Just think of the places I can go. I can go on the Eurostar and visit gay Paris. Or I could go to Brussels and witness the EU in riveting action. If I was feeling desperate to travel I could go to Belgium. But no, I fancy the high life of Wellingborough, just about the finest cosmopolitan town you could ever hope to visit in Northamptonshire.
I'm not a stranger to the journey. I'm at University in Kent, which means that until I develop some form of transporting time machine, it means I either have to drive there or get the train. Being a brain-dead student I'm clearly too thick to pass the theory test. And my parents are respectful British people who have a job to do, so I can't get a lift.
Shit. This means one thing. East Midlands Trains. There are two parts to my journey. I get on in Gillingham, the finest Cosmopolitan town you could ever hope to visit in the third world, and get the High Speed to St. Pancras. This part of the journey is rather pleasant if you don't mind me saying so. The train is punctual, there are plenty of seats, the floor isn't sticky and it smells nice. Once I get to London, I change trains and get East Midlands to Wellingborough.
The fun starts at the gate. This screen is the key to your life, as it tells you where you are going and when you are doing so. Seemingly you have to get as close as humanly possible to analyse deeply the information that appears on this huge screen that can be seen for miles. Presumably if you are 5 feet away from it you can't absorb the information, so you have to all charge towards it. A little old lady on her way to Corby has perished in the melee, while some nutter has reached the screen and starts climbing it, desperate for information, pressing his face against the glass screen.
Then the screen tells me that my train has been delayed by 463 hours because a magpie had taken a dump on the rails in Sheffield. This means that the 7,000 people who are huddled round the screen all sigh in tandem. It is at this point when I find out that the screen at East Midlands, St. Pancras has the second highest concentrated population per square mile in the world, just behind Mumbai. And this is because there aren't any sodding trains to get on.
I remember once a train turned up. After a goat was sacrificed for the gods to celebrate such a rare event, all 7,000 people boarded the train. Of course, 83% of the carriages were dedicated to First Class. Unfortunately I'm human scum, and so are the other 6,999. If your maths is correct (which in this blog it is, always, indefinitely!) this means that we're all rather uncomfortable.
I'm sadly sat down in the corridor with my knees tickling my eyebrows, and I'm outside the toilet. Every now and then the bog door opens and the smell of a person comes seeping out. Oh how I wish for the days of the High Speed service from Southeastern, where the train smelt of fresh strawberries.
I did eventually make it home to Northamptonshire, although my weekend was spent recuperating in hospital after I developed tuberculosis from a packet of East Midlands crisps. I was discharged just in time for the journey back.
So, if you want my advice, it is this. You can live in a dump like Gillingham. You may have to live in a third world, poverty stricken hellhole. However, your train will have a guarenteed seat and it will smell nice.
