Travel Silliness

Time for another trip, a double header, the first part of which is to Harrogate. We are out early to get the journey into London done. Having dealt with the incompetents of Southern Fail and Thamestink enough over the years, we are giving ourselves some additional leeway to the journey to allow for their random delays and cancellations.

Instead of going their suggested route of into Victoria and having the Southern fail barriers fail to recognise our advance tickets, and then having to schlep through on the underground on another very hot day, we went for a train to St Pancras and the couple of hundred steps across York Road into King’s Cross. (Being in a silly mood, I do wonder if his mood will ever improve – king’s cross again, how about king’s mildly annoyed, or even king’s not overly bothered for a change.)

We have time to get a drink as we wait for the last possible moment before rushing for the train. Not by choice of course, but because, as they do at mainline stations in London, they leave it until the last possible moment to announce the platform number, and then wonder why they have stampede related deaths every twenty minutes or so.

My silliness continues apace as the first stop is Stevenage. I’m asking whether he has a brother, something like Malcolm age perhaps, or if there are any other members of the age family we are going to meet on the journey.

The train is running slowly up until this point, something to do with signalling problems at Hatfield, which meant no trains were stopping there, and everything else was crawling through. Though I do ponder on what kind of hats they are growing in the field there. It’s not going to get any better readers.

Then there is a longer run to the next station of Grantham. I’m not sure who they are granting the ham to. Only to find when Helen comes back from the buffet car that it was to us, with cheese, in a warm ciabatta. Very nice too.

And whilst we were stopped there, watching all this granting of hams they announced, ‘change here for Skegness’. If ever there was an announcement to warm my heart. I can’t hear Skegness without childhood memories coming through. I’m sure anyone Leicester born and bred will think of day trips or weeks during the July fortnight away on the Lincolnshire riviera. Mablethorpe, Chapel St Leonards, Ingoldmells and the capital of them all, Viva Skegvegas.

It was the only place we were distinctly told we couldn’t go to when as teenagers we had a Midlands rail, go anywhere weekly pass during one summer holidays. Mainly because to be back on time we would have to leave there before we arrived.

Further up the line and the next bloke’s house, good old Don Caster. We’re quite familiar with his sister Lan, and are aware of his brother Tad as well. I could go on with his family tree, but no one wants or needs that. (Not that that usually stops me of course.)

The announcement at good old Don Caster’s said to change there for trains to various places including Cleethorpes. One of the places we did make it to on that teenage weekly ticket. As kids, our trip to Cleethorpes lasted about ten minutes. Due to hold ups it was almost time to go home as soon as we got there, a mad dash outside the station to the front and back ensued.

Another of the places mentioned was Grimsby Town, which I’m sure is missing the full moniker, as it usually comes followed by Nil. I went there in my twenties in a minibus of drunken Leicester City fans, but that one really is a tale for another time.

And next up we were off to a wake in a field, by the gate at the west of the field. What? No? Oh, Wakefield Westgate, nothing to do with dead people at all.

As with the stop at Don Caster where we could see the impressive looking Minster near the station, there are some lovely looking grand buildings there if you look out the correct side of the train, including a cathedral that I’ve not been to.

I have been to the castle at Leeds. Again? What do you mean Leeds Castle is nowhere near Leeds? So, they weren’t telling me when I went that the castle was made of stone, but that it was near Maidstone.

We had been running late to the problems down in the field full of hats, but when we got to Leeds (without a castle), we just sat there. Only to be told after a while we could be there for some time, and that the trip to Harrogate might be cancelled as there was a medical emergency at the next station. They were quick at giving out the delay repay details, but with only a few minutes to spare before it would be a full refund, they miraculously cleared the line and we carried on.

To Horsforth. The portal through which the whores come forth (and their punters usually come first). Oh, it’s not spelt like that, and depending on who is mumbling the announcements, it isn’t pronounced like that either.

And then finally we are at Harrogate. Time to dump the bags at the hotel and set out to explore. For a change we aren’t winging it. I’ve looked online and found that there are history trails around the town, and I’ve even downloaded an app for it.

Yes, I did say an app. Single use for a weekend and then delete it. Plus, I’ll probably pick up the paper copy when I can.

Harrowing in Harrogate

It is our first Crawley Town away game. Nothing like a five-hundred-mile round trip to start these things off. We were making a weekend of it, going up Friday and coming back Sunday to do some sightseeing along the way.

Crawley haven’t had the best start in the league; played two, lost two, both 1-0, and only the one shot on target, and that was in injury time in the second game. We are rock bottom of the table, the strongest team in the league. But we played a lot better on Tuesday night in a win against league one Bristol Rovers, which got us a home draw against Premier League Fulham in round two. Harrogate Town meanwhile won their first game of the season 3-0 at home against Swindon Town, only to lose their second game away at Crewe Alexandra by the same score line, and they sit in mid table.

Being up the night before we were surprised to find that the team were staying in the Crowne Plaza as well, and on the whole their demeanour was a happy and relaxed one at breakfast. I’m not convinced that the same could be said about the manager Kevin Betsy. His assistant was telling him to relax, but after being the last down for breakfast, he had a coffee only and wandered away looking worried and distracted by his phone.

It is a lovely walk to the grand along wide roads lined by grand houses, and across wide sweeping open parkland. The small south stand of Harrogate’s ground is well hidden behind trees, with small corner entrances. I ask about a programme before going in, which I’m glad I do as they are only available before entering the ground. We get drinks, but aren’t allowed lids, which Helen isn’t happy about. Judging by the sticky metal floor in the stands, there is a lot of spillages from not having lids. Being in the south stand does mean that we are in the shade, and on a sweltering day like today, that can only be a good thing. Our seats are in line with the six-yard area, and on the front row, so not bad at all.

There is a good smattering of fans for such a journey and considering there were train strikes on the day. A number of them did seem a bit confused when they bought their pies only to be faced with the question of “do you want peas and gravy with that?”

Pre-match there was a whole host of different music playing, and they had a radio DJ in between songs and doing announcements. They might have been better keeping her to do the match announcements, as the bloke doing them was hilariously bad at trying to read out a number of the Crawley Town players’ names.

In the warmup there was some sharp shooting, but there was one spectacularly high and wide effort that not only managed to find its way over the east stand, but also over the much higher netting behind it, to smash against the chimney breast of the house next to the ground. I’m not sure Harrogate will be getting that ball back in a hurry.

Harrogate are playing in yellow shirts and black shorts (and looking like a pound shop Watford), with Crawley in their home kit.

Being at an away game, the Crawley support is even more partisan than usual. Every decision is questioned louder. There are more direct words at the officials. Although most of it is more than fair. It looks as if because Harrogate are playing in black short, that the officials with their black shorts are acting as if they are the same side. Absolutely nothing is being given to Crawley, no matter how blatant or obvious.

Into four minutes of first half injury time the first match ball is out over the south stand from a Jake Hessenthaler clearance.

I didn’t recognise the half time play list at all. It hadn’t been a great first half from either side.

However, we start the second half much more brightly, there is early pressure, and we get a shot off on target. Only to go back to sleep. Nine minutes in the second ball disappears over the south stand with a Harrogate clearance that deflects off James Tilley.

With about quarter of an hour left in normal time after some ebb and flow in the game, Crawley get a cross in, and Tilley hits the cross bar with a looping header. There are shouts of corner all around us, but I don’t think the keeper got a touch.

They announce the crowd as being 1,304, but don’t mention how many away fans. I tried counting them a couple of times during the game and got 98 both times.

A few minutes later we manage a quick break, and the ball comes to sub James Balagizi whose shot goes over the bar in the best chance of the game so far. The game moves into six minutes of injury time and with only a couple of minutes left the ball comes through to Balagizi in the box again, and as he lines up his shot it seems as if he is fouled. OK, it was a blatant penalty, not given. And is if by instant karma, the ref then trips over his own feet as Harrogate clear the ball. That deserved a bigger jeer/cheer than it got.

There was a late Harrogate chance that just missed, and the final whistle goes to bring the 0-0 to a close and put us all out of our misery.

It is Crawley’s first point of the season, and it was enough to take us off the bottom of the league table, jumping us up three places to the giddy heights of 21st. (Still not high enough to see us on our own programme’s league table if the formatting stays the same.)

The rest of the fans start the long journey home, and we walked back to the hotel through glorious sunshine and beautiful architecture. After we had clapped the players off and we had picked up all our stuff to leave we went past the snack bar on the way out. It was still open, still doing hot food and drink, and cold drinks. Why can’t we do the same at our home games? The post-match curry was a bit later than usual, and not at the Downsman for a change, instead at a local curry house called The Shalimar. (Not quite the correct spelling, but I was humming “Take That To The Bank,” as it certainly wasn’t a “Night To Remember.”)

Looking at the game there were some dreadful refereeing decisions. One called for a foul by Francillette, which was when he had the ball, passed it, and got caught by a Harrogate player following through, who himself fell over and writhed around on the ground. Until the writhing started no free kick had been given. To add insult, it was a coming together that saw Francillette have to ultimately leave the pitch injured. To the extent that when he did appear again towards the end of the second half it was on crutches (I’m not why he made the trek around to the dug out on crutches unless he really wanted to.)

A couple of minutes later one of the Crawley players went down with an obvious head injury, but the linesman, who was stood less than five yards away didn’t flag for a stoppage, and it was thirty seconds later that the ref blew for a stoppage, and only then reluctantly as the rest of our players (and all of our fans) were screaming at the officials about the head injury.

I thought the standard of refereeing at our level was poor last season, but it seems to have kicked on and is worse this season. I’m not sure what it is, but there seems to be a real bias against Crawley. Last season John Yems’ bombastic style went against us (a direct quote from a league one / two referee I know). But since his departure, what is it? Anti-American / crypto sentiment? Or is someone from our team / staff going and defecating on the official’s pre-match buffet? (I could understand doing it on the post-match buffet after performances like todays.)

If so, them stop it. Yeah, it may have been funny, but it is costing us points, and it will lead to us getting sending’s off and disciplinary issues going forward. As if the officials aren’t going to protect out players (such as Appiah getting kicked in the stomach twice today) then they are going to start protecting themselves (which Kwesi is more than capable of; he got a booking for leaving more in than he should and got subbed before he left any more markers.) The blatant non award of a penalty at the end of the game just put the cherry on tip. We might have missed it if it had been given but be fair and give them the chance. Something like that is as bad as the non-given goal against Leyton Orient in out last home game of the season. It seems like an ongoing vendetta.

On to Tuesday and the home game against Northampton Town.

More Shear Incompetence

After six nights in Jersey (and the single night in Southampton), nights that rattled past quicker than a speeding train, it was time to head for home. The stay in Jersey had been issue free (childish tantrums aside), but it was time to return, and so, back into the hands of Shearing’s.

There was an attempt at organisation. Boarding passes for the early morning ferry had been printed and dropped off at the hotel the evening before. But this hadn’t been communicated to anyone. It was more by luck than judgement that people knew. Julie had found out at reception as they asked her if she was with Shearing’s when she went to pick her room key up after a day out. She told us, and we got ours when we got back from St Malo.

Others must have been in a similar situation, and word of mouth had gotten around, but it still left half a dozen people who didn’t have theirs when it was time to leave. And there were no reception staff at six in the morning, only a cleaner who couldn’t find where the remaining boarding cards had been placed for safe keeping.

Six in the morning is too early for breakfast, so we wrapped some croissants, and filled water bottles with orange juice and water and put the in the bag for later consumption. We got the bags sorted (with the Kev porterage service being called back into use), on the bus to the ferry terminal and through the bag drop off, and a seat near the front of the queue.

The sailing was nice and smooth, and getting off the ferry at Poole was fine. Right until the moment we stepped out of the doors of the terminal building to get the coach for the journey back to Cobham.

It wasn’t there.

We waited for a few minutes, and it still wasn’t there. One of the other passengers rang Shearing’s to ask where the coach was. They were told it was three minutes away. Twenty minutes later there was still no sign, and they rang back to be told five minutes.

Now, those who know me well, and my penchant for Snatch quotes will hear me doing my Turkish impression of (and it is a slight paraphrasing), “It was three minutes, twenty minutes ago.”

I was also wondering whether they weren’t dealing with minutes as a unit of time, but as a measurement of distance as in degrees and minutes that the lines of latitude use. Only to then do the calculations in my head and work out what three minutes at our longitude would be, and made it to be about two miles, so it still shouldn’t have taken that long. (No one ever said I wasn’t a geek.)

With no sign of the coach, Helen thought it would be safe to go to the toilet. Only for it to turn into the car park the very second she had walked through the doors to go inside. With that we knew what the hold up was. She should have gone to the toilet half an hour ago.

The driver was most surprised to find that when he got off the coach that there was no representative from Shearing’s to help him sort out. When he asked where the Shearing’s rep was, I laughed quite loudly.

On the coach I wore my mask most of the way back to Cobham. Not for any fear of catching the lurgy. But because we had made the rookie mistake of sitting too close to the onboard chemical toilet and I was being chemicalled to death.

The driver got a few phone calls on the journey to Cobham. They gave the general impression that he hadn’t got a clue what he was supposed to be doing after he got there. Which didn’t bode well for those being dropped off after us.

At Poole, the driver had loaded the cases based on where people were getting off the coach. Only for him to have forgotten the order he’d loaded them by the time we got to Cobham. Again, I’m glad I wasn’t staying on the coach for the rest of the journey.

The taxi back home from Cobham was fine. The driver wasn’t like the lunatic we had going, and kept a nice distance from the car in front. There was a bit of traffic, but what else do you expect on a Friday afternoon going around the M25?

All in all, we had a great time. Jersey was wonderful, the hotel was nice (apart from the water pressure), and the food was lovely. We would definitely consider going on a coach trip again. But there is no hope in hell of that trip involving the incompetent halfwits at Shearing’s.

Shear Incompetence

At the tender age of 52 we have joined the blue rinse and twin pearl set and are on a Shearing’s coach holiday. For twenty years my mum, and before his death, my dad, went on Shearing’s holidays to all sorts of places around the UK and beyond. Ben Aitken, an author, wrote a book about the time he spent on going on various Shearing’s holidays after hearing a conversation about how good value they were with bed, breakfast, and evening meal, trips out, and entertainment included.

Obviously, by the time we get around to it, Shearing’s have been through administration and takeover, the prices have gone up, and the simplicity and value for money have gone out of the window.

We got a brochure at the beginning of the year, and with Helen’s sister Julie, and mother – Joy, going with us we opted for Jersey as there is no need for a passport. There were warning flags from early on in the process that things weren’t what they used to be. The brochure clearly stated that one of the pickup points for the Jersey trip was Pease Pottage services, five minutes away from us. Only when we came to book the drop-down list didn’t include Pease Pottage. In fact, it didn’t include many places at all. When Helen rang them, they told her the nearest place to us was Cobham services.

With no thought to how the hell you get to a services which only has motorway access (Pease Pottage has lots of various accesses to it). Despite booking in February, there was no indication of the itinerary until less than a week before we were going. So, no way of knowing which day the only included trip was included, which made booking anything else (such as a day trip to St Malo) problematic.

When the itinerary did come through the trip had changed from eight nights to seven nights with no drop in price. Plus, lots of wasted time on the way out, and a ridiculously early return journey from Jersey.

The taxi to Cobham services was an ‘interesting’ journey. The driver was sat at a funny angle, and then proceeded to drive in somebody else’s boot all the way there. Well, a series of different people’s boots. I was sat in the front and was unable to see tarmac between the car in front and us for most of the drive. I wish I’d put my sunglasses on, so it wasn’t so obvious I had my eyes closed. The worst was the merge onto the M25 off the M23, when he was inches from the car in front, changing lanes into fast moving traffic and leaning over at an even stranger angle than he started at so he could check what his phone in the well in front of the gear stick had beeped for.

When we got to Cobham there was a Shearing’s coach there, but it wasn’t ours. Turns out ours wasn’t even a Shearing’s branded coach, and there was no sign in the front window to say it was being used by Shearing’s. Fortunately, there was an old man who knew what was going on and pointed us in the right direction. Others weren’t as lucky and had been stood in the wrong place looking for a blue and yellow coach for over half an hour.

Then we were off. I did have the thought of being able to get a ham cob from Cobham. But if I had then I might have had a ham burp by the time we were passing Burpham on the A3.

I’ve forgotten how badly I travel on coaches. I can’t read or write as it’s too shaky and messes my head up. Even without visual stimulation I still felt a bit queasy and was glad when we pulled up outside the hotel in Southampton.

Now, my mum had always talked about how good it was getting to the hotel, as the cases were sorted out, off the coach and then sitting outside the room by the time they had checked in. but there was nothing like that waiting for us in Southampton. It was get your own bags to your room, and so just like any other trip we go on.

The hotel is The Dolphin, a wonderful Grade II* listed building. Parts of it date from Tudor times, and it is a typical old building with sloping floors and wonky steps, but full of character. It had no air-con and thick plush carpets everywhere, making the movement of cases tricky.

I was going to say that I am the youngest person on this coach trip. But it turns out I’m not. There is a kid on the trip, who doesn’t even look like he is in his teens yet. He’s here with his grandparents. I don’t know what the poor kid did, but it seems a bit of a harsh punishment. (We later find out that this may not have been as much of a joke as I meant it to be, as two of the couple’s other grandchildren are drug dealers.)

As we are with Helen’s mum and sister and there is a lack of the previously promised porterage, I’m sure you can imagine who is the stand in porter. The aforementioned heavy carpets don’t help with this as the wheels don’t want to know. Nor does the constant stopping to peer in every nook and cranny along the way. Seriously, you can do that later, stop getting in the way whilst I’m carrying your cases.

The following morning the coach comes to pick us up for the next part of the journey. We are off to Poole to get the ferry. Where it is a bit disorganised. We have to get off the coach, take the bags through weigh in and security before they are loaded onto an airplane style trolley. And a little shuttle bus takes us from the terminal to the ferry.

After a warm and sunny morning, by the time we have gotten on the ferry the clouds have rolled in and the water is becoming choppy, excellent sailing weather, especially on a journey that will take twenty-four times as long as our last sea crossing on the Hovercraft back to Portsmouth from the Isle of Wight.

The ferry is an hour late leaving due to the volume of passengers on the busiest day of the year according to the captain. A fair few drivers are called back to their vehicles, for hand brake or leaving the engine on issues.

Along the way of boarding the ferry we appear to have picked up a fifth member of our travelling party. An elderly man from the coach trip has decided to sit near us and keeps attempting to join in with conversations. Which, as a raging misanthrope I am less than impressed with. And he has already written the trip off as the worst Shearing’s holiday ever.

Getting off the ferry once in Jersey is just like leaving a plane. We get held in our seats to let all the car passengers get back to their vehicles before they let us off. There was an announcement that we would have to wait another four to five minutes. Cue uproar as hundreds of travel weary people deliberately misheard that to be forty-five minutes. So much so the captain had to repeat and clarify the message.

Coming out of the ferry terminal we collect our bags from a carousel and go through customs and out into arrivals where a scouser with a bad dye job and too much makeup just points vaguely to the car park with where to put bags (in a minibus) and which coach to get on. We get onto a different coach to be taken to the hotel. As it was a vehicle ferry it does make it seem strange why there is a change in coach, surely the original one could have come over.

We pull up at the hotel and put the cases in reception as we are hustled to the dining room (as we are late arriving due to the ferry leaving an hour late due to the volume of passengers) to get food before checking in. There are lots of staff in reception which makes us think that porterage may be in style here. The dinner is buffet style, and the food is nice and there are more pudding than even my emergency pudding stomach would be able to cope with.

The drinks menu was put on each table, and we ordered drinks. Joy ordered a Pernod, which confused the hell out of the waiter to start with. He comes back when she’s not there to say they don’t have any Pernod. So, Helen and Julie order her a Pimms. Which comes back with ice in it but no lemonade, and so goes back again. Meanwhile, Joy says she ordered the Pernod for the indigestion she might get. (Yes, not any indigestion she already has, but some imaginary indigestion she might get in the future.) it might be a long, long week.

Another standard part of the Shearing’s experience seems to have disappeared. Those on the trip used to get drinks tokens each evening. When the bill turned up for the drinks it was clear to see that one has flown out of the ever increasingly large window.

We get back to reception to find that porterage isn’t in style here either, and so little porter Kev is called into action again.

The scouse rep is due in the morning at half nine to tell us what it is going on the rest of the week. Always assuming she knows herself. I already have visions of it being like the old Thompson / Thomas Cook style rep meeting abroad where they try to sell you all their random trips at inflated prices.

For some reason all I can think of at the minute when someone says Shearing’s is that perhaps we should be on a trip to York and the Shambles.

A Travelling Man

When it came to my journey to and from Somerset, I did what any sane person would and double checked the train times the night before. Good job really, as Southern Trains had just removed the one I was booked on. They were also warning about slow running trains and potential cancellations, and so I was at Crawley station before six in the morning.

There was no slow running into Victoria, and an easy bus ride across to Paddington got me there in plenty of time for my train, enough time to get a Maccy D’s for breakfast.

I settled into my seat in the quiet zone, and was pleasantly surprised when the booked seat next to me wasn’t taken up.

A young couple got on the train at Reading. Came and sat across the aisle from me in the quiet zone. Only for him to start up a loud running commentary of everything they were passing outside. It was at a volume where he was drowning out my music in my headphones. On and on he went until I took my headphones off and said, “for crying out loud, this is supposed to be the quiet coach, no one needs your loud running commentary all the way to Somerset”. He shut up and took out his PSP and put his own headphones on.

The pair of them sat opposite each other and both had big bags on the seats next to them. OK, the train isn’t busy, but there are large luggage shelves above all the seats. And then she proceeded to take her shoes off and put her feet on the seat and shift about across the both of them scraping her feet all over both. No one needs that, keep your nasty feet off the upholstery you ignorant little skank.

The train didn’t run slowly and was only two minutes late into Taunton, and I got to Cannington in plenty of time to have a wander around before the meeting started.

A quick interlude about the stay. They had big tower fans in the room. I plugged it in and pressed the button, but it didn’t start, so I adjusted the dial and off it went. Only to stop a few minutes later. So, I adjusted the dial a bit more and off it went again, and then a few minutes later it stopped. I did this four times before I realised that the dial on the top of the fan wasn’t a temperature dial, it was a timer, and I’d been setting it to ten minutes and not ten degrees. Once I eventually worked this out, it got the full two hours. (Yes, it hadn’t occurred to me as to why they hell there would have been a heat setting of one hundred and twenty degrees.)

Coming home was different. I’m glad I’m someone who likes to be early to make sure that they are on time. If I hadn’t been ten minutes early to get the bus, I’d have missed it and had an hour and a half to wait for the next one. As I’ve said before, there is nothing worse than public transport which is early.

After a walk around Bridgwater, which I’ve written about separately I headed to the train station and sat waiting for a train to Taunton. The announcement came over the tannoy.

“We are sorry to announce that the 11:21 service to Cardiff Central via Bristol Temple Meads is delayed by approximately 22 minutes. This is due to lightning dame to the signalling system.”

I looked up at the clear blue sky. What effing lightning? Have you seen the weather? There isn’t a cloud to be seen. No rain. Nothing. How? Just how?

They also announce ‘mind the gap’ several times. And when the train to Taunton pulls up, I see why. They aren’t messing about with the gap here. It’s officially turned in to a day out. The step up from the platform to get up onto the train is taller than some people I know. And even I could have fallen through the gap down onto the tracks. It isn’t just a case of mind the gap, it’s effing dangerous. How about building the platform a foot or two higher?

Now, let’s be clear, I’m not Paul Simon, and this is not Widnes train station, but I am homeward bound. This is Taunton calling, or should that be this is Taunton taunting? I have a lot of time to wait for my train here. I left Bridgwater an hour earlier than originally planned. Mainly due to the unrelenting sun and heat, but partly getting any train that is available sounds like a plan for today because you never know when there may be delays, and partly because all the shade offering interesting places were shut.

I would like to do the same now I’m at Taunton, but I have an advance ticket with mandatory seat reservations, which the staff at the station and the guards on earlier trains tell me can’t be used. I don’t even want to think about how much they would want to gouge me for if I was to try and get a ticket for one of these earlier trains. And so, I wait.

I use the facilities and look to go in the café. But is looks like there is only a Starbucks here. And they can stick their overpriced rubbish where the sun doesn’t shine. Which today may be quite far away.

I see a fellow traveller with a bottle of Pepsi in front of him and get a bit excited. Until I ask him where he got it from to be told he bought it with him from town. Which, as with so many train stations, isn’t anywhere near to the station that serves it.

A vending machine calls to be, but drinks are hanging off the end of their racks and a bottle of water is at a funny angle in the fetch mechanism. I look at the pay point on the machine which reads ‘the machine is out of service’.

And so, I amble down to the barriers and ask a member of staff if there are any local shops that might sell drinks. At first, he tries to direct me back up to the Starbucks on the platform, as if he is on commission with them. Seeing the face I pulled at that suggestion he mentions there is another café on the far platform. A little local on, cheaper than Starbucks, and I wonder why he didn’t mention that first. And I think commission again.

I wander over to the far platform and its café. I get two drinks and an ice cream and head back to the platform will eventually go from.

The platform is covered, which is fine if it is raining, but it is a glass roof, which is less than useless in the sun. There is no shade, but I find the waiting room. I walk in and it is great. Aircon is in full effect. It feels cold. At first anyway, it ends up a comfortable temperature once I acclimatised, which is better than outside, and would have been even better if planks stopped opening the door and standing on the threshold trying to find their tiny mind to make a decision about coming in. Letting all the heat in with them.

I look up from writing and there appear to be clouds. The unrelenting sun is forced to relent (for a bit anyway). And as the time for my train gets closer, I venture back out and walk up to the far end of the platform to be level with where my coach will be. The rain starts just as colleagues from work turn up. And the train, which has been showing as on time for the last hour and a half now shows it will be half an hour late, as announcements using excuse roulette come over the speakers.

The train turns up thirty-four minutes late, and everyone has scattered to their pre-booked seats. Only for there to be someone sat in mine. As one of a party of four around the table. Late trains causing pandemonium for seating. Which shows what utter richards the earlier train’s staff were being.

There was a table across the aisle from the one I had booked which had a spare seat. It had the added bonus of me needed to ask someone to move their bag from it. I put my headphones in, and turned the volume up a bit to try and drown out the inane chatter from the table of old know it all know nothings sat in my seat. The concept of quiet coach had gone right out of the window. And I sit there wishing these loudmouths would too.

The train is trundling, it’s going a lot slower than the one did coming to Taunton. And to spice things up a bit they’ve chucked a couple of extra stops in there as well. I am trying to write, but despite it being the quite coach I find myself too distracted to concentrate.

I also sit there hoping this is not the same physical train as I travelled to Taunton on. As if it is then I’m sitting on skanky feet’s seat.

Then the trolley turns up. It must have had a rough journey down the train as it is very nearly early. Not content with stealing my seat the stupid old goats jump in with their order first and take all the remaining food on the train. It may have only been fruitcake left at that point, but it was edible. It’s all I can do not to jump up and beat the old goats to death with their fruitcake slices.

Perhaps I should have taken the packet of biscuits from the room this morning after all.

As the train draws near to Reading the announcement is made that it is running 94 minutes late, and due to that it will be terminating at Reading. So, everyone jumps off, crosses the platform and gets on the other train sitting waiting to head off to Paddington. I had already thought about getting off at Reading and getting the Gatwick train, only to check and see they had all been cancelled for the day. The train sits there for another quarter of an hour before starting to move – to a big cheer from those on the train.

It trundles for a bit and speeds up the closer it gets to London and once it pulls in at Paddington there is a stampede to get off the train. I amble off, as it is going to be potluck once I get to Victoria anyway.

You know that feeling when you fly to a hot country, and you come out of the air-conditioned plane and make your way down the steps to the tarmac, and the heat hits you. Getting off the train at Paddington was the worst I have ever known that to be. I’m not sure, but I think I passed two melted people on my way out of the station.

The bus stop outside the station was shut. Because of course it was. So, I walked up to the next one. It was so hot out there I couldn’t even be bothered to take my camera out of my bag to take a picture of the blue (well brown in this case) plaque to Alexander Fleming and his discovery of penicillin in St Mary’s Hospital.

It has to be said I fluked getting a train at Victoria. There was a delayed one that stopped at Crawley that I just walked onto and got a seat. It even ran at a reasonable speed and I got home less than two hours after the original plan, which in the scheme of things isn’t that bad and was better than some of my colleagues. It just seemed like it was a lot longer.

So, same again in the winter snow drifts anyone?

Random Rubbish From An Overheated Mind

Helen bought some sun cream / lotion thing the other day. She read out that it had five-star protection on it. It sounded quite specific to me. Why would sun cream be able to protect you from 5 Star? Does it protect you from other random eighties bands as well, r is it just 5 Star? Is it because it protects whether it’s “Rain or Shine”? Or does it go on like Silk and protect like Steel? Stay tuned for more stupid questions.

Such as, what is the best time of day to go to the dentist? 2:30 of course. (Tooth hurty for all those who can’t quite grasp the extremely poor level of humour happening here.)

This morning, Helen’s sister was complaining about here mobile coverage, saying she couldn’t get any signal. I suggested helpfully that perhaps she should try changing to Colgate. It is lost on some people.

You have probably all heard the vast array of “why did the chicken cross the road” jokes. Well, around here there is the one about why did the cat cross the road? In Sniffles case it was so he could flop down in the middle of the road and start washing himself whilst holding any traffic up. It won’t be like the hedgehog visiting his flat mate, it will be a flat cat one of these days. It is more of a surprise that he isn’t flat already.

Although, saying that, he is laid flat out on the dry yellow grass in the shade in the back garden. I’m sure it’s only a coincidence that the shade is under the tree with the bird feeders in it. He’s not really trying to catch any bird with a lower IQ than Sniffles who happens to be stupid enough to try and peck at some of the fallen food.

Just in case I’ve never mentioned it before; I hate this weather. The only time it is acceptable to have a temperature in the thirties or forties is when it is being measured in Fahrenheit.

And I’ve got a train journey to deepest darkest Somerset to do in the morning. I had deliberately booked an earlier that necessary train to get there. Mainly because I’m an unsociable bastard and wanted to make sure that I was on a train that none of my work colleagues were going to be on so I could sit in stony silence enjoying my own company before having to spend the next twenty-four hours with hordes of them in an enclosed environment. My misanthropic behaviour may well pay off in unexpected ways. The journey will be early in the morning before temperatures and tempers have increased. Plus, I should get there before all the rails buckle due to the heat.

Yes, it is churlish to moan about warm weather. But as I’ve said thousands of times before; I’m not made for anything above about twenty degrees centigrade. I should have been born as an Eskimo.

It is boiling out. Just in case I haven’t mentioned the heat before, or how much I hate it. So, with Helen off in Greenwich with her sister and mother with tickets to a Canaletto exhibition, followed by a meal on the banks of the River Thames, it means that I’m left to my own devices to sort food out. Now in this heat, some people will be having an ice cream bath; possibly with chocolate sprinkles on (not the sprinkles in Eddie Murphy’s Delirious though). Or a salad, or a platter of cold meats and cheeses. But no one ever accused me of being sane. Not even slightly so. So, off I go, out in the sun, up the close and past the shops to the Downsman, where I order curry. Hot curry. To heat me up rom the inside.

I’m working on the assumption that people who live in hot countries all the time know what they are doing and the fat that all the hottest, spiciest, chilli laden dishes around the world come from countries firmly ensconced in the Tropics. And as I don’t want to beat them, I will join them. I may still be hot, but at least the food will be tasty, and I won’t have to have made it myself.

As I’ve been sat on the sofa in the heat of the afternoon, I have heard the faint tinkling of the chimes from an ice cream van. It can’t be that far away. And I put my trainers on so that I’m ready when it arrives. So, I can jump up, get out the door and hustle to the van and get my Mr Whippy fix. And I hear that tinkling, close, but not on the Close, from all around. One, two, three, four, five, six times, messing with my head with no reason or rhyme.

But it doesn’t appear. Two hours come and go, but the ice cream van doesn’t. Again. It never seems to come to the Close anymore. It used to be here every day, rain or shine, hail, gale, or snow. At night in the dark, or in the bright of the afternoon sun. But no longer it would seem.

On another purely coincidental note. The drug dealers moved out from the Close at a remarkably similar time to the cessation of the ice cream van services.

Little Things Entertain Little Minds

I’ve been driving down to Hove for work for fifteen months now, three or four days a week. The majority of that journey is on the A23. To keep myself entertained on the journey down I keep a lookout for the mileage signs by the side of the road. Mentally checking that I see them all each day. At first there were the ones I noticed at 20 miles, 15 miles, 11 miles, 8 miles, and 5 miles, and there was only one destination on them all – Brighton, as if that would be the only place anyone would be going once south of Crawley/Gatwick. And being numbers obsessed, the first four of them pleased my strange little brain, as the distance between them lowered by one mile each time (5, 4, 3). The only way I would have been happier would have been if there was a 6 miles one, so it would be 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 reduction.

As it turned out there was another little mileage sign on the southbound journey, but it took me nine months before I noticed it at 13 miles. Which upset my little sequence.

So, each morning there are six mileage signs to look out for. And how often do you think I see all six of them on the same journey? Hardly ever. In the last six months since I’ve found out there are half a dozen signs, I’ve only mentally clocked all of them about half a dozen times. And that is when I’m trying to spot them. It’s not as if I’m speeding past them, I’m that happy idiot trundling along at sixty on the inside lane. I’m not sure how I’m missing them.

I’ve also been convinced that there are no mileage signs going north until after the Handcross turn off, then there are two lots a mile apart, each with five destinations on them – M23, Crawley, Gatwick, Redhill, and London. That was until last week when I thought I saw another. I missed it Monday, but I can confirm there is another after all.

I wondered how I had managed to miss it for fifteen months. But the position of it doesn’t help. After the A281 turn off, the road sweeps down and curves right as it passes the Tate’s garage. A stretch where everyone else seems to be doing over a hundred, and it’s nigh on impossible to get out if you’ve stopped to get fuel. You then go under a bridge and the road starts to curve back to the left. And there it is, almost part of the trees/bushes surrounding it. A third sign. Crawley (16), Gatwick (21) and London (46) on it.

It’s probably not ideal finding this. It’s only going to encourage me to search every tree on the rest of the journey to see if there are anymore hiding in the foliage now. When to be fair, nothing should really be distracting me when I’m driving. I should just be doing the standard rotation of “front, rear-view, front, right wing, front, speedo, front, left wing, front”. And not “tree, bush, tree, bush, front”.

Moving on, Monday night saw unexpected item in the freezer area. Helen thought there was a bag of sausages in the draw of the freezer, only for them to be a pack of frozen mice for Heather’s snake. This did take me back to my Manchester days, when The Chemist asked Hopalong what was in the silver foil on the top shelf of the freezer. A question that Hopalong tried to avoid answering before admitting they were mice for his girlfriend’s snake.

There was also a lot of talk about hunting for moose (Helen’s son had been up to the Canadian border to spot them – not take an AK-47 to them). How it would be cold, and was likely to be difficult. I managed to restrain myself from chipping in and telling them how easy it would be to find them, they’d be next to the yoghurts in the supermarket. (Yes, I do know they are spelt differently, homophones work better when spoken.)

Back in work on Tuesday and I continued my ongoing comparison of one of the managers to Paddington Bear, by pointing out it was surprising they had had tea with the Queen. It will be a matter of time before the NLP kicks in and someone calls the manager Paddington to their face. It won’t be me, but it will be my fault.

Additionally, another of the managers turned up wearing what appeared to have once been a pair of curtains. Probably got up and thought, ooh, these curtains look nice, I’ll quickly knock out making a dress of them. I had to resist the temptation to tell them to “pull themselves together” all day.

My really happy dance though came when I went to the toilets and finally, after more than six weeks without any, the cleaner had put some paper towels in the dispenser, and so I could dry my hands properly and quickly. It’s amazing what makes me happy. It means that I don’t have to use the Cannon knock off version of the Dyson hand drier. The useless one that you have to stick your hands into, that; first, takes and age, secondly can’t be speeded up by rubbing you hands together as there isn’t room, and finally, is incapable of drying all of your hands, as (failing to get into Stevie Wonder’s band) it can’t do fingertips.

And to finish up this waffle there was the indentation left by the cat that amused me no end when I got home last night. When I came in, he was sat, as he often is, on the pouffe in the living room. When I went to sit down on the sofa he had moved, but he had left an indentation in the blanket on top of the pouffe in the perfect shape of a cock and balls.

Little things and little minds indeed.

And The Winner Of Prat Of The Year Is…

I have just four words to say to whoever was responsible for arranging roadworks on both junctions of the A/M23 to get off at Crawley this evening.

YOU

ARE

A

CUNT!!!

It was a nice evening, we’d gone out after work for a meal in Hove with Lianne, Kara, and Fiona, and were having a nice relaxing trundle up the A23 towards home when after the Handcross turn off the first of the roadwork signs appeared, the inside lane was going to be shut in 800 yards, then 600, 400, 200. But what they didn’t indicate was the turn off at the start of the M23 at Pease Pottage was completely shut.

So, we had to drive by, 10a only lets people from the village on going north, so we would have to come off at junction 10. Only to see signs that the B2110 – the road into Crawley at junction 10 was closed. Which meant another detour, away from Crawley into Copthorne, and then back again to come in through Pound Hill and past Three Bridges station.

Ten extra miles. No indication that J11 would be shut at any point along the A23. And no, I didn’t fucking miss it. I’m that annoying bastard who is trundling along doing sixty on the inside lane all the way. Plus, there had been no advance warning. Instead leaving drivers to find out only after it was too late to turn off before the Motorway (and hence possibly forcing some vehicles to break the law as they’re not allowed on the motorway, but there was no way off for them).

A warning sign mile earlier and we could have come off at Handcross. But no, why the fuck would anyone want to do that. I appreciate that evenings and nights are the best time to do roadworks, but if you are going to shut the only two ways into Crawley coming from the A23 at the same time then you have to tell people you stupid motherfuckers.

Eurgh Driving

Driving has been entertaining over the last week and a half. It started pre storms last Wednesday morning with a multiple car shunt at the Pyecombe junction on the southbound A23. The traffic had come to a near standstill just before I got there, and there was a police car flashing its blue lights parked in the outside lane just under the footbridge. Just beyond it was the first involved vehicle; a mini pointing the wrong way in the outside lane.

Then on the layby a car had gone over the plastic bollards and in the side of a parked Co-op lorry. Two more cars and a van were lined up on the inside with varying degrees of damage. Then there was a gap to another car which had been side swiped and had what looked like frosted glass on the driver’s side. Then the final crashed car was in the outside lane stuck in the barrier.

I had been out extra early that morning and so wasn’t delayed by much, but as each member of my team came into the office the time taken to get through that junction had increased, and for one, their sat-nav had sent them over Ditchling Beacon instead.

The main surprise is that this doesn’t happen more often. That junction is like the Wacky Races. Too fast, too close, switching lanes as if Mike Read is screaming “Runaround” at them, and of course, not an indicator in use for miles around in every direction.

If I believed there were such things as imaginary cloud gods, then I would be tempted to say a prayer each time I approached the junction each morning.

Sunday. I was going to pick up Helen’s mum from Storrington and was heading around the outside of Horsham, just getting to the terrible Tesco at Broadbridge Heath when I became embroiled in another Wacky Races day. More than a dozen souped up German shitheaps came flying past on all sides, changing lanes without any hint of using mirrors or indicators; racing each other and being dicks to all other road users.

For some reason they had all pulled into the Shell garage at the far side of Horsham, and as I passed, I could hear them all revving up, so once past that roundabout I stopped in the first layby and rang the police (who didn’t seem to give a shit). Because I’m a twat like that.

The lights were out at the A24/A272 junction, which meant fun and games for all as without the lights working it seemed as if everyone had forgotten the rules of who has right of way at a major junction. By the time I was coming back from dropping Helen’s mum off at night the lights still weren’t working. In addition, the rain and wind were closing in.

What I don’t understand is why people find it necessary to try and drive in my boot. I’m only going 50, because it’s a sensible speed in the weather conditions, and the bouts of aquaplaning every half a mile or so due to all the surface water. It’s dual carriageway all the way. If you don’t like the speed I’m driving at, then please feel free to fuck off into the outside lane and overtake me. I’m not going to go faster because you want to be in my car with me.

Then for the last week the road I usually take once I come off the A27 to get to work has been closed three out of four mornings. They are resurfacing the road on the hill down towards Hangleton windmill. They are supposed to be finished at 7am, and annoyingly the road is open for those coming out of Hove, but I’ve had to get back on the A27 and come off at the next junction as I don’t know how to get across to the office if I go down the road their diversion signs are pointing along.

Thursday morning was the worst. It was chaos all round. No sooner had I got onto the A23 than the traffic came to a grinding halt. Turns out a truck had broken down in the inside lane between the turn off for Handcross and the services there. And as usual, no one could cope with the letting people in thing when it went from three lanes to two.

Getting off the A27 was fun. I came off at the usual junction, but the roundabout was gridlock as the road to Hove was closed. I made it around and back onto the A27, but the queue to come off at the next junction started where I came on. The queue carried on all the way off the A27 and down to Sainsbury’s. And once past there, the left turn towards the office was closed off as well, so I had to go right and then follow the road around the one-way system to come back towards the office. Only for the road that runs parallel to it to have resurfacing work as well, and the first five side roads I would usually turn up were all closed. What is usually half an hour took an hour and a quarter and was an extra five miles.

Friday night isn’t normally that bad, but all I’d seen all day when flicking in and out of social media were messages about long queues at petrol stations, and some running out of fuel. And yes, upon leaving work there were big queues at the two petrol stations I passed in Hove. So, I ended up stopping at the Texaco one on the A23 after Pyecombe as it was empty. I was nearly on fumes and couldn’t risk having to drive around Crawley trying to fill up over the weekend.

Even so, they were out of diesel, but they did have petrol and I was able to fill up and then I took my life in my hands trying to get back on the A23 there, as that stretch is one that everyone treats as if it is the downslope of Eau Rouge at Spa.

So, the panic buying has started. It never ceases to amaze me at the moronic behaviour. As, to be honest, having a fuel shortage is going to be the least of our worries if the Ukraine situation worsens. No one needs to drive when we’re all hiding in nuclear shelters.

What Was She Doing?

After chilling and relaxing post spa, we did manage to drag ourselves out of the hotel for something to eat. As is traditional in any place we stay for more than one night, it was time to find a curry house. On our wander around the previous afternoon we had seen quite a few, and Helen had been scoping some out on Trip Advisor. But we went down the wing it route and just wandered into the centre of Basingstoke and picked one we liked the look of at random.

The food was great, and the service was really good as well, but there was something about the place that was just odd. Part was the clientele. When we arrived, there was a table of sixteen finishing their meal. Judging by the fact most of the Christmas decorations were still up inside the restaurant, I’m going to say it was the local Dungeons & Dragons gaming group’s Christmas party. It would also appear that both the Addams Family and the Munsters had tables there as well.

It wasn’t the clientele that really caught the attention. It was the white woman wearing full on scally wear hovering in the background. She was in the back corner, and wasn’t doing any work as far as we could tell, but she was watching the staff like hawks, and was checking all the order slips and payments. Every so often she would get a phone call and disappear behind a curtain to talk, and then be back. Watching.

Theories as to what she was doing.

  1. She was the actual owner of the restaurant and was watching the hired help, just like the woman in the curry house we went to in Prague.
  2. She was a local enforcer for the mafia / whatever local dodgy gang there is. Watching the takings so they could get accurate figures on what their protection money take should be.
  3. Some kind of drug dealer, supplying class-a’s, hence the disappearances behind the curtain when delivery drivers turned up to collect food.

Only for a final time, the curtain closed behind her, and when it was reopened by one of the serving staff, she had disappeared like some kind of Adam Krauss trick.

Whatever the cause, it was just like Prague when she had disappeared. The guys working there all seemed to cheer up.

We left a bigger tip than usual though, just to help with any protection payments.