A bearded man in a plaid shirt ploughs steadily through an entire pack of Marks & Spencer’s Dutch Shortcake like a gluttonous metronome.
Whilst peacocks display their feathers, social pretenders on trains hold loud boastful conversations. Pretension reigns in standard class.
New Year’s Day morning. This train and everyone on it reek of alcohol and shame
One of the problems with train travel is the lack of a viable escape route. Not from the train, but from the people occupying it.
Everyone boarding asks the same question of the bookish looking guy sat nearest the doors; “Is this the Newcastle train?” Every time he answers with “I hope so” and a small self congratulatory laugh.
There’s no escape, whatever has made everyone else on the 18:42 to Nottingham lose consciousness is about to get me
The train is packed and so throughout it people are being forced to sit with people they would not normally choose to place their posterior near.
I am not the kind of man to eavesdrop or snoop, no matter how great either of those words may sound, particularly when being uttered by a complete stranger.
The woman with the refreshments trolley clatters past us with all the subtlety of Brian Blessed pissing about with a loudhailer.
People do not go to the Quiet Coach for the quiet, they go there to be incensed by anything that is not quiet.
I come from Yorkshire, where the only time the words ‘first class’ feature together in the local vernacular is when folk talk of Geoffrey Boycott’s batting averages
On Monday my coach became the venue for some kind of unofficial UK Business Talk Bollocks Championship.