Cunts who are lashed out of their minds and presuming they're up for a quick fumble.

    * On the phone to the various nefarious fathers of their brats calling them, and I kid you not, "cunt", "dickhead", "meff", "blert", "twat", "tosser" and much, much more, at THE TOP OF THEIR VOICES while children Baz, Caz and Maz do shuttle runs up and down the carriage, only occasionally stopping to trip over my deliberately stuck-out leg and falling down to then burst into tears to which their mum(s) would scream at them: "STOP MAKING A FUCKING SHOW OF ME! I MEAN A SHOW!"

    Beneath their table lies a mountain of debris the United Nations would declare a slum; if the train journey was any longer, Lenny Henry would have been stood in the middle of it telling his usual shit jokes before trotting out the Comic Relief donations number. It is a mish-mash of toy cars, hats, squashed sausage rolls, shattered crisps, spilt juice, broken dolls, filthy clothing, empty cans, some crap magazines and, of course, somewhere underneath it all, the tickets they can't find for the inspector.

    Then Ally, or Cally, or Sally began to play up yet again. But they couldn't deal with the child because they were busy swapping the mobile back and forth on yet another conversation with the Mancunian Pricks which largely went like this:

    "I know. I know, I know, I know."

    "I know."

    "I know."

    "Me too. I feel the same, lid. I feel the same."

    "I know."

    "Honest? Me too. I know."

    "Really? I know."

    "I know."

    "No, I know."

    "No, I know you know."

    "Do you know?"

    "Good. Honest. Cos I know."

    "I know."

    "No I know."

    "No. Maybe Satdee."

    "I know."

    "Can't hear yuz babe me signals fucked. I mean gone."

    "I know."

    "Don't be ringing us all night cos yer pissed."

    "I mean drunk."

    "I know."

    "No, I really do know. And I really do fink same."

    "I know."

    And then their fucking infernal battery finally ran out.

    But then Wayne, or Dwayne, or Lorraine, started wriggling away from the "adults" again.

    So Hayley or Kelly dragged him back onto the seat, with the boy unfortunately banging his lip on the table.

    Cue hysterics.


    To a four year old, who, by my untrained eye, possibly has learning difficulties.

    Finally, we reach Lime Street.

    As ever, I have moments to jump off the train and leg it across the platforms and down onto the Wirral Line to get back to Hoylake.

    But I can't get off the Manchester train because Hayley and Kelly and the Three Prongs Of Forking Hell are blocking the aisle before I can get off.



    I missed the fucking connection.


    Good job, then, that my renowned patience and unflappable manner remain intact.

    Anyone got an axe?

  • Good Afternoon

    October 5, 2011

    It's been a while, I know...

    Now then.

    How's things?


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