Hands across Victoria coach station
Now bear with me folks – the impulse buy is a pretty important part of this, but not the main crux of the story by any means. But here we go.

Its three years ago – I’m still living in Manchester, and I happen to be off work for a bit and also have a few quid in my pocket for a change.
Depeche Mode go on tour – my second favouritest band ever. Now my friend Sarah is going to every show in the UK, but I a. cant afford that and b. don’t really fancy the aggro of running around the UK for a week, so I’ve just got a ticket for the Manchester gig.

And they were absolutely amazing – that was the fifth time I’d seen them, and they were just getting better and better every time. We were right down the front, it sounded amazing, we were about ten feet away from the band if that, all the things that make a great show made even better by the fact that it’s one of our faves. That’s the Thursday night – they’re doing brum the night after, Glasgow on the Saturday and rounding it off with two nights in London starting the Sunday.

Very *very* late Saturday night (well, half five Sunday morning), I’m sat around the house and mooching round the interweb, when I spy on ebay a bloke selling a pair of tickets for the DM gig in London later that night – he wants £150 for the pair – which was a lot cheaper than what the rest of the touts seemed to be offering.

Hmm… I can afford that… but it’s going to mean leaving here in an hour to get the coach down to London, and then trusting this bloke to meet up with me and actually give me the tickets… sod it, they were bloody brilliant the other night, I have to see them again on this tour. So armed with this bloke’s mobile number, a pocket full of cash, packed lunch and sensible shoes, I head off down to That London. Contact this guy on the way down, arrange to meet up at Victoria and collect the tickets off him, and also arrange to hook up with my mate Mark who’s having the other ticket off me. Things are going swimmingly… bloke is met, tickets are bought, I jump on the underground and head out to Wembley. Meet up with mark and sarah (and her friends), have some dinner, mooch about for a bit, then go and see the show.

And once again they play some kick-botty electropop/rock n’roll malarkey, and a bloody good time is had by all. The gig finishes, I say goodbye to everyone, and head back to the underground to go back to Victoria, as I’m getting the 1am coach back to Manchester. Everything’s gone great, and apart from a bit of tension when I mistook Nando’s earlier in the day for a proper restaurant, things have gone smoother than Barry White’s chat up lines.

So I get back to Victoria about midnight… the coach leaves in an hour – great, supper time. But I can’t see anywhere open, and I don’t want to stray too far from the station in case I get lost… sod it, I’ll get a breakfast in Manchester. Could do with the lavvy though… but the ones in the station are closed for cleaning. Bugger. So I’m looking around for an alternative, when this bloke walks up to me, and says ‘Excuse me, do you want to go to the toilet?’

Now several things – he wasn’t aggro by any means, and I’m about three times the size of him in any case so I’m not too worried on that front. But I really hope it’s not some sort of proposition, so I didn’t say anything and hope he goes away. He asks again, do I want to go to the toilet?

Bloody hell mate, if this is a chat up, you’re either a. desperate or b. completely unfussy if you’re trying it on with a grim-faced biffer like me. And I still don’t say anything. He asks again, to which I respond, ‘Look, I’m not being funny… but do you not think that’s a bit of a weird question to ask a complete stranger?’

To which he answers ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you – I was just going to tell you there are some other toilets on the other side of the station that are still open.’
So in the words of Jack Nicholson, don’t I feel like an arsehole. Now you could tell this guy was on the street, so now to assuage my guilt at thinking he had nefarious intentions, I offered to get him something to eat from the still-just-barely-open coffee shop thing in the station. And he tells me that rather than that, he’d sooner have two quid because then he’s got the price of a night’s stay at the hostel he goes to when he can. Like I say, I’m feeling guilty at thinking the worst of this lad, so I get him a sandwich, a coffee and bits and gave him a tenner – and he was really touchingly appreciative of it – he says he’s got the money for two nights at this place now. And he starts telling me about this hostel and how nice the people are. I’m now a bit bow-legged through needing the lavvy, but I don’t want to tell this guy just to f*** off either, so I mentally tie a knot in my old fella, grit my teeth and listen to what he has to say.

He starts telling me they do homeopathic remedies at this hostel… and he suffers terribly with his skin. And pulls up the leg of his jeans to show me what he means – he’s got the *worst* case of eczema I have ever seen. It looks as though he’s basted himself in glue and then showered in cornflakes, the poor sod (and I imagine, though I hope I never have to find out, it’s not the easiest thing to look after either when you’re sleeping rough). His leg makes the Singing Detective look as though he had a mild rash. And he’s telling me all about the creams they do at this place and how they ease the condition… and then eventually he bids me farewell, with the words ‘cheers mate – you’ve been really nice. Here –' and offers to shake my hand.

His hands as bad as his leg… now I know you cant ‘catch’ eczema, but his hand still looks like something Cronenberg would refuse to have in one of his films on the grounds that it looks too revolting… but I cant be mean to this bloke now… but it’s minging… but I don’t want to offend… I eventually give his hand a brief shake then run to the lavvy to scrub my hand. Several times.

I did think at the time I would have rather have been chatted up. Cost? about £250 in the end. but my memories of that night will always revolve around what happened in the coach station after the show.

Length? A good arms length… and flakier than a Cadbury’s warehouse.
(tjn whizzing on the electric fence of life, Thu 28 May 2009, 6:47, 4 replies)

Just to check...
You still have the arm?

Great story though *clicky*
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Thu 28 May 2009, 8:27, closed)

I do
minus several layers of skin from scrubbing it raw in the other lavvies at Victoria...
(tjn whizzing on the electric fence of life, Thu 28 May 2009, 10:09, closed)

Would you say...
That you like Depeche Mode so much, that you just can't get enough?!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

hahahahaha

hah
ha...


Just me then...?
(The Kwyjibo A big, dumb, balding North American ape., Thu 28 May 2009, 9:45, closed)

why you...
* bows to inevitable, clicks * :)
(tjn whizzing on the electric fence of life, Thu 28 May 2009, 10:08, closed)