CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
"Always be polite. Until it's time not to be polite."
I get on the train at London Paddington. About 45 minutes down the line is Didcot, where I live. I get a seat to myself (by which I mean there was no-one in the seat next to mine), get out the laptop and begin to watch the final half hour of The Dark Knight, having watched it up to that point on the train into London from Ramsgate.
About ten minutes before the train leaves, a woman gets on with three children of varying ages, a pushchair and lots of bags. She and her youngest child (who, incidentally, it way too old for the pushchair) sit directly behind my seat, while the other two and their assorted luggage sprawl across the opposite side of the carriage, so that they can talk on the journey.
Well, I say talk, I mean the children will laugh, shout, yelp, shout, babble and shout the moment they park their arses. I'll be honest, that wasn't the problem. It wasn't the designated quiet carriage, and the children weren't being obnoxious or abusive. They were just loud. Fucking overbearingly loud. But hey, I've got my headphones on and Batman's knocking seven shades of shit out of the Joker; What's it to me? If the noise level is bothering any other passengers, I'm sure they'll say something.
Then it starts. The youngest child, not content with screaming across the four or five feet to his siblings decides that his conversation needs more percussion, and starts booting the chair in front of him. The one I'm sitting in. With the first couple of kicks, I figure that he's just squirming around in his seat (after all, his mouth can't keep still, why should the rest of his body follow suit?) and he'll calm down in a moment. And calm down he does. After about a minute of constant booting. I glance round but manage to make no eye-contact with any of the party.
Fuck it, he's stopped. I'll say nothing.
Then about five minutes later it starts again. A mid-paced rhythmic distraction across the lower half of my torso to accompany the background shrieks. Not constant enough to be unbearable, but certainly not infrequent enough to be accidental. The mother of the children isn't ignoring them by the way, I can hear her talking to them, but she isn't trying to get them to quieten down at all. Can I assume that she's so preoccupied by the sheer volume of her offspring that she doesn't notice her youngest child's legs beating away at the seat in front of him? Essentially, the seat in front of her?
It's not constant, it's sporadic. I'm only on the train for 45 minutes, I'll say nothing.
This continues until Reading, where a man gets on the train, asks if the seat next to me is free, then sits and gets his own laptop out. The kicking starts again. He's listening to music on his laptop, and this will bother him way more than it bothers me. He looks around at the errant child and its careless guardian. Seeing the look on his face both before and after the glance, I figure he's came to the same conclusion as me. He says nothing.
We're at Didcot now. I pack away my things and leave the train. I'm not going to say anything on the way off, there isn't time.
And that's my journey. Home 10 minutes later, done and dusted. I don't know how far The Noisy Family were travelling, and I don't know if anyone asked them to keep it down once the train left Didcot Parkway. I said nothing. I know people who would have had a word, and I know people who wouldn't. Most of the ones who'd interject would have asked calmly and politely if the kid(s) could show a little more consideration for other passengers. Most of the ones who'd leave it wouldn't want to make a scene or just wouldn't let it bother them.
I don't care about making a scene, but there are two reasons why I said nothing:
1) Although she wasn't being gobby and obnoxious, one look at the mother's mannerisms suggested that she'd be a fucking nightmare if anyone dared suggest that perhaps her parenting skills weren't all they could be. And since I'd have to spend the rest of the journey on the same train (and more than likely have to lug my two heavy bags elsewhere should the situation escalate, walking past her to do so), it wasn't worth the grief, frankly.
And, more pertinently...
2) If this woman hasn't taught her kids to shut the fuck up and not continually kick anything within range by this point in their lives, it's hard to believe that the reasoning, concerned parent is about to appear now. Yeah, the kids weren't being abusive per se, but that was largely because they were in a 'good' mood. I bet they're a pain in the fucking arse when they're stroppy (as is their mother), and I'm not going to be the one to test that theory. This disregard for other people and property will come back to bite her in the arse when the kids are a bit older and she can't control them when she wants to. Why the fuck should I get involved? It's not my job to raise your kids, you lazy fuck. I can put up with this inconvenience; it's temporary. However, karma has rewarded your laziness with years of inconsiderate behaviour and solid unabating noise. Good luck for the future, I'm glad you don't live in Didcot.
And in case you're thinking "Now, now: Judge not lest ye be judged!", go ahead and judge me: I'm the guy keeping to himself without bags all over the seats, trying to watch a movie in peace and inconveniencing no-one. What of it?
That's why I said nothing. The journey wasn't long enough.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
I write this on the 1327 Cross Country service from Newcastle to Oxford, but I'll be publishing it from home. There doesn't appear to be any WiFi on this train, free or otherwise. Normally, I'd retract my earlier vitriolic ramblings towards East Coast Rail, but you know what? NO WiFi is better than shit Wifi. Because with no WiFi, I don't sit swearing for 15 minutes, willing it do do what it's supposed to. C'est la vie.
And so our week-away is over and we leisurely cruise our way back to Oxford. As much as I love Newcastle, it'll be good to get home again. I highly recommend The Staybridge, by the way. I've not got a massive history with hotels or hospitality, but I found it very relaxed there.
As you're aware, I've taken lots of photos this week, including an unfeasibly high number of a certain bridge (and there'll be more yet to come, by the time I've cropped and tweaked them). But it's not the architecture that makes the town for me, it's the people. These people, anyway:
Massive hugs go, as always, to my bro's, Porle and Ken. Carol and Nicky I know from old, and Lee, Michael and Emma I met for the first time (in person) this week. And because last night they witnessed Porle and myself's ear-bending rendition of Butterfly On A Wheel, and because they didn't throw objects to get us to stop, I love them all dearly. If I recall correctly, fact fans, last night was the first time in about 10 years that Necropolis have performed in front of an audience of any description. The Force willing, it won't be another 10 years before we do it again.
Train people:
1) There's a chap sitting opposite us (aged around 40-50) who's had to buy another ticket. He bought one online and printed it off but it's expired. The inspector-chap said to him "That's a day return and it's got yesterday's date on it". So what I think he's done is go from York to Newcastle yesterday, stay overnight, then try to blag the return journey today. Because logically, he'd have had to come up this morning and get away with using an out-of-date ticket. If he'd had it checked and approved on the way up today, he'd have mentioned this in his flimsy denial of any wrongdoing. Technicalities aside, he protested just the right amount for everyone in this end of the carriage to know fine-well that he'd been busted fair and square, and he fucking knew it. I concealed a smile, anyway.
2) There's a woman with her husband and child in the adjacent seating group. The child's about 6(ish), and is chatty in the way that kids are, but he's not loud and not annoying. Unlike his mother. Every time she tells him to be quiet, she does so in a voice that's much, much louder than his. So that people who haven't even noticed the young one's presence, are suddenly bombarded with this (not swearing, but certainly angry and overbearing) mother. The dad, meanwhile, hasn't uttered a sound. I suspect he's inwardly groaning and wondering how his life has lead him to this point. "Not everyone wants to hear your voice!" she informed her offspring. Meanwhile, the irony of her statement had grown so dense, it started to develop its own gravitational pull.
3) Who the hell gives an eight-year-old an iPad? I mean, she's not exactly 'throwing it around', but it'll end in tears, you mark my words. It's not a fucking Etch-a-Sketch.
4) Two girls got on the train at Derby. A newspaper and an empty Stella bottle had been left on the seats where they wanted to sit. One of the girls picked these up, walked down the carriage in our direction and found another empty seat to put them on. In doing this, she walked further than she would have if she'd just gone back to the door she came in through and put them in the fucking bin, the idiot. No, I didn't say anything. Why should I intervene? If evolution takes its course, it'll be that same stupidity that gets her killed and removes her from the gene pool.
Everyone else on the train is fine. The fact that I can have a beer when I witness these things, is the only reason I tolerate train travel. Well, that and the fact that I don't drive; but then I couldn't have a beer there. Apparently. And all that remains is for me to thank the people who've made this week so great, and you dear reader, for wading through this every day (if this is the first of my posts you've read, why not go back to The Age of Steam, and earn yourself that thank you?).
Normal blog posts will now resume: Film reviews, Star Wars ramblings, and general complaining about people annoying me.
Cheers.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
(or Goodbye Broons, Hello BROON!)
And so, from the city where my father was born, to the one where I was. I lived just outside Newcastle for the first few months of my life, then we moved to just outside Durham (around 13 miles south) and moved house a couple of times more over the years, but always stayed around Durham / Chester-le-Street. When relocated down to Kent in '93, it was easier just to tell people I was from Newcastle because a) it's technically true, b) a lot of people in the south have no fucking clue where Durham is, and c) if you say "County Durham" with a Northern accent, an alarming number of Southeners hear the word 'county' and an accent they can't place, then ask what part of Ireland that is. I wish I was kidding.
It's also worth pointing out that since the Tyne Bridge is on the label (and indeed, cap) of a bottle of Newcastle Brown, that visual reminder is what's stayed with me over the years, and I do get a little misty-eyed every time I see it in front of me (the bridge, not the beer. Well, actually…). So Newcastle is, from a certain point of view, home. Even though I only really know my way around the city centre. And even though I haven't spent any significant amount of time here for so long that everything in the city centre has changed, and there's not much need to know my way around.
We'll be doing a bit of the cultural thing here (and there's plenty of it), but I think what I'm looking forward to the most is catching up with friends, old and new. You'll hear about that.
The journey from Edinburgh to Newcastle was uneventful, by the way, other than a high percentage of rail passengers who are apparently unable to lock a toilet door. There was not only the woman who huffily and hurriedly closed the door in my face when I almost inadvertently revealed her to the people at that end of the carriage, but I saw this happen several times over a 90min journey. I can understand why she closed the door, of course, but I thought the angry sigh was a bit fucking rich. Don't take it out on me because you don't know how the lock works. I only hope she's learned her lesson and will in future either sing constantly at a loud volume throughout any toilet motions, or will perhaps phone her travelling companion from within the toilet and get them to confirm that the door is locked and the 'engaged' light is showing on the outside. Perhaps it would be easier for that companion just to accompany her and stand guard outside the toilet, letting prospective users know that "Sorry, there's someone in there, and she doesn't know how to lock the door. If you'd like to take your seat, I'll give you a shout when she's finished."
I shouldn't have a go just at this incapable woman though, because as I said, it happened to other people as well. Was the lock difficult to master? Did the lock require a coin, or a special key from the train conductor? Did you have to solve a puzzle from The Crystal Maze in order to activate the locking mechanism? Was there perhaps a troll or a wizard who asks you a question and won't lock the door without a correct answer?
No, none of these. You turn the handle round and the door locks, and a light comes on outside telling people they can't come in. It is, as the bastard meerkats on the television say, simples. With that in mind, it's amazing how you can convince the public they need insurance from an unfunny talking meerkat, when they can't lock a toilet door. This should tell you all you need to know about people, I think.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
