November 26, 2011
Your tired, frazzled, yearning-for-weekend head has been unexpectedly and ungraciously stuffed like sage into a cheap stinking turkey carcass into the hot, beating, swollen belly of the permanently out of wedlock Planet Poor, in which resides a thousand sweating faces, a zillion angry "old" people, a blond, suited, absolute cunt with a French horn, and a three and a half foot high little twat with a high pitched voice and freckles, whose thick father is trying to pick a fight with a man in his eighties in temperatures something close to the surface of the sun.
Can't, can you?
But I didn't have imagine it. I just fucking did it.
IT is 5.46pm precisely.
I'm at Manchester Piccadilly, platform 14, feeling almost giddy that a) the train I'd missed was late, thereby offering me the opportunity - amazingly - to steal back some of the time of which I am persistently robbed, and b) I've used all of my journalistic cunning/travelling nous/cuntishness to wheedle my slender way towards the front of the mob waiting to board the train.
Believe it or not, I have become that anal about these fucking journeys that I actually know the exact place on the platform to stand so that when the 37-mins-past-the-hour train arrives - late, of course, naturellement - I am the first ugly face that the alighters behold.
Because I need a double seat.
And a table.
And I don't fucking care that you're a woman, or old, or disabled, or pregnant, or lame, or cancerous, or albino, or a blind.
Tough, I say.
Grow some fucking eyes.
It's not my fault you're shit at being a cunt like me who can wheedle his bony self towards a double seat&table.
This fella, dear reader, is sitting down, come what may.
THE French horn is now lay half on my laptop bag, and half on my face, as the big fat blond cunt is apparently at ease trying to insert his instrument into my ear while allowing very, VERY fat people to squeeze past him towards a buffet car that DOES NOT EXIST on a two carriage cross-country route to Liverpool.
Same very VERY fat people then tumble people aside in all directions on the fucking way BACK in case they missed the non-existent buffet car at the end of the train the fat fuckers have just come from. This is, bear in mind, a fifty fucking minute journey. Unesco need not worry.
As the Fats squeeze their way back, French Horn Cunt not only knocks my glasses off with his French Fucking Horn Case, but he does so while standing on my fucking toes at the same time.
We're almost at Warrington.
"WHO the fuck do you think you're talking to, eh? Who the fuck? Who the fucking fuck? Dickhead."
"You, yer prick. Who the fuck d'ya think you're talking to? Dickhead. D'ya wanna take this outside?"
"Dad, I need a wee."
JAMIE/Wayne/Jack/Tommyfella/Tattoo/Cunt barked and yelped at my feet for 57 whole minutes. Waggled his little ADHD head against my shins. Actually punched the top of my feet a couple of times "cos it sounds like a drum".
When The Little Fucking Ginger Bastard finally moved towards the front of the train - three inches, that is - his dad managed to pick a fight with an octogenarian for allegedly touching up his son, which, to be fair to paedophiles, I can't imagine any of them going near in a month of Sundays. We're talking about a child you could possibly never tire of punching, and just when you have run out of steam, up pops another burst of vigorous energy that makes you want to smash the little cunt in a bit more.
But the Octo man didn't help, either.
Get this: A Birkenhead-dwelling Man United FAN OAP picking fights with a six-year-old Little Fucking Ginger Bastard.
I'M buying a fucking Taser.