09 January 2010
Just a dude on a train - part 4
Part four of my encounter with a train-based loon. Parts one, two and three are all below, so you may need to read those first for this to make sense.
----------------------------------------
I thought it best to steer the conversation away from violence… “What’s an outside nick?” I asked sheepishly. “A private one. Don’t ever go to a private jail. Keep HMPing”. Wise words from someone who appeared to be well-versed in correctional institutions. I promised that if the situation ever arose, I would do my utmost to keep HMPing. He seemed satisfied by this and turned back round in his seat to stare out of the window.
Relieved by the brief respite in what was becoming quite an intense conversation, I put on my iPod and gazed out of the window too. It wasn’t long until my companion was off again though. He spun round in his seat and gestured for me to remove my headphones. As I complied, he beckoned me in closer and confided in a conspiratorial whisper… “Johnny South is looking for you.” Johnny South? I wracked my brains. Who the hell is Johnny South and why would he be looking for me? “He says you were dissing his bird two years ago. You’ve forgotten, but he hasn’t.” Maybe I had dissed his bird. I didn’t even know who his bird was – it’s entirely possible. But then I didn’t know who Johnny South was either, so how would I even know? “He’s coming after you. You know Johnny South? He knows you”. After a brief pause, he broke into a grime-toothed grin, shook his head and sat down again. It was quite clear he was toying with me. I hoped.
As he sat in his seat, my companion started rolling another cigarette. Surely he’d heeded my advice from earlier and was simply rolling one for later, when he’d got off the train at Euston and was no longer under threat of arrest. I was wrong. He got up to go to the toilet again, but someone else was in there. I was initially relieved that he’d been thwarted in his attempts to reoffend, but it was clear that I still wasn’t aware of who I was dealing with. Instead of ducking into the toilet to smoke, he simply lit the cigarette in the open carriage. It was at this point that I abandoned my ill-conceived project of reintegrating him into society. No train journey would be long enough for that, so I simply resigned myself to sitting back and watching the scene play out.
It wasn’t long before another train employee walked through the carriage and saw the man smoking. She was young and attractive, and politely informed him that he wasn’t allowed to smoke on the train and could he please put the cigarette out. There was a tense pause as we both waited to see how he would react. It was going to go one of two ways. Either he would comply with the request, or he was going to dismember the girl and shove her under the luggage rack. Fortunately he fought the urge to do the latter and stubbed the cigarette out… “Jane the train should hand the reins over to you. You’ve got a nicer voice”. The girl looked bemused as she wandered off, and I thought that was the end of it. We were only fifteen minutes outside Euston and surely that was the last display of mischief before he got off the train and had a whole new city in which to cause havoc. I was of course wrong.
Labels: Mark Allen spraff dude on a train travel
12 May 2009
Just a dude on a train - part 1
I had a very bizarre train journey in March that I felt compelled to blog about. I started writing about it and was going to wait until it was complete before putting it up here, but it was such a mammoth bit of weirdness that I still haven't completed it yet. Instead of waiting another couple of months to post it in one hefty bit of blogness, I thought it best to give it to you in installments like a blog-based novella or something. Exciting. Anyway, here is part one for of my encounter with a train-based nutter.
----------------------------
I love travelling by train on my own. No matter how many times I do it, I still get a tiny, giddy thrill out of it. There’s something deeply tranquil about gazing silently out of the window at the hundreds of places I know I’ll never visit, as they hurtle by leaving only a fleeting imprint on my memory before fading away like a snowflake on a dog’s nose.
Sometimes however, train journeys are nothing like this. Because sometimes, you find yourself conversationally hijacked by an unfettered nutbag. And that is precisely what happened to me recently.
The occasion in question was your basic train journey from Liverpool to London. A typical two and a half journey that should have been utterly bereft of communication save for a vague smile to the conductor as I handed over my ticket and an apologetic shrug to the buffet-pusher to indicate that I have no intention of spending £4 on a cup of their tragic tea.
As I boarded the train at Liverpool, I wandered through the carriages trying to find the perfect seat. I have a clear hierarchy of what I’m looking for on a long journey. An entire table to myself is the premium snaffle, but that’s rarely available, so I’m usually happy to settle for a forward-facing seat next to a window, not next to a person and in a carriage entirely unsullied by children. As the train was busy, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to get a table, but I found what appeared to be the perfect alternative seat in a sparsely populated carriage, immediately behind a man who appeared to be asleep. I took my coat off, sat down and commenced relaxing.
After a short while, there was an announcement from Jane, the train manager, informing us of the usual travel-related admin. It was nothing out of the ordinary and certainly wasn’t going to disturb my idling, but as soon as she’d finished speaking, something unexpected happened. The man in the seat immediately in front of me, suddenly burst into life by announcing in a loud voice to the entire carriage… “I love Jane the train!”
It’s at that point that I started to suspect that I’d sat in the wrong seat. Jane the train. That’s what he called her. Not Jane the train manager, but Jane the train. Like she was a character in Thomas the Tank Engine. Before I had any chance to subtly gather my things and set off in search of more sedate travelling companions, the man span round, kneeled up on his seat and faced me.
----------------------------
I love travelling by train on my own. No matter how many times I do it, I still get a tiny, giddy thrill out of it. There’s something deeply tranquil about gazing silently out of the window at the hundreds of places I know I’ll never visit, as they hurtle by leaving only a fleeting imprint on my memory before fading away like a snowflake on a dog’s nose.
Sometimes however, train journeys are nothing like this. Because sometimes, you find yourself conversationally hijacked by an unfettered nutbag. And that is precisely what happened to me recently.
The occasion in question was your basic train journey from Liverpool to London. A typical two and a half journey that should have been utterly bereft of communication save for a vague smile to the conductor as I handed over my ticket and an apologetic shrug to the buffet-pusher to indicate that I have no intention of spending £4 on a cup of their tragic tea.
As I boarded the train at Liverpool, I wandered through the carriages trying to find the perfect seat. I have a clear hierarchy of what I’m looking for on a long journey. An entire table to myself is the premium snaffle, but that’s rarely available, so I’m usually happy to settle for a forward-facing seat next to a window, not next to a person and in a carriage entirely unsullied by children. As the train was busy, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to get a table, but I found what appeared to be the perfect alternative seat in a sparsely populated carriage, immediately behind a man who appeared to be asleep. I took my coat off, sat down and commenced relaxing.
After a short while, there was an announcement from Jane, the train manager, informing us of the usual travel-related admin. It was nothing out of the ordinary and certainly wasn’t going to disturb my idling, but as soon as she’d finished speaking, something unexpected happened. The man in the seat immediately in front of me, suddenly burst into life by announcing in a loud voice to the entire carriage… “I love Jane the train!”
It’s at that point that I started to suspect that I’d sat in the wrong seat. Jane the train. That’s what he called her. Not Jane the train manager, but Jane the train. Like she was a character in Thomas the Tank Engine. Before I had any chance to subtly gather my things and set off in search of more sedate travelling companions, the man span round, kneeled up on his seat and faced me.
Labels: Mark Allen spraff dude on a train travel
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
