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.
PART ONE:
I haven't had any coffee for five days.
I've had some caffeine, admittedly, but not a lot. Basically a can of Diet Pepsi at lunchtime and that's been it. It's been in a vain*1 bid to improve the condition of my skin. It's not like I'm The Singing Detective or anything, but as I've previously noticed, it's caffeine that gives me spots etc, despite being in my late thirties. As I've also previously noticed, caffeine is quite difficult to give up if you use it to be 'on fire' at work*2. I enjoy being on fire at work, as it makes other people in the office look a bit shit by comparison.
So, as coincidence would have it, my jar of Douwe Egberts ran out last Friday, and I thought I'd give a caffeine-free environment a go. I can't drink that shit from the machine in the canteen, largely because it's not coffee*3, so there'd be no temptation to get pumped on a slow morning. So in place of the coffee? Water. That's got to do me some good, right? I mean sure, I'll be at the toilet every twenty minutes *4, but that's the H2O doing its thing. It's all good, yeah?
Yeah?
Apparently not. After five days of drinking a moderate to large amount of water, I'm far more intimately acquainted with the office-toilets, and I have the skin-tone of a fucking fourteen year old. It's actually worse than it was last weekend. The lack of supplementary energy has also resulted in me spending Monday to Wednesday having the reaction-time and general sluggishness of a teenager, too. There's only one thing for it. Abstinence can fuck right off.
In the same situation as before, I found myself at St. Pancras International, with twenty five minutes to kill before my train. It had been a long day so far, and I'd already come to the conclusion that the lack of caffeine was doing me no good. Now would be a good time to break this ridiculous charade. Looking at the Departures board, I could see the faux-quaint, ethically conscious Sourced beneath, with three or four people queued up (a slight number given the busy rush hour people-traffic). Behind me, the multinational behemoth that is Starbucks, with a queue of folks snaking back and outside their premises. Which one should I go for?
Well, remembering how long it took me to get served last time, I went to Starbucks. It was pretty much exactly how I like my retail transactions to be. I give them money, they give me stuff, no-one gives each other shit. Lovely. £2.40 has got me a Fucking Massive*5 Americano with an extra shot, and I can't tell which is going faster: this train, or my brain. Parts of my psyche are waking up like Ash at the end of Army of Darkness, and wondering exactly how long I've been asleep.
You remember that bit in 1978's Superman where he's discovering his powers and ends up running alongside that train? That'll be me when I get this finished, mind.
You can tell I'm back on the coffee, I've made three screen-references in one blogpost. This week's Star Wars A-Z post will be up on Sunday or Monday, by the way. I've got to put together a video for it, and between having a busy week and no fucking energy, I haven't been able to get round to it. Sorry, like. Although I doubt you were on the edge of your seat for it anyway ;)
Going to go and read comics, now. Ciao.
*1 vain, in every sense of the word, apparently. *2 Not literally "on fire". Obviously. *3 It's brown, hot and comes out of a coffee machine. The similarity ends there. *4 And I was. Every twenty bastard minutes. *5 That's right, fact-fans. 'Venti' is Italian for 'Fucking massive'.
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.
Another beautiful day in the hilly city of Edinburgh, and we've got a couple of hours to kill before our train. That in mind, I'm sitting in the park on Princes Street, self-indulgently reflecting on my time here, whilst I listen to a very average bagpipe player up by Waverley Station. He's better than some we've heard, but he's still very average.
It's occurred to me this morning that while I've certainly enjoyed Edinburgh, I don't feel like I've really connected with it at all. It's not the first time I've been here, but as there's been a 21 year gap, it may as well be for all that I remember about it. I've got distant family in this part of the world (not in Edinburgh itself, otherwise I'd have met up with them), and it's where my Dad was born, but I definitely feel like a visitor. I suppose unless you're spending time with family, when you're visiting the city and being in the same places as the tourists, you are a tourist. I don't feel any shame in that, I just thought something might click into place while I was here.
In other news, I remembered to count the number of pubs and bars on Leith Walk, this morning. Twenty three, most of which were open and populated. And with the sole exception of the Theatre Royal bar, there isn't one (not. one.) that I'd consider safe. The 'posh' pubs are the ones that don't have bars (iron or concrete) across the windows. Seriously. I know I keep mentioning it, and I know it sounds snobby, but there's something very scary about a mile-long street of people getting pissed before 10:30am. For once, I'm not even jealous.
Oh, also worth mentioning: They've got free wi-fi in Princes Street Gardens, Edinburgh. Free, mind. East Coast Rail can definitely fuck off. Got to use their train again shortly. Hmmmf.
Goodbye Scotland. It's been emotional.
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'm on a train as I write this. The excitement, eh? Whizzing through the English countryside at speeds approaching the limits the frail human condition can stand! Isn't it..? Hmm? Nah, me neither, really.
As we left King's Cross, I picked up my copy of Andrew Martin's 'The Necropolis Railway', a Victorian murder mystery set around the railway sheds of Waterloo, and the passenger opposite me was reading some book or other about 'Great Rail Journeys of the UK' that she'd bought from WHS (sticker still on the front). Distracted by the movement, and looking out of the window of this unfamiliar train, the landscape got greener as we got faster and left London behind. It occurred to me that we'd be in Edinburgh in just four and a half hours, and how marvellous these new fangled trains are! Maybe I should pull out my laptop and fuse the age of steam with this digital contraption at my fingertips? At the very least, I should see if I can get free WiFi*.
And so, I opened the computer and set about writing a piece regarding my childhood fascination with all things rail-based… Then I remembered I'm not that fussed about them, actually.
As a nipper, we made most of our journeys by car, with my mum taking the wheel for journeys around as far south as Scarborough, and as far north as Edinburgh (we lived just outside of Durham, so that's about a 150 mile radius, I think). Day trips to Blackpool (and there were many) were courtesy of Bob Smith's Coaches of Langley Park, and once I was old enough to be knocking about on my own, I'd get the bus over to Newcastle for records and beer etc. There is a train line that runs from Durham, through Chester-le-Street and into Newcastle, but we just used to end up getting the bus (the cheaper, but slower option). I think the train stations seemed so far away from where we wanted to be that we couldn't be arsed to walk the extra distance, and pay more for the journey.
On the occasions that we went on holiday 'daan saaf', we got the train if it was with my parents, but went by coach if it was with my grandparents. My granda had a great distrust of trains. "You don't know where they're going," he'd say, "there's nothing on the front like there is with a bus." The big boards with the destinations, stops and platform numbers would be pointed out to him, but four-wheels was his style, and he preferred the coach (after a life of pit-work, he worked in the garage of Bob Smith's and got a lot of free travel. Being "coaches" rather than "buses", they frequently didn't have the destination on the front either, but if you're in another town and you see a Bob Smith's bus, I guess that's the one you want. Either way, I suspect the irony was lost on him, sadly).
It wasn't until I moved to Margate in 1993 that I started getting the train regularly. I got a job over in Whitstable, and the easiest way to work was to get the Connex SE (at the time) line along the Kent Coast which travels from Ramsgate to Victoria. it was only a 20 minute journey, but I felt like a proper commuter. Which is to say it quickly became expensive, tedious and in no way 'exciting'. There's very little excitement to be had waiting for your delayed train due to some selfish bastard who's jumped in front of a train, apparently so wrapped up in themselves, that they don't stop to consider me getting home from work as a priority. Honestly, I ask you. I made the commute until early 2000 when the business moved down to Broadstairs, which was close enough for me to cycle (and sometimes walk) every day.
Once I moved to Oxford in 2001, I was using the train for visits down to Margate, and quick jaunts into central Oxford and Reading. But still no great train romance, and I'm so used to the journey I just blank it out most of the time with a book or my laptop. Like I'm doing now. Oh.
Anyway, I'm on my way to Scotland (then Newcastle) with Miss Magpie, for a week of mooching around and doing touristy things and that. I haven't been to Edinburgh since around 1990, so I'm not going to try and remember any of it (in fact, these may be the last words of mine you read, when I'm stabbed in a pub for having an English accent. I know what you're thinking, "oh, you shouldn't say things like that". But me saying things like that is my insurance policy. My way of making sure it doesn't happen, because that would be ironic, wouldn't it? So ironic, in fact, that it's probably more likely to happen because of me writing this. Oh). And like the bad Geordie I am, I haven't spent any leisure-time in Newcastle for the best part of 8 years, either. I shall pay my penance in many public houses, I assure you.
I'll be posting up a few photos of things that catch my eye (so probably bad grammar on signage, rather than breathtaking architecture), as will Miss Magpie. Her pictures will be prettier than mine, but they'll be taken in the same places. Think of it like a comics-crossover. Like when Marvel did Secret Wars, and everyone was appearing in everyone else's comics. Only there'll probably be less superheroes in mine...
Anyway, I'm going to go and enjoy the train journey now, and pretend I'm not trapped in a speeding metal tube with jabbering children and a lady sitting opposite me who, while she's pleasant enough, won't keep still (and hasn't even started her new book about 'Great Rail Journeys of the UK'. The sticker on the front of her book was 'Buy One, Get One Half Price', but I've no idea what other book she bought. She's not reading that one either).
The only age of steam I shall be experiencing is if I buy a coffee from the pleasant man with his inconvenient snack-chariot.
Post Script: Left Oxford, beautiful sunny day, looking to be a scorcher in the afternoon. Arrived in Edinburgh, pissing with rain, go figure. Many thanks go to the beautiful people of Twitter for letting me know that it's Summer in the South, and Grim Up North. Always.
*Oh, and East Coast Railway? If you're going to offer 15 minutes of free WiFi, maybe you should make it not shit-slow and laggy and barely connectable. That way, I might be tempted to actually pay for some extra minutes. As it stands? Fuck you, I'll be posting this up at Starbucks. Cross Country offer free WiFi for the whole journey, and web pages load in under a minute! Tch.
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.
