All Aboard! FUCKERS

Picture a shadowy figure waiting on a European train platform with rain spraying in his face.

To the casual observer that sentence must conjure up a romantic scene. Maybe Humphrey Bogart waiting for his long lost love who may or may not show, or a soldier who has finished fighting and is waiting to catch the train home to his Fiancée. Or it may conjure up a scene of a sullen man standing in the pissing rain, waiting for that bastard delayed-again South West train service so he can board it and ride it to his shitty job on the other side of town.

If you want to indulge in the first and second scenarios, then I suggest you visit your local DVD store. The third scenario can be caught at Clapham Junction Weekday mornings and Feltham Station Weeknights. The first two scenarios will have tonnes of romance, the only way you will find romance in the third scenario is if you head to the near by park and watch the Squirrels fornicate.

You see, now that my travel times have expanded like a pregnant Dog’s guts, I am finding myself becoming very familiar with various train stations around town (well, two in particular). I did mention that the overland train is more comfortable than the Tube (you are almost always guaranteed a seat), but what it lacks in discomfort it more than makes up for in unreliability.

I spend every morning listening to the Station’s PA system, as some bored fucker reads out today’s excuse why the train has been delayed. Poor visibility, Train fault, Signal fault, Driver fell ill, somebody threw themselves in front of the Gatwick Express (though that last one was pretty cool).

On Monday the South West train was on time, running like clockwork. I watched it pull up from the platform stair case - but couldn’t jump on board. There was three old hags in front of me, waddling up the stairs like a flock of stoned Penguins. I didn’t have enough room to overtake the ancient turds, and had to sit teary eyed and watch the other passengers board. I got to the platform in time for the doors to shut right in front of my angry fucking face.

The next train was due in four minutes, and arrived 25 minutes later.

I passed the time by scowling.

Seriously, London has sculptured my scowling techniques into masterful levels. A small dog strolled in front of me the other day, I glared at it so hard it burst into flames.

I finally boarded the train with a mob of fellow disgruntled travellers, and rode the Metal Beast through the first two stops. It was between stops 2 and 3 (Twickenham and my beloved Feltham) that a new twist to our journey was revealed. A stressed voice croaked through the train PA system, letting us know that due to the extreme delays, the train would not be stopping in Feltham it was going to fly straight-the-fuck-through. We were told to get off at the next station (Staines), and catch another train back if we wanted Feltham. Everybody looked at each other kind of shocked, and a middle aged woman sitting next to me asked the Ticket Collector if the Driver was serious. The Collector gave her a look of such extreme Apathy that even I was impressed with his nonchalance, shrugged his shoulders, and walked off down the train.

The Cougar (which I named her after the following violent outburst) leapt to her feet, grabbed the Collector by the shirt and let loose with an almighty tirade. I only just got the gist of her rant (this was about 9:30 so I hadn’t fully woken up for at least another few hours) but the basic points were – How could the driver skip a Station? Everybody was already half an hour late! How dare you walk away from me when I’m talking to you!? And then The Cougar turned to everybody on the carriage and angrily demanded “How many people on this train need to stop at Feltham? Give me a show of hands!”

Half the people put their hands up because they needed to get off at Feltham, the other half put their hands up too – because they were terrified of The Cougar. She was a White-Collar Tornado letting loose with unbridled fury, and I found her naked aggression arousing. Though to be fair it was 9:30 am (early), so my morning erection hadn’t completely gone down anyway. The end result was that the Ticket Collector (now wearing an expression like a castrated Sheep) called the Driver and requested he stop the train at Feltham. The Driver sighed through the PA, and asked us to all get off as quickly as possible. The passengers got off chuckling at what a completely fucking absurd journey to work it had been, and I ended up fucking The Cougar in the Station Car park.

(Like I said - early morning so my memory is a bit hazy, that last part might not have happened).

The irony of my situation does not escape me, as only six weeks ago I was walking to work, and three years ago it used to be a fucking ten minute drive. Now I’m spending half my life loitering around train stations like a mutha fucka. The problem with Clapham Junction is there’s nothing to look at while you’re waiting, save for the rats running over the tracks. At least at Feltham Station I can amuse myself by watching the pregnant 14 year olds squawk at each other, or the local boys head butt the coke machine trying to get free drinks. I did strike up a conversation with a toothless recovering Heroin Addict whom I provided with money to catch the bus. She told me she was on the Methadone program, and also that she had received a Christmas Card from her Ex boyfriend whom she had broken up with nearly thirty years ago. The Ex had written her a Merry Christmas, and also begged her to take him back.

Christ, maybe there’s romance in the third scenario after all.

Peace and Goodwill to all Cougars.