SpraffBlog

This is part two of the true story of a very odd train journey I once had. Part one is below, so you might want to read that first so this one makes sense. Splendid.

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The man was in his early forties with hair that appeared to be close-cropped out of practicality rather than for the purposes of fashion. His clothes followed the same theme – a dark fleece and some combat trousers, which would be entirely unremarkable but for a light film of grime that eveloped him all over. His face was weather-beaten and similarly grubby, but the dirt was the deeply ingrained type that couldn’t be rectified by a mere flannel. This man would need steam cleaning if he were to be considered presentable.

After a brief moment, he looked me directly in the eye and a mischievous smile lit up his face. “You know what you look like?”. Now obviously I know full well what I look like, but I sensed this wasn’t a question that was looking for an answer. “You look like a cozzer”. A cozzer. My brain frantically scoured it’s contents for some clue as to what this word meant. A swimming costume? A Kosovan? This man was talking gibberish. “A cozzer?” I limply repeated. “Yeah, a policeman”. Right you are. Now I suppose retrospectively, that makes sense. It was clearly a wreckage of slang resulting from the collision of the words cop and rozzer. Either way, I didn’t know how to respond.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing”, I offered meekly. The smile on my companion’s face fell away instantly “Oh, it’s a bad thing”. As if to emphasise his point, he raised the bag he was holding. It was a clear plastic bag with what appeared to be some items of clothing and a book inside. Then I looked at the bag more closely. On the side of it, in bold, black writing, were the words “HMP services”. Her Majesty’s Prison services. Oh.

At this point, I thought it would be wise to dissociate myself from the police force. I smiled nervously “No, I’m not a cozzer”. This seemed to reassure him, as he confided “Good. Because if you were, I’d cut you up and stuff you under the seats!” Then he threw his head back and laughed uproariously, revealing a row of blackened teeth. Not knowing what to do myself, I laughed uproariously too - not for any inherent humour in his statement but because I was now very nervous indeed. Here I was on a train, befriended by what appeared to be a recently released convict and both of us laughing at the notion of him dismembering a member of the police force. This was going to be a long old journey.

Labels: Mark Allen spraff dude on a train travel part two

# posted by Mark Allen @ 11:56