Midgets fighting Lions

{December 25, 2011}   Slow train to nowhere

Ever order a steak in a restaurant only to be given porridge instead?


How about buying a cinema ticket and being handed a DVD to take home?

Perhaps not?

Well have you paid for champagne and been given a cup of tea?

Yeah, that seemed unlikely.

So why the hell when I pay to travel on a train can a train company stick me on a FUCKING BUS?

Of course I know it gets me to the same place – eventually. But so does a BMX when you’ve just bought a second hand car! You’d still have the dealer arrested right?

I mean come on! How about an apology at least? How about a look of shame on their faces as they fail so utterly to earn a penny of their income? How about a half price ticket for god’s sake?

And what I really don’t want to be told, as though it’s inevitable that I have to be treated like shit, is that engineering works have to happen.

Of course they have to happen. That’s part of running a fucking railway. But if a factory shuts down while its machines are serviced, does the owner still try to sell goods that won’t be fucking produced?

No he fucking doesn’t!

But worst of all is the times they choose. Why weekends? Or more importantly why Christmas Eve for Christ’s sake? The one day a year when, more than any other, the travelling we do has real meaning, real expectation and real passion behind it?

“Oh but more people travel on commuter days than weekends or bank holidays, and we want to minimise disruption.”

Bullshit! I go to the shops more often than I go to hospital… in an ambulance… with the lights blaring… clutching my chest as my heart punishes me for a lack of fucking exercise.

Do those journeys sound equal in importance? Do they? Do they really? I mean, am I nuts for thinking that a simple “like for like” attitude to anything is grotesquely incompetent beyond all reason?

No company ever watched Planes Trains and Automobiles (Rest in Peace your magnificent John Candy) and only a company could decide working is more important than time with our families.

So don’t shut the railways for Christmas Eve. Shut them down when I have to get to work for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to go to work. I don’t want to stand for the outrageous price of a seat I won’t get – with my nose stuck up some other sod’s armpit five mornings a week. I don’t want delivering like cattle to the slaughter via the job at which I metaphorically suck a banker’s dick for a living that amounts to fuck all.

Screw up that journey for me and I’ll thank you!

Because do you know what I do want to do? I do want to make the most of my weekends and I do want to get me, and the gifts I’ve accumulated or crafted for my loved ones, home to my wonderful family.

That’s the stuff that matters – being delivered to my loved ones for the rare couple of days we can wrap ourselves in love and pretend the world outside isn’t horrendously fucked up in just about everyway imaginable to anyone sane.

Merry Christmas.


et cetera