The train causes me strain


I loathe using public transport; trains especially. This mainly relates to my hatred of being within 20 feet of any human that I haven’t strictly vetted the hygiene levels, standards of spelling and grammar and views on BREXIT of. Yet on trains, strangers and their uncharted social skills are forced upon you.

If you travel during morning rush hour, you will find ‘commuter extraordinaire’ who is often a woman. She has bagged a seat with a table, her tiny, shiny laptop is out, she has a soy latte from Costa and a mobile phone to her ear. She’s making calls, she’s setting up appointments, she’s typing emails, she’s pretty much done a days work before 7.30am. I am in awe of this woman but I also hate her for making me feel so inferior.

If I’m on a commuter train that means it is early in the morning, my stomach will be grumbling because there is no reasonable way that I got up early enough for breakfast. I won’t have spoken to anyone, so if I tried to make any telephone calls my voice would still be asleep and I’d sound like Barry White’s Mum, plus I’d mistime the call so it would connect when the train went through a tunnel and I’d be this person:

“Hi, it’s Jo. Oh hang on, I’m going through a tunnel, hello? Can you hear me? Hello? Hello? Are you still there?”

My laptop is about 25 years old and roughly the size of a four person train table so if I got my laptop out, I’d either nearly knock someone out trying to get the damn giant thing out of my equally giant laptop bag or I’d swamp the table with my laptop leaving no space for anyone else to put their breakfast muffin down.

Outside of rush hour, if you find yourself travelling on an empty train, it is quite likely that you will encounter a random dude who just stands in the vestibule right in front of the train door. He will, without fail, be listening to music on big over ear headphones. Unfortunately you will only encounter this chap when you stand up to leave your train. You will assume, incorrectly, that the only reason he’s two inches away from the exit is because he’s planning on departing the train at the next station where you also plan to alight. But he won’t be leaving the train and you will only realise this when he doesn’t press the button to open the door and yet continues to block your way out.

At this point you’ll panic that you’re going to be stuck on the train forever* and you perform some kind of frenzied shimmy manoeuvre around him in order to press the exit button and be released from your train prison**

*I am not a drama queen

**see above

Doorway dude will be oblivious to all of this, if anything, he will look slightly perturbed that the crazy individual sashaying around him requires the use of the exit, ruining the flow of his ‘listening to music on a train’ experience.

Now, although you find people who play music on trains or watch telly without headphones, these people will generally be whipped into shape by either a conductor or another fellow passenger quite promptly. There is another category of noisy traveller who, in my humble opinion, is worse than the first two. This is the individual who is quiet and polite UNTIL they get their phone out and start texting with keyboard clicks enabled, resulting in every text sounding like fucking Riverdance. Why would you do this? Never mind the CIA using music torture to obtain top secret information, sit me next to a clicky texter and you’ll have my PIN number, my salary, the number of people I’ve slept with and my online banking password by the time they’ve finished typing their first message.

If you travel outside of rush hour, you may also come into contact with the lesser spotted ‘bewildered traveller’. You’ll usually find them getting off the bottom of an escalator and immediately stopping as they don’t know where to go and it doesn’t occur to them that they are about to be responsible for a human pile up as people attempt not to charge into the back of them. Often they look like they haven’t been on a train since they were powered by coal and will always ask someone “does this train go to *insert destination that automatic train voice has just announced that the train will be calling at*”.

However, none of these challenging travel companions are as bad as the worst offender of all; the seat thief. Don’t get me wrong, if I’m on an empty train, I may well place my bag on the seat next to me. However, as a responsible and courteous traveller when we get to a station where new passengers might require seats, I will move my bag. Some people do not do this. These people are complete fucktards.

Other passengers will be standing in the train aisles clinging onto overhead handrails that require far more core strength than you ever realise. They will be squashed together, closer to strangers than they’ve been to their spouse since Christmas 2018 following the unprecedented mulled wine incident and yet ‘Captain couple of seats’ feels that their bag containing work files/holiday clothes/mint imperials/Cinzano Rosso/porno mags/ (delete as appropriate) needs it’s very own seat.

Notwithstanding the challenges of your fellow travellers, every aspect of train travel is overly complicated. I can’t just buy a ticket from Brighton to London, I need to know if I’m buying an anytime ticket, a first class ticket, an off peak ticket, a super off peak ticket, a single, a standard return, a cheap day return, an all day travelcard, a group saver ticket. Do I have a railcard? If so is it a family and friends card, a two together card, a network railcard. Will I travel with one specific train operator or do I want to be able to travel on any train that gets me to my destination?…


I just want to pop up to Oxford Street in London on a Saturday to do a spot of shopping without needing a PhD in rail ticketing.

When you’ve eventually purchased the correct ticket, worked out the best train to catch, planned your journey and you’re feeling smug and confident, rail operators have a splendid way of ruining this for you.

It’s a special little game I like to call ‘station scrap sweepstake’ this will either involve the train that you’ve planned to take being scrapped completely: “We are sorry to announce that the 15.42 to Brighton has been cancelled, fuck you all”. I mean, to give them their dues, they don’t actually say the “fuck you all” bit, but it’s heavily implied.

If you’re lucky you might get a rail replacement service meaning that a journey that would take an hour on a train takes about a fortnight by bus so at least you get to maximise your extortionately expensive public transport experience in a value for money kind of way.

The final opportunity to triumph in ‘station scrap sweepstake’ is the most audacious. If this happens to you, you are automatically crowned sweepstake winner:

You get on a train heading for Brighton, but you want to get off at a small station right by your house just outside Brighton called Preston Park. You get on the slow train, the one that stops at all the piddly little stations. Half way through your journey, the train stops suddenly and doesn’t move for quite a while. Then, you hear the following announcement “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry to announce that we are experiencing some weather and also some daylight. Unfortunately some night time is likely shortly so we be held at a red light for some time which will delay our journey. As such, this train will no longer call at Preston Park station, thank you for travelling with this shoddy enterprise. Fuck. You. All”

Thou shalt not hate. Much.

20140316-211108.jpgI do hate the idea of hating anyone (see what I did there?), however, there are some people in this world who I would happily throw rotten tomatoes at. Now, I’m not talking about the murderers or the muggers or the MPs, it goes without saying that we all hate those dudes and would like to condemn them to a world filled entirely with traffic wardens, cold callers, tiny yappy dogs and children having tantrums set to a soundtrack of finger nails scratching down blackboards, James Blunt albums and noisy eaters.

No, I’m referring to these irritants:

Captain create-a-space

You’re out in the car driving along a two lane road. One of the lanes takes you into town or on to the  motorway or towards the seaside.  You are in this lane. It is  jam packed, moving so slowly that you could get out and walk faster. You are waiting patiently with cramp in your left foot due to the clutch control required to travel at the heady speed of three and a half miles an hour.  The other lane is completely empty because it only leads to an industrial estate or the bins at the back of Tescos.

In your rear view mirror, you spot a car in the other lane travelling pretty fast. It drives past vehicle after vehicle, all of which have been sitting and queuing patiently. At the last minute the driver blatently attempts to push into the slow moving lane, right at the front, thus avoiding the miles of queues. Now, don’t get me wrong. I dislike this motorist. He is a cocky cheater. I want the front of his car to rust over instantly and for his wheels to turn square. But I do not hate him. Do you know who I hate? Captain create-a-space. The weak, spineless, overly generous git who creates a lovely car shaped space for cocky cheater to glide effortlessly into. No. No. No! What is wrong with you? The correct action in these circumstances is for you to drive so close to the car in front that you are virtually a back seat passenger, ensuring absolutely no room for cocky cheater to queue jump. When you don’t do this. I hate you.

Manicure man?

I had a formal meeting with a male member of staff recently. He had long finger nails. It was weird. It creeped me out. That is all.

More clothes, please

The weather in Brighton on Saturday got up to about 16 degrees. Yes, that’s decidedly spring like. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and it felt nice and warm. But it only felt nice and warm because I was wearing jeans and a jumper.  It was not tiny dress and sandals weather, which is what I was confronted with when I was walking through town. Daft, half dressed girls who were clearly regretting rifling through their summer wardrobe prematurely as they shivered around the shops.  If I booked a summer holiday to sun drenched Spain and discovered that it was 16 degrees when I arrived, I would be rushing to the ‘Tienda de ropa’ to buy myself a cardie and some fluffy socks, sharpish. For goodness sake, put a coat on.

Post office pest

I work Monday to Friday, from 9am to 5pm. If the day is going well, I get a half hour lunch break. Sometimes during this teeny tiny break time, I have to visit the bank or the post office. When I get to the bank or the post office and I find an old person in the queue, rage bubbles up inside me. I like old people. I have a Grandmother who I love very much. She is very old. I might have once tittered during Last of the Summer Wine at the antics of a bunch of elderly men and I eat Shreddies for the sole reason that they have been knitted by Nannas. However, when old people have eight hours to go to the bank or the post office and yet, choose my precious, cherished and decidely brief thirty minute break. I see red. Not least because they have no sense of urgency:

“Oh, while I’m here dear, can I ask you to count up this giant bag of 5ps that I’ve been collecting since the small coins came out in 1990? They are too tiny for me to see so I’ve just been saving them all up.”

[After waiting in the queue for ten minutes]. “You’ll need my bank book? Really? But I’m Mrs Jones and I’ve been coming to this bank for fifty years. My late husband did all his banking here. Is that not enough? Well, I’ll have to find the book then. I think it’s somewhere in my handbag. Hold on a moment, duck.”

Would you like to sit on my lap?

Brad and I went for lunch at a well known fast food joint  salad bar today. We chose some empty seats in the window so that we could watch the world go by as we ate. The venue wasn’t hugely busy and there were quite a few empty window seats. As we were merrily tucking into our fries vegetable wraps, two men came and sat right next to us. They were so close that if you didn’t know better, you would have assumed that the four of us were friends. We are not friends. I did not like it. Those men ruined my burger healthy eating experience and for that I hate them.

So there we have it. As long as you are not someone who: lets cheating drivers into heavy traffic, is a man with long fingernails, fails to wear a coat, visits the post office at lunchtime if you’re not working or sits inappropriately close to me, I’ll probably not hate you.