Into you like a train.
I figured out a while ago, that when ‘one’ is afforded the opportunity to traverse between the great cities of this fair Isle, particularly when someone else is paying and the gods have decreed there’s no reason for delays, you’re unlikely to find a less stressful mode of transport than a first class seat in one of Richard Branson’s trains.
Book it far enough in advance then avail yourself to every complimentary drink/snack/newspaper and it’ll cost you about the same as some ‘ethically sourced’ coffee and cake in the latest hipster approved (overpriced but with decent coffee) pop up delicatessen that, to be fair probably occupies the former site of a shit pound-shop on Lower Clapton Road.
Abu Hamza is probably more likely to find himself sitting in the first class section of a Virgin Atlantic jumbo jet than I ever am, so as I ease myself into my seat on the 11.07 Euston to Liverpool Lime Street, I’m in full-on Joan Collins mode as I throw a self-congratulatory,
“Ain’t life grand, I’ll have a cappuccino and a copy of the Guardian please” kinda smile at the trolley-dolly, before plugging in my IPhone and headphones.
Such is my sorry sense of privileged interloper into the world of premium rate transportation, I’m almost tempted to ask the ‘cabin-crew’ to perform some sort of ‘pre-flight’ safety demonstration, but decide the aural delights of Time Machine by Shack played at full volume will suffice as I grin inanely at the passenger sitting in the seat adjacent to me.
It soon becomes clear that in the unlikely event a loss of cabin-pressure or I tire of the song writing genius of Mick Head and Co, as we glide towards our rendezvous later that day, (We’ve got an interview lined up) I’ll have Merseyside’s equivalent of Quentin Crisp on hand to keep me entertained. A very pissed and clearly excitable one at that.
“Excuuuuuussssssseeee me luv, any chance of a voddy and coke here please, I’m spitting feathers here yaknow.”
It’s clearly going to be an interesting journey!
By the time we’re pulling into the land that beauty forgot, or Milton Keynes to give it its full title, my erstwhile travelling companion is steaming like the Flying Scotsman powered by crack-infused coal. He’s decided he needs more vodka and coke to alleviate the obvious trauma he’s experiencing as a result of simply being on a train passing through…
“Milton Keynes……oh my fuuuuuckin days look at the state of this place luv, hahah, it makes me Ma’s road in Speke look like Oxford Street at crimbo…..hahahahahahahahah ‘gerrus another voddy luv please.”
The overweight, sweaty, balding, businessman sitting at the table in front of him, makes no effort to disguise his obvious intolerance toward anyone not wearing an ill-fitting, shit suit and the cheek to be sitting in a carriage not being paid for on expenses, by raising the volume of his mind numbing phone conversation about key performance indicators. I decide to return to the rest of Time Machine and scribble a few more notes relating to my interview with Mick later.
I’m soon, utterly, beautifully lost to my thoughts as I sit staring out of the window, softly beaming at the splendour of the English countryside in the full glow of an almost foreign summers day. It’s one of ‘those’ moments when it’s not hard to feel grateful for my current opportunity to chase a few dreams, I’m about as happy as I’m capable of allowing myself to be! Even Milton Keynes looks nice, yeah, guess I’m pretty pleased with my current situation all things considered.
To be continued…..
Simon Mason 