Original Sauce

As I sit here in possibly the most soul-crushing vehicle on earth, the locomotive, I ponder that in such an unconscionably woeful environment, I could happily become a psychopath. My train is the 21:00 from London King’s Cross to Durham, a journey that I have made many times, and consistently found bafflingly shit. But wait, salvation is here, from whom you ask, but National Express! Phew. GNER has proven to be simply too crappy, and the route has been taken over by those synonymous with coaches, the second most baiting and skull-numbingly banal way of travel I can think of. Before, dear reader, you launch into the alternatives: the aeroplane, the automobile, I get it ok? I am a willing sacrifice on the altar of self-abuse. I, like everyone else, buy into the notion that it’s “easier” to travel long-distance by train. The fact is that it is not; I am still herded around, queue for everything, jostle for my seat and drag my luggage everywhere. Nor is it cheaper. Nor is it anymore enjoyable; a cramped cattle truck, the price paid for such a privilege warranting Faberge coffee cups.

And yet, the price has increased again. For the eight percent increase, I can find nothing emeritus of it. My current journey surprised. To fete the arrival of National Express, I am treated to a worse train than I had ever experienced under GNER. Its age is incalculable; beige kitsch seemingly transcends time. Now of course, this could be a one off, but nonetheless, I find it baffling that they can do the equivalent of turning something already terrible, into the travel equivalent of Halfords. But it is reassuringly consistent – seats so close together I am practically mounting my neighbour, legroom fit for a stoat, and zero luggage space; so overflowing with luggage was a carriage on my southward journey to London that a lady got trapped in the loo. Frankly she’d have been better off staying there. One hears periodic threats on journeys from the staff that if luggage is not removed from an emergency route, (if there’s a crash we’re all fucked anyway) it will be dumped on the platform of the next stop. Two years ago one of the offending pieces of luggage was mine, and when I attempted, very politely (remember Iain, they’re only “doing their job”), to explain that it was occupying the only available square inches of the train carriage, and that POWs had better luggage provisions, I was treated as if I had just told her I was a sex offender.

The staff are a major gripe of mine. Now I fully appreciate that any length of time on the misery express would make me into a complete fuckwit also, but still. The main offenders are those who are charged with checking tickets. Not only are they invariably impolite, I am invariably a complete cretin, and have either forgotten my Railcard, missed my train, or am sat in the wrong seat. All my fault. However not once have they cut me any slack, especially when I have forgotten my Young Persons Railcard, and been slapped with a massive ticket purchase, usually £120. Not only that, but they smirk as a meekly attempt to wriggle out of it, citing late connecting trains (which is sometimes true), and appealing to their cold hearts and iron fists. This is a frequent occurrence; I am coming to the conclusion that I have something of a sadomasochistic tendency.

I won’t even rant about the train food (har har har old train sandwiches aren’t they rubbish har har). The single most depressing thing about my journey is the palpable feeling of collective despair among fellow passengers; the darting eyes, the perpetual shuffling in seats, the same people walking up and down all journey, and the feeling that we’ve all been suckered. Again.