Lancaster Station
Not so much a lack of hygiene but a lack of manners, if you ask me.

I used to pop up to Morecambe - lovely place full of people who can't afford clothes - on a regular basis. I'd change trains at Lancaster on the way and then have to wait for the filth-encrusted turd of a carriage to take me to the jewel of the North West coast.

Anyway, it's not on the train itself that I discovered a severe lack of hygiene - though there were times when the sour stench of armpit odour from my Morecambe-bound travelling companions used to make me down a pint of Jeyes Fluid just to take away the pain - but in the toilets.

Wandering in quickly to empty my bladder, my right foot skidded. That's odd, I thought. My left foot planted itself down to try and correct the slide, but found itself unable to find any purchase. Losing my balance, I toppled over face-first into what I can only describe as the stickiest, yellowest, foulest, most enormous lake of 'man-milk' it's ever been my mispleasure to encounter.

Clearly, the poor gentleman concerned had had quite a considerable amount of tension building for some time. And judging by the stink of purulent crab carcasses that clung to my beard for days afterwards, no matter how hard I scrubbed it with Vim, his nether regions weren't a picture-postcard of personal freshness.

A tip for us all: flat shoes, tiled floors and love-liquid can be a recipe for disaster.
(budddwyer This thing will hurt someone, Tue 27 Mar 2007, 16:53, Reply)