He was a big bloke, 50s, greying hair, pinstriped suit. Not keen on sitting against the direction the train was travelling in, he rearranged the place setting at the table so he could occupy a forward-facing position.
He took two pieces of toast and a croissant from the basket, with butter. As I enjoyed mine, with marmalade, I couldn't help but notice the noise he made while he ate. It made my stomach turn. My bacon toastie (it's worth travelling first class on Virgin trains just for these) came after he'd finished bread and pastry, while he was waiting for his hot breakfast. He took the opportunity to make the first of many calls on his mobile phone, "Hello mate, yeah, just looking now... hee, hee, hee... Gary Neville eh? Yeah mate. Look. What? Sorry mate, yeah, I'm on my way down to London on the train, I'm losing... eh?... yeah, I'm losing the signal. I'll call you back."
He aborted the call in time for the arrival of his breakfast: a plateful of fuckin' delishness that I'd have gone for had I not been concerned for the safety of my suit. He ate like a pig, scoffing down overloaded forkfuls of beans, egg, bacon, sausage. The noise was sickening. Once finished, he accosted one of the staff for more toast, which was slurped down with coffee.
Glad that feeding time at the trough was over, I started to read the papers for the meeting I was due to attend. It was interrupted in no time by the noise of what sounded like a siren, but turned out to be pigman's phone revving up to the theme from the Benny Hill show. Why let it play nearly the entire tune before answering when you've got hold of the thing?
Most of the two hour journey was disturbed by his phonecalls to people, I assumed colleagues, complaining about tips for horses that were "dead-certs" being no good. It seems that he worked in the betting industry, or perhaps for one of the newspapers that gives betting tips to their readers. "He told me, 'It's a dead cert, couldn't lose under any circumstances' and it came in fifth from eight".
Good. Who gives a crap?
I watched in amusement as he got up to use the lav, despite the sign to say that it was occupied being illuminated. He pushed the button to open the door. Stepped forward in anticipation of it opening. Stopped. Tried the button again. Waited. Benny Hill.
Yeah, mate.
I really don't mind people using mobiles on trains, but I find it alarming that some folk get so irritated when the calls get cut off. The train is moving at over 100mph through the countryside, dipstick. You should forget using your phone and perhaps pick up a book on table manners instead.
New York state of mind
Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighbourhood
Hop a flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood
But I'm taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line
I'm in a New York state of mind
Seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars and their limousines
Been high in the Rockies under the evergreens
But I know what I'm needing and I don't want to waste more time
I'm in a New York state of mind....
Some of the greatest song lyrics have been written about New York, generally out of love for the place.
Look what happens with you get a toothless wonder of a twat moving to your city and adopting it as his home. He writes a tribute song. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these are the lyrics to the Beautiful South's song "Manchester":
From Northernden to Partington it's rain
From Altrincham to Chadderton it's rain
From Moss Side to Swinton hardly Spain
It's a picture postcard of 'wish they never came'
And whilst that deckchair in the garden it makes no sense
It doesn't spoil the view or cause offence
Those Floridas, Bavarias and Kents
Make gentlemen wear shorts but don't make gents
So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater
From Cheetham Hill to Wytenshawe it's rain
Gorton, Salford, Sale pretty much the same
As I'm caught without my jacket once again
The raindrops on my face play a sweet refain
And as winter turns reluctantly to spring
For the clouds above the city there's one last fling
Swallows build their nests, chaffinch sing
And the sun strolls into town like long lost king
So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater
And the mood of this whole sodden place is melancholy
Like the sun came out to play, shone through the clouds
But dropped its lolly
And everyone looks so disappointed, so, so sorry
Like the rain blew into town, kidnapped the sun
And stole it's brolly
So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater
Download it and have a listen if you like. You'll be able to appreciate the musicianship and subtle tones of the singer. I hate that fucking twat Paul Heaton. The uneducated, talentless, toothless, thick, chinny cunt.
11 comments:
The acoustics in trains, planes and other automobiles only emphasize those sounds. It's disgusting; those people need a swift kick in the teeth.
Or a swift kick somewhere else. I'd do it for you but I'd be worried about the state of my shoe once I got it back.
Mmmm, bacon sandwich. The only thing better? Chip sandwich with cheese. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Based on the lyrics, frankly that song about Manchester is rubbish. *Adds name of singer to list of people to give a swift kick to*
Do you mean chips or crisps? Either way, I don't really fancy them with cheeses. Chip butty on buttered bread with plenty of salt and vinegar, so the butter starts to melt from the hot potatoes.
Defuckinlish.
I've no idea who that guy was, I bet he turns out to be some big wig from the northern press.
Manchester's a nice city these days - the centre of it at least. It's not really deserving of a tribute in the form of song though, especially one that only goes on about it's reputation for being rainy. Especially not from that twat.
Oh look he mentions Salford.
Did you pay him to put that in?
The wanker,outside,blindfold,last cigarette.
Whenever I go on the train, I always end up with a fat smelly barsterd sat next to me chompin' on a cold hamburger or something.
But then sometimes so does the person I'm sat next to, I suppose.
Didn't know you were a Billy Joel fan, Sniffy?...
I prefer the Barbra Streisand version, Ship.
He also mentions Swinton, which is where I am.
I wouldn't waste a cigarette or bullet on him, just get somebody to run him over in a stolen car.
Definately meant chip as in chips (aka french fries) not as in crisps (aka potato chips). Ewwww, a crisp sandwich? That borders on blasphemy. The sandwich has to be made with white bread (none of that healthy whole wheat crap), loads of butter (although I prefer marg), and tons of salt. Occasionally I will add a slice of processed cheese (hey, if you're going to clog your arteries, you might as well go crazy). Never tried with vinegar although I love the stuff.
I must ask - why do Brits call them "Buttys", is it because of the butter (seems slightly obvious but I've been wrong on one other occasion).
Sniffy, I have to admit that I'm in love with your use of "colorful" language. Whenever I need someone to say it like it is, I can come here and be guaranteed that there will be at least one use of "cunt", "twat", or some other delightfully descriptive phrase. Please don't stop!
I think it's because of the butter, yes. And yes to white bread.
Don't fucking tell me what bastard language I should use in my own cunting blog!
Tee hee stop it! You're getting me excited!
I was in Manchester the weekend after Gay Pride. It was great - much nicer than I expected. And it only rained once, I seem to remember...
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