You are feeling sleepy...
Let's set the scene quickly: I spent my formative years in Lancashire and was very pally with Gogs, the landlord of my local pub.

About a year after moving down to London (job) he and some of his mates used the bike show at Earls Court as an excuse for a piss-up and to catch up with me.

We drank a lot. In no particular order: 6 pints of 'watery southern pishy beer', wine, whisky, port, rum, gin and fuck knows what else. A very good night was had by all.

Then off to Euston where Gogs and his mates would get the last train oop norf and I'd hop on the Tube.

Result: I was woken up by a cleaning lady at Cockfosters, a fucking long way from home (Kilburn). Gogs and his mates slept until they were chucked off their train at Barrow in Furness. They wanted Preston.

Using some weird homing ability I walked straight home. Gogs woke his wife at 2 in the morning to come and get them, around 90 minutes each way.

The moral: (a)don't mix your drinks; (b) southern beer is not quite as weak and pishy as you might imagine.

Length: an 11 mile walk... but no hangover next day!
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Thu 29 May 2008, 19:04, Reply)

In favour of the 29
I met the current girlfriend on the N29 night bus (Trafalgar Square to Enfield, goes beyond Wood Green and isn't it fun getting home from there at 4am Sunday morning!) on the way home after a Friday night. I was absolutely off my tits (as apparently was she) and so we hit it off immediately.

The next morning I woke up with a raging hangover, no memory after about 9, a text from some random girl called 'X' (obviously replying to some drunken ramblings/wooing on my part), and it appeared I'd added her as a friend on facebook.


It'll be a year next month so, oh hang on... worst experience.


Ask me a year from now.
(Milo Minderbinder, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:59, Reply)

Brunel
I spent a year and a half digitising the papers of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. That's 547.5 days spent collating metadata about the Great Western Railway. That's fun for the first 47.5 days and complete trauma through boredom thereafter.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:55, Reply)

chivalry
Piccadilly line heading south in to London, quite early one Sunday morning a few years ago. Train stops, about four passengers get on, and all sit near me at one end of the carriage. I was reading, so I didn't pay attention at first. Then I looked up and saw what was happening. Oh, hell...

There was a pretty girl sat across from me, and her jeans zip was open. Large patch of White cotton showing - nothing more. On my side of the aisle were three men, staring at her crotch. I think one was drooling. She looked slightly uncomfortable at the attention, for some reason.

After about a stop, I'd had enough, leaned over, and gently told her that her fly was open. I tried not to alarm her, but I think she nearly burst out crying. ZIP.

Seriously, guys: you'd let a girl walk around central London with her fly open, just for the sake of a little thrill? Wankers. Literally.
( bnt what, me worry?, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:48, 1 reply)

Oops.
I was on my way to an appointment and had to use the train to get there. Made my way to Clapham Junction without a hitch, and crossed to the platform my train was leaving from. A-ha, says I after seeing a train to Brighton already there. I jumped on, believing my station to be the next stop. It wasn't, as I discovered on the information screen after the train doors locked. I ended up at Gatwick Airport. The ticket inspector was very nice about it and didn't laugh at my stupidity.

I now triple check the board on the platform before getting on the train.
(ToysForBigBoys would spread her legs for Nick Clegg., Thu 29 May 2008, 18:42, 2 replies)

The last time I ever fell in Love...
...Was with a complete stranger on my daily commute to work on the Train.
I may have told this story in another QOTW.

It was back in 2004 on the Doncaster to Leeds route. When I just happened to start noticing this girl that would get on the train at South Elmsall.
Theres an etiquette on trains, and that is people don't really speak to each other. Its first thing in the morning, and no ones in any mood for socialising. Or last thing after a hard days work in the City, and still... no one is any mood for socialising. Girls would get on the train and do their make up. Guys would get on there and hide behind the Metro newspaper.

So this is no nightclub situation where I can easilly say "Hi love how are you? Fancy a drink?" to start the ball rolling. Oh no, this would take some time.

I started noticing which carriage she got in which most of the time happened to be the same one as me. She would get on alone. She wasnt the best looking of girls that got on that train, but there was just something about her that caught my attention. She was pretty though and well dressed.

Sometimes she would end up sitting right across from me, and my heart would just start racing. I'd just sit there imagining what she was like, who she was etc. I made no obvious remark that I liked her. But inside she was driving me nuts.

This went on for months and months. Weeks would go by where I wouldnt see her. Then she'd be back on my train every day, and everytime I saw her, my stomach got fluttery, heart started pounding. I just wanted to know her! I just wanted to get into conversation with her, so I would at least have a chance of her noticing me and liking me back.

This is where it fits into the QOTW. It was traumatising! Poeple I told were just saying "Just say hello to her!" Noooo I couldnt do it. It wasnt that easy becuase of the etiquette of the commuter train! Plus it was even harder now because I actually like her and my words would be stumbled and wouldn't know what to say! I sat there wishing something would happen to break the ice. Daft things like the train breaking down, or even crashing (but we're all ok!) just so we can talk.

I even dreamt about her. Many times. I'd dream we were friends and were really happy.

I was totally besotted with this girl, yet I didnt even know her name. She had no idea she had a secret admirer that was crazy about her.

For over a year this went on. I sat on that train with her getting on it, and me thinking "Wow I really really like you!"

One Friday... The ice broke. We were having a Loud Tie Day at work. I had my geeky millenium bug tie on. Traingirl had come and sat right across from me and as usual the train headed off into Leeds as we sat in silence. I was just getting off the train when all of a sudden I heard her say "Excuse me?" and she had my railcard in her hand. Ooh! She said you left it on your seat. Gee that little wallet with the railcard had the server room fob in it and everything. She saved my bacon! I thanked her, and then thought.. Nononono!! I have to say something more! So said "The train was quiet today wasnt it?" Arghhh! Shes like "Ah yes it was yeah!" and then I just broke into conversation. I ended up walking up to work with her. She told me where she worked. She worked doing subsidence claims for one of the big insurance companies near the Headrow in Leeds. I was telling her about my job as an IT Techy for a Building Society and she seemed impressed! But oh my gosh we were talking! It was amazing!

We walked past my work first. And I said goodbye, she said "I will see you around no doubt!" "Yes you will!" Woo hooo! Wow I was on cloud 9 this was amazing! We spent a few minutes walking and talking and got on really well. I thought it was too soon to invite her for a coffee or anything like that. But now we're talking, this can carry on, on the train! For nearly a year I had waited for this moment. I was so happy!!

Worked dragged and dragged that day. I couldnt wait to get the train home and see her again and continue chatting. Finally at 5pm I got down to the station and kept an eye out for her... and she wasnt there. Damn! She was on a different train. Which left me with an agonising weekend of waiting till Monday morning. Would next week mark the start of something amazing?

Monday finally came, the train pulled into South Elmsall bang ontime every day. I was in the same carriage as always. And watched for her getting on.... She didn't. She wasnt on it! ARghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Ah well, maybe she was on the earlier one or later one and I'd see her that evening.

Another long day at work. Im stood at the platform in Leeds station at 5.10 and i see her walking down!!! Ooooh! As she approached me, I gave her a smile. She glanced at me, and walked straight past me without saying a word. Huh???

And that was that.. IwWas back to Square 1. I saw her a few more times and she didn't say a word to me. A couple of months later I moved house, which saw me getting a different train, and then eventually I finished working in Leeds altogether. And that was the end of Traingirl. I never even got her name.

Ive never felt the same for a girl as I did that one. I've met other girls since but have never found that amazing spark. I have no idea why. I wonder what she is up to now? I guess I will never know.
(Miggyman, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:32, 3 replies)

Tantric train trauma
Back when the ex and I were still in the at-it-like-rabbits stage, we'd been out to meet some friends for drinks in Winchester and were on the last train back to her parents' house.

We managed to bag one of those little cubicle things at the front of the carriage and, being rather tipsy, soon got to a little fumbling. Fumbles quickly turned into hardcore depravity, but we both got a little jumpy every time there was a light outside the window in case it was a station platform. We didn't want to treat everyone waiting for the train to a free show, so I suggested we move to my boudoir, or rather the toilets at the other end of the carriage (I'm a hopeless romantic after all).

Giggling like teenagers, we drunkenly negotiated our way back through the main seating area past groups of pissed-up revellers also making their way home. With a salacious word in my love's ear I pulled her inside the toilet cubicle, lifted her pert bottom up onto the little sink, pulled up her skirt and proceeded to thrust away in the inelegant fashion only a pissed Englishman can muster.

Whether it was the clattering of the train on the tracks, or her moans of pleasure I don't know (I like to think the latter), but I didn't hear the toilet door swing open behind us--in my drunken lust I'd forgotten to lock the bloody thing.

In any case I was only alerted to the situation by the sudden chorus of, "Oi Oi! Go on gorgeous!", and, "That's it mate, give it some!", quickly followed by my girlfriend screaming rather loudly in my ear. The entire carriage was getting a great view of my white, spotty arse pounding away at the best bits of my now very flustered girlfriend. I tried, heroically, to carry on (well they'd already seen everything by this point), while reaching behind me to shut the door but the missus was having none of it. With a huff she jumped off the sink, nearly snapping the poor man in two as she did so, and darted into the next carriage, her hands covering her very red face in shame.

Somewhat embarrassed, I zipped myself up and followed her for the now inevitable bollocking to a round of applause from what seemed like every man on the carriage. I restrained myself from turning and taking a little bow.

Not the worst journey ever perhaps, but it traumatised the missus enough for her to ban any kind of public rudey fun for a very long time, which in turn was traumatic for me.
( pixel_fucker is going to need a bigger brush, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:26, Reply)

Cambridge to London
By train, 45 minutes non-stop in air-conditioned splendour.

By coach? God knows how long, especially as it goes via Stansted Airport and then the driver decides that _someone_ is listening to their walkman too loud, in clear contravention of the rule book.

He actually got up and waved the rule book about at us to make his point.

To do this he had to stop the bus. On the slip road joining the M11.

To be honest, I've no idea how the cars behind us missed accelerating straight into the back of us. I remember a lot of screaming dopplered horns blaring though.
( chthonic, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:22, Reply)

Croydon Special
A few years ago, I worked as a lickspittle in Croydon, and live in the only nice part of town (Brighton). One wednesday night, after a three pint after-work special, I boarded the express train back to civilization, without the obligatory bladder evacuation before leaving on the train. Five minuutes out of the station, Connex South Central (did they change their names to Herpes Ridden Donkey Rapists a few years back?) announce that all toilets on the train are out of order. Nature really calls, so I slide open the toilet door, and enjoy one of life's best urinations.....

I leave the confines of the train commode, and there is a guard waiting, who says that I will be charged with vandalizing Connex property when we arrive at Brighton (note - no harm was done to the train during this espisode). I smile, take a seat, and he stands next to me for the rest of the trip. We duly get off the train, at which point I smile again and say a cheery "Bye!" before legging it out of the station to the nearest watering hole, with the FUB of a guard shouting after me...

I was sure to wear dark glasses and a hat for the next few weeks of commuting.
(Lord Blumpy is mildly off-topic on, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:21, Reply)

A repost yes, but hey! Saves hours of typing.
About 10 years ago, Newcastle to London, National Express, the overnight one
this left Newcasle about 11.30 near as dammit, never a great journey but fine if you could get a bit kip on it. The passengers were me and the usual mix of odd/quirky but essentially harmless folk and about 8 thoroughly tanked-up young Geordie twats. On the bus we go and they start singing an amusing little ditty which relates their preference of comeradeship, sociability and a "party" lifestyle as opposed to more lusty pleasures, a fine traditional English folk song if ever there was one. The lyrics were something along the lines of

"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

Concise, witty I'm sure you'll agree. So, on through the night we trundle..........

11.39 ish
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

11.39 and a bit more ish
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

11.40 or there abouts
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

and so on. We picked up at Chester le street, roughly 25 minutes later
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

then Durham about 20 minutes after that
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

and pulled into Darlington at approximately 1.15 or so
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

1.15 or so, and ooh... probably a couple of seconds later
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

By Doncaster at about 3
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz wud rather raise wa glasses
coz wa stupid fuckin' bastaaaaaaahhhhhhddds"

this time they weren't all singing, I'm assuming some of the wankers had the decency to pass out. It must have been about 4 o clock before all of the stupid cocksuckers eventually shut the fuck up. Maybe I should have said something at the time, and even the conditions on the ticket said something about alcohol being allowed but we wil not tolerate drunken behavior or somesuch, but I can't believe the driver only thought was that we were all having a sing song. After that I discovered that if you book in advance trains cost less than buses, have more room, are more comfy and get you to London in 3 hours.

(Sings softly under breath....
"Wuz divvunt shag wa lasses
coz ..........")

Utter Utter Utter Utter Twats

EDIT: Did Neil Hannon write a verse saying
"On the National Express
There some pissed up dickheads
Talking wank and shiiiiiiiiiiiiiite"

Or is that just in my head?
(tinypod will never learn. Ever., Thu 29 May 2008, 18:15, Reply)

I felt for them, really I did...
I work for a company who distributes wines & spirits. Thus, when it comes to company conferences, drink is not only provided in great measure, but is central to their theme.

And so it is that I've found countless opportunities these past 6 years to drink very expensive spirits until the light of dawn forces me to rush, vampire like, into a darkened room and seek solace from the glowing terror that is the sun. Naturally this isn't always possible and, as is most often the case, the morning after means either returning to the office for a full day's work, or sitting in a stuffy conference room and listening to people talking about alcohol (the horror).

On one occasion, a number of years ago, the conference was held in Hammersmith. This was one of those where, not only had I spent the entire night drinking heavily, but also was supposed to return to the office in the morning. At some point, after imbibing a delightful mix of whiskey, gin, rum, wine, other drink probably, the sun eventually plopped over the horizon and its brutal beams stung my drunken eyes. I wandered out of the hotel to top up on nicotine in time to see my colleagues clamber aboard the first coach to head back to the office, encouraging me to do likewise.

"I've, uh, got to collect some stuff from the hotel" I exclaimed. "I'll get the next one, honest" I lied.

Back in the hotel I hid until I could be sure the coach was departed, then made a stumbled dash for the tube station. At this point I had been wearing the same clothes for about 24 hours. I had been drinking for about 12 of those hours and smoking heavily throughout. My eyes were puffy pools of despair, my face was lightly bearded and I was emitting a distinct and not exactly pleasant odour.

Now, for those familiar with the Piccadily Line during morning rush hour, you'll know that it isn't exactly blessed with copious amounts of space. Therefore, you'll appreciate the particular trauma that my fellow passengers underwent that warm, mid summer morning as I tripped into a packed carriage of commuters, snarled an overly aggressive apology and slumped to a drunken slumber as we trundled toward central London.

I did feel very, very bad about it all. Really. My hangover was already kicking in and I felt unnervingly close to death.
( Moey, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:11, Reply)

Rochester buses, part 2.
So here I am, 20 years old, living in Rochester NY without a car. I earn a living, if you want to call it that, by washing dishes in a club on the other side of town. This means a lot of time spent on a bus.

Sadly, the buses don't run all night, they only run until about 1:00 am.

So here I am, working the evening shift one night, trying to get out of there before midnight so I can get home by bus. As luck has it, I miss the one I'm trying to get, but there's another one running about 20 minutes later. I catch that one from the club to the downtown exchange spot, but too late- they're only dropping off now, and I'm still five miles from home.

For those not familiar with Rochester NY, it's fairly far north and gets massive amounts of snow due to the Great Lakes just to the west. Blizzards are a common occurrence, as is a cold rain that drills right through you when the wind blows. In addition, at this point (1983) downtown Rochester was really not someplace you wanted to be late at night, especially in the area I had to walk through- namely, Aurthur Shawcross's favorite hunting grounds. (In fact, I'm pretty sure I served him food back in those days- but that's another story.)

So here I am, walking along at about 1:30 in the morning past the dives that are still open, when I encounter a woman standing outside, shivering in the sub-freezing wind. I look over at her as I pass. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Working," she responds through chattering teeth.

"Oh."

She looks hopefully at me. "Got any money?"

"Only bus fare. I'm a dishwasher."

She turns away, shivering, and I step up my pace. Low as I might be, cold and tired, broke and walking five miles back to my squalid apartment, I can console myself that at least I'm not her...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 29 May 2008, 18:08, Reply)

train of death
I got onto one of those local service trains which look like they're made of cardboard and spit. There were no seats left so I stood up. Being rush hour the train carried on filling up until I was forced (I'm quite small and weedy) to stand in the footwell next to the door. People just kept crowding on until I was pressed up against the doors. These weren't good solid doors either - they were those folding doors like you get on buses. Just as I decided this was too dangerous and was going to get off, the train started moving. As it picked up speed I've never felt such terror. Every time it went round a bend I'd feel the doors bending as I was pressed against them and hear the wind rushing through the gaps where the doors met. There was absolutely nothing I could do. I had nothing to hold on to other than other passengers and all I could do was pray that the doors would hold and not let me get flung out to certain death on the tracks. It was only a 20 minute journey but it was 20 minutes of sheerest panting terror for me.

Also, for some reason every time I get a train to London it's delayed because someone has committed suicide at Grantham and the lines are closed. OK. Not every time, but twice now and I think that's weird enough. Why always Grantham I wonder?
(Mary Mandolin still had it on, Thu 29 May 2008, 18:06, 4 replies)

Didn't happen to me personally, but I can feel the pain.
When my dad was a student he had a summer job checking tickets at Newcastle Central Station. Now, there was in those days a train service that ran direct between Edinburgh and Newcastle, and another train that ran the same route but stopped at Berwick upon Tweed and various other local stations. You can judge the age of this story by the fact that they actually ran more than one train a day.

Anyway, one morning a chap arrived on the Edinburgh train absolutely enraged because he had actually wanted to go to Berwick, and had been assured that the train he'd got on would stop there. And he'd stood at the door of the carriage with a dismayed expression as the train cruised happily (this was the 1950s, trains were happy in those days) straight through Berwick, with only time for a quick wave to his wife waiting on the platform. And he wanted to know What Would Be Done About It.

Well, these days the railway staff would just laugh at you and tell you to be more careful next time, but this was age of the New Elizabethan, so they apologised nicely and put him onto the correct train back towards Edinburgh. The one that would stop at Berwick Upon Tweed.

Towards the end of the shift, the very same bloke appears. He's now beyond rage and well on the way to having a heart attack, by the look of things.

Yes, my dad and his mate had put him back on the direct Newcastle to Edinburgh train by mistake. Once more he had stood at the door as the train trundled past his sadly waving wife at the station, this time in the other direction.

He'd arrived at Edinburgh fit to kill someone.

The Edinburgh station staff had apologised nicely and calmed him down a bit.

And then put him straight back onto the direct Edinburgh to Newcastle train again.
(richardm, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:57, 4 replies)

On headlights
Travelling in South America, I found myself in the small Andean town of Ingapirca. There is nothing in Ingapirca - certainly not anywhere to stay the night. It was getting dark. A bus to Cuenca, a reasonably large town, pulled in. Rescue!

Or not.

The bus was busy. In fact, it was packed - and not only with humans. We were sharing with a number of chickens. They were noisy - but not as noisy as the woman on the back seat, who was in labour.

The driver put his foot down. The road was narrow and there was precious little in the manner of a barrier to stop us taking the not-so-scenic route into the doubtless delightful valley a thousand feet beneath. With those hairpin bends, and at that speed, a barrier wouldn't have made much difference anyway.

Did I mention that it was going dark? I believe I did. In most countries, this would be a signal to turn on the headlights. In Ecuador, it is the opposite. There, drivers seem to labour under the belief that having your own lights on makes it harder to see the headlights of an equally demonically-driven bus coming the other way. And, of course, the other drivers all think the same.

So it was that we thundered along narrow roads, skirting certain death. In the dark. With screaming. And chickens.

I'm amazed that anyone survived.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:57, Reply)

when
I was about 16 i was suppoed to get a bus from Galway to Belfast, i smoked a joint before i got on and ended up going the opposite direction towards Cork. When i got to Cork i had to get the bus from Cork to Belfast, 12 hours, from the bottom of Ireland to the Top. Such a shit day.
(conzo21, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:57, Reply)

Not me but....
... a girl that was sitting opposite me on the Thameslink during the early morning commute.

She was a pretty girl, early-to-mid twenties, and had taken her seat opposite me and seemed to be enjoying the morning view out of the window.

This all changed however when a smug looking chap alighted the train at St. Albans and sat down next to her. I saw him notice her straight away and it didn't take long for him to attempt to strike up a conversation in his faux upper class accent. His first couple of attempts were standard fare:

"What's your name?"
"What do you do for a living?"
"What music are you into?"

Each of these attempts were rebuffed with an icy cold stare from the woman. She didn't even bother answering any of his questions and just looked rather miffed that he was bothering her. Sensing that he was getting nowhere, he decided to change tack and wheel out his conversation starting masterpiece:

"I always thought Picasso's best paintings were done during his blue period"

The girl looked at him incredulously without saying a word. I almost bit a hole in my hand trying not to burst out laughing. I think she got off at the next stop and changed carriage just to get away from him!
(kabukisteve, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:54, Reply)

Chemical toilet explosion
Finally pulling into Victoria Coach station after a 7 hour drive from Cumbria, everyone hangs around the back of the bus to pick up their luggage. The driver opened the back flap and the stench from hell wafted out as the chemical toilet had popped and emptied it's contents over everyones luggage. It was a concoction of thick blue liquid and turds, reminded me of Vogon food, and had soaked into all the cases and bags. Luckily, mine was in the side compartment, completely shit free so I wandered off with a spring in my step and whistling looking at the frozen expressions of horror on everyones faces.
( Brandy_Bumwinkle, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:47, Reply)

The british attitude to Public transport
I was in the rush hour commute madness that was the 7.46am Kennington to Old street tube. Around about Borough a young couple got on the train and totally bucked the sombre mood by being loud and chatty. You could sense the uncomfortable vibe in the carriage spreading as we moved off from the station. I glanced across at the people opposite me and gave them a knowing look as if to say 'This is totally unacceptable, don't you think!'. Well I say glance, but it was more like me doffing my head in their direction, but being very careful not to make eye contact with anyone as that is clearly not acceptable (unless you are travelling back from the pub after last orders).

Who were these miscreants flouting the rules of the underground at this hour? Have they no shame? By London Bridge the atmosphere in the carraige was very tense indeed as these wittering buffoons carried on their senseless chatter in some foreign language. I maintained my low steely glare and spotted a chav-like figure opposite me mouth the words 'Why don't you f*ck off back to your own country'. For once I was in agreement with a chav and the sense of unity I felt was perhaps akin to the feeling Ashley Cole felt when Cheryl came home with the 'Mrs Cole' tattoo on her neck.

I wasn't prepared for what happened next and it totally threw me for the rest of the day. The young man leaned over to me as we arrived at Bank tube and asked me if this is where you change for the central line. He Spoke to a stranger on the tube!! The enormity of the situation was not lost on the rest of carriage. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a few old street regulars shuffle off the train and down the platform to wait for the next train rather than suffer the ignominy of being spoken to by a stranger on the tube - and a foreign one at that.

I gathered my thoughts & tried to quell the overriding emotions that lay within. Do I school him in the etiquette of the tube by smashing him in the face with my blackberry? Should I shove his head into a pole? What if I kick him to the ground and stuff a copy of the metro into his mouth until he can't breath? Or perhaps I could rally the troops that had witnessed my public humiliation and mete out a public flogging of this fool using all the implements we had to hand in the carriage. My eyes scanned the surrounding area and I noticed laptop bags, a folding bicycle, handbags, a small cage with an unidentified animal & finally a man carrying a miniature glass donkey. A miniature glass donkey? Yes, well no time for reason now brain, we must press on with the plan.

BEEP BEEP BEEP....the doors were closing. Again he asked. This time I didn't flinch. My brain had done all the thinking it needed to do.

'yes', I replied. Immediately I felt a feeling of hopeless empathy for my own uselessness at the handling of the situation. I could feel eyes boring into my skull as I sat there forlorn and lost in a sea conformity that had just taken me as it's first victim of the day.

That traumatic day still haunts me...
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:45, 2 replies)

A plane story's not funny without vomit, is it?
It was early January, 1991. My fabulously wealthy uncle had had some share options come in and had treated the family (11 of us covering three generations) to New Year in one of the Disneyworld resort hotels. To the 11-year-old version of myself, it was absolutely paradise. But you're not here to listen to my holiday stories.

The flight back was a 2-legged affair. Orlando to Charlotte and Charlotte to Gatwick. It remains painfully etched into the memory of every member of the Ousgg clan since.

4:30pm, Atlantic time. We took off from Orlando in a Boeing 737. Through a fecking tropical storm. This meteorological abnormality, we found out later, had killed several people in Miami by dropping telegraph poles on them.

Now, being pre-teenaged, I wasn't exactly an experienced flyer, but I could sense something wrong when all the cabin crew abandoned giving us mints and sat down with their eyes closed and groaned. The take off can best be described as 2 mile-stretches of fuselage-trembling, engine-roaring terror as we climbed a thousand feet, interspersed with worrying intervals of silence as we plummetted back down about 500 of those feet.

5:30pm, Atlantic time. A harrowed pilot touches down in Charlotte and the flight crew are so keen to get out that they depressurise the cabin. IN ABOUT A SECOND AND A CUNTING HALF!!! When you depressurise so quickly, there are certain parts of people's body that object. Like stomachs. At least 75% of the people on board (including my father, grandad and both cousins) promptly vomited. The other 25% (including me) left the cabin as quickly as humanly possible to avoid the bilious attacks of around 120 people. Seriously, that's a hell of a lot of sick.

7:00pm, Atlantic time. After a couple of Cokes to recover (or, in some cases, to get the taste out of their mouths), we climbed aboard the Boeing 757 that would take us across the pond. The pilot looked to be comatose and spoke in an Alabama drawl - this was not an inspiration. Thankfully, the weather had calmed down.

8:30pm, Atlantic time. Intercom on: "Ahhh, ladies un gennelmen, we have something of a problem up heeeyah. It wud appeeyah that we have lost the powah from two of our engines, and are going to have to make an emergency stop in Nuu Yawk f'r while".

Initially, with the pilot's laconic tones, this didn't seem to be a problem. Until we thought about it...

...

...we were on a Boeing 757...

...

...Boeing 757s only have two engines!

This fact simultaneously slammed into the mind of many of the passengers about 5 seconds after the pilot clicked off the intercom. What followed was immediate and undisciplined chaos - people scrabbling for oxygen masks and lifebelts, screaming for their kids and cabin crew running up and down the aisles. Imagine the scene from Airplane! immediately after Julie Hagerty asks: "By the way, can anyone on board fly a plane?", only with the mournful absence of a gratuitous pair of tits, and you'd be somewhere close.

8:31pm, Atlantic time. Intercom on: "Ahh, ladies un gennelmen, ah apologise fer mah errah. We are apparently missin' onleh one engin'. We are not gonna crash-land. Repeat, we are not gonna crash-land".

Fucksocks! Not only do we have a Redneck of a pilot who DOESN'T KNOW HOW MANY ENGINES ARE ON HIS FUCKING PLANE, he is 'apparently' only missing one of them. Rather than viewing our stopover at JFK airport as a minor inconvenience, the passengers begin to see it as a welcome break. That is, until...

9:10pm, Atlantic time ...On the tarmac at JFK. "Ladies and gentlemen. It would appear that our left engine cannot be fixed. We will attempt to get you transferred to another plane as soon as possible. Meanwhile, ground control has requested that you do not leave the plane. There is no access to the airport terminals."

Bollocks...

1:20pm, Atlantic time

...Yes, I'll let you do the maths. This is over four hours later. Four fecking hours! For one-sixth of a day, they have left 200-odd passengers on the tarmac in a motionless and apparently useless Boeing 757. We are all over-heated, parched and grumpy. Eventually, we are shipped through a hastily-erected metal tunnel into another Boeing 757 with a different pilot (this at least is greeted with some relief). Finally, more than seven hours after leaving Charlotte, we (metaphorically) hit the Atlantic. Every single passenger gratefully and instantly falls asleep. I try to obtain a drink of water, but the cabin crew are also sleeping - unlike the pilot, they have had to bear the whole grisly experience too.

6:00am, Atlantic Time (1:00pm GMT) If you had a planeful of passengers who were physically and emotionally wrecked, and you knew that you wouldn't arrive at Gatwick for another three and-a-half hours, wouldn't you be inclined to let them sleep? Apparently our new pilot was a cheery morning person, and bing-bonged the plane with a cheery, corporate America, 'Good Morning' message. Several passengers told him in no uncertain language to piss off.

The one compensation from being roused from our reverie was the promise of breakfast. Eagerly, the mostly British passenger complement scanned their menu cards: soss, egg and beans! Smashing! This was something that even airline catering couldn't cock up.

Of course, there was a punchline. The only reason that we were able to get this plane at short notice (short? For fuck's sake?!) was because the hot-catering facility wasn't operating. Instead, bleary-eyed, no-longer-smiling stewardesses brought round our breakfast: one blueberry muffin.

A blueberry muffin. At 6am. Served to parched, weak and very tired people without the benefit of butter or hot coffee. Shit...

This muffin sat in the mouth like a lump of plastecine and on the stomach like a lump of lead, only without the incipient toxicity (well, maybe...). We barely had the energy to chew, let alone digest, and twenty minutes later, the same bleary-eyed, no-longer-smiling stewardesses came round and collected up 200 muffins, each one with a single bite taken out of it. From that day to this, no member of my family has been able to look a blueberry or a muffin in the eye.

Apologies for length, but it was more apology than we got from Pan-Am, who were responsible for the whole sorry farrago. They went bust later that year, which came as little surprise.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:44, Reply)

Rules for the 192 Manchester Piccadilly to Hazel Grove...
...AKA 'The Midnight Express'.

I had to catch this bus on a regular basis during my time in England's true second city... Like a lot of things, it takes planning, timing and effort, but it's ultimately rewarding (i.e. you get to your destination with the right number of limbs, the same frame of mind you had getting on and without losing any of your belonging)...

1. Queues? What's a queue? Get on when it is SAFE to get on - i.e. don't moan when the Eastern European looking fella, or the Somali with the industrial-size box of washing powder, or anyone else looking suspicious (tramps, people with shaved heads, etc) steps in front of you.

2. When it is your turn, ensure the transaction with the bus driver is quick and simple. You are expected to know the right fare and where to stop yourself, this isn't a public information service. Don't try being chatty with the driver either - he isn't your friend, he's just the guy getting livestock from A to B. So shut it.

3. Getting a seat. SIT AT THE FRONT OF THE BOTTOM DECK. Nowhere else. This limits the chance of interaction with nutters, violent people or thieves. If you're with a friend, you can risk other areas but don't say you haven't been warned. Plus if you do get collared, it'll be on the bus' CCTV. If it's working.

4. During the journey, only talk or look at people you know. Otherwise this could be taken as incitement to violence, a silent offer of a fag or other unmentionable business. If you're from the south or look like a student, don't talk at all.

5. Showing any kind of gadget or expensive item is a no-no. Many will want to 'look at' your possession, and it'll never be seen again.

6. If it kicks off - you didn't see anything, OK?

7. If you're standing up, don't keep touching or looking at your pocket as if to say 'please don't nick my wallet' - this again is a silent invite for others to proceed with the action.

8. Getting off - get up early, giving yourself plenty of time to actually leave the bus. The driver has a set alighting time of ooh, 3 seconds, in case of gunfire.

9. Repeat journeys do not mean you'll become familiar to anyone. This is not a social club, it's a bus journey.

10. If at any point in your journey you're hungry - wait until you get home. The takeaways in Longsight or Levenshulme might look nice, but when you're stood at the bus stop trying to stomach a kebab that could only be composed of cat and various other animals whilst avoiding the gaze of the local chav army don't say you weren't warned.

11. Finally - Relax. At least it's not Compton, Kandahar or Brixton, eh?

I remember detailing the delights of the 192 to an ex I was taking back to mine for a bit of action. She refused to see what the fuss was about until a big drunken rasta sat behind her proceeded to vomit into the hood of her lovely new coat...
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:38, 6 replies)

Wood Green to Trafalgar Square, anyone?
The Number 29 bendy bus is a pale horse.
Its driver is Death.
All Hell follows with him.

The worst time was the day after London blew up - the bus was particularly busy and the mood even closer to the edge than normal. A man got on and started kicking and hitting people, threatening them with his (non-existent) knife and generally playing the twat. Eventually the police arrived and dragged him off, at which point he (really!) shouted, 'It's cos I is black.'

No, it really wasn't, you cock.
( thealternativefact, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:38, 4 replies)

Karma and Dogmess
In anything approaching vaguely warm weather, London's Tube network becomes a dank, humid super-heated hell-hole, a little like this...
www.imdb.com/title/tt0068458/

One evening, on the way home from work, a packed train pulled in and a packed platform of hot, sweaty irritable commuters tried to cram in.

Despite being knackered and hot and needing an Ice Cold In Alex encounter with a beer, I though 'Sod this' and sat down on one of the few seats on the platform to wait for the next train. After an eternity of jostling, doors getting jammed on the lemming-like commuters and polite tannoy requests to 'make use of all available space' it seemed like the tube was ready to go.

Enter the Tennents-drinking gentleman of the street and his mangy dog.

Pushing into the nearest carriage , his dog then proceeded to crimp out the most vile-looking brown trout just as the doors were closing. Cue a carriage full of 'The Scream' lookalikes chugging out of Camden Town.


*I have now sullied my B3ta bedsheets*
(Pickettywitchfinder General, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:36, 1 reply)

tube
s'always the tube isnt it?

Another northern line one. Heading to euston, pretty late at night. Sat with my girlfriend, carriage is fairly quiet surprisingly. A huge, very badly dressed black guy gets on, he's like 6'8" easy, and rugby player wide. He has long dirty dreads, and wearing the nastiest grey jogging pants I've ever seen. He basically looks like he has spent 5 years shitting himself in them, which judging by the smell, he has.

He sits opposite. My girlfriend and I are coiled together in sheer terror, her nails have already drawn blood through my coat on my arms.

He is sat, legs spread as wide as possible and I swear to god, there is actually bits of shit dripping from his crotchal area. What then becomes apparent he that is is wearing 2 other things - a massive shit eating grin, and an utterly ginormous stiffy. Never once taking his eyes off my girlfriend he stops picking his nose and reaches into his shit infested keks and starts wanking.

We are paralysed. Everyone has shuffled as far away as possible down the carriage. He shifts his weight and yanks his pants down. He has the biggest cock I have ever seen in my life.

Before we have even fully comprehended what is going on, we are in genuine shock, he actually comes. He never once changed his facial expression throughout, smiling straight at my girlfriend.

All my Freudian nightmares actually came to life in front of me. A giant black cock is being literally thrust into my girlfriends face and is now being slowly wanked as his slime runs down his hands and drips into his shit filled gusset.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:34, 5 replies)

health & safety
One steamy hot summer I had the misfortune to be on an "intercity" train from the west country in a London direction. The miracles of engineering are designed to whisk you from city to city at speeds in excess of 125mph...

So I was understandably miffed that I was sat on a packed train with broken air conditioning sweating like an Austrian parent when the buildings inspector calls round. Where the train had now been stood still for nearly 1 and 1/2 hours.

This "parked" train was of course British rails solution to the faulty train we had begun our journey on and after that broke down we were hearded not onto our current train but an identical one which in turn broke down just 30 mins later and we were now sat on our 3rd train!!!

You would be forgiven for thinking that this train too had broken down but no, due to our swapping of trains over and over we had created something of a "train jam" and were now waiting for the line to be cleared of broken down trains which blocked our way!

Feeling a more than weary and with a thirst to rival an Ethiopian villager I sought out the cafe/shop. When I got there it was like the day after a war was declared and the shelves were bare save for some manky looking salted peanuts and some tea bags... just the bags, no milk or water.

It turns out in their eagerness to move us passengers from train to train they had neglected to bring any of the food and drink from the other trains and simply arrived with the depleted stocks on this train which had just completed another journey before being sent to collect us.

So I was hot, bored, dehydrated and hungry. Luckily the train was stopped in an actual train station... on the platform I could see one of those "Lemon tree" cafe's!!! All manner of cakey things and drinks! They taunted me, their colourful sticky hues blurred in the grimey train windows.

There was just one problem.... all the windows are sealed on the train.... the doors are all locked.... Neither can I get out to go to the cafe nor call and beg the shop staff to bring something over and post it through some open gap on the train.

I hunted down the "train manager" (WTF is that, surely he's the conductor?) and suggested that since we had gone nowhere and clearly were not going to for a while AND everybody was hungry/thirsty it might be a good idea to open the doors so we can use the cafe?

"No, can't do that sir".

"Why not?"

"This station isn't a scheduled stop on this service".

"???? WTF?!?"

"The train isn't scheduled to call at this station, so we can't open the doors in case passengers got off at the wrong station."

"Not scheduled??? You're right! According to the schedule we're 7 hours into a 3 hour journey!"

We argued until I gave up and solemly went back to my seat.

It seems that British rail won't risk you not realising that some pikey small station isn't London Waterloo.... but they will let you die from dehydration.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:33, Reply)

Maybe not the worst
A few years ago, me and 2 of my mates were in Berlin for a week before heading to the Munich Beer Festival.

On the Saturday afternoon we went out and saw a bit of the city in our hungover state. We were on the U-Bahn coming back into the city centre and the train stopped on the outskirts and what can only be described as a bag lady got on, with the most scraggy, manky looking dog I have ever seen.

Anyway, about 10 minutes later, the baghag starts shouting randomly in German, then proceeds to vomit all over the train floor, if this wasn't bad enough, the dog immediately starts to eat the sick. Cue several Germans trying to exit the carriage, while we stared incredulously at a malnourished dog tucking into a puddle of sick. The combined stench of the old crone, her dog and sick was possibly the worst smell I've ever known and it took a big effort to stop the previous night's beer and kebabs making a return journey.

As for length, who knows, no one was close enough to guess.
(Kia Ora it's 2 orangey 4 crows, it's just 4 me and my dog, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:32, Reply)

All the way to work
there was this disgusting drunk sitting right next to me, mumbling and stinking.

And I had to do all the pedalling myself.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:32, Reply)

The curse of the bullshitting announcer
A long time ago in a far away land ( yorkshire ) there was a young RAF chappy who had been visiting witht he wifey back home, near Hull. Ok it was me. I was living in the Outer Hebrides which are like the Falkland islands but less culture, for some strange reason the wife decided to stay at the outlaws for a while longer leaving me to make my own way back to Jockland.

It was winter time, wet, cold, and I was stoney broke so was relying on my forces rail warrant to get me back to work.
It didn't start to badly, change at Selby, then York then sit on the east coast line staring at
the "landscape" for several hours, in the BR equivelant fo roadworks. Quite some time passed but to be honest as a young Dad with a wife and 2 kids under the age of 3 it was a nice rest. I picked my nose and daydreamed, read a book then daydreamed and picked my nose.

Eventually the train pulled off (fnaar !!) and we made our way to Edinburgh, this was when the "Curse of the bullshitting announcer" struck

"BING BONG we regret to announce that all passengers hoping to join the 18:00 Whiskey galore express to Glasgow have now missed this connection. However all tickets can be used to travel on the next train to Glasgow"

Relief all round, well for me anyway, but wait I have another train to take me to Paisley yet !! What will I do ??

"BING BONG all passengers hoping to travel to Paisley etc etc will be required to report to a member of customer services when alighting at Glasgow in order to receive further transport"


That was alright then, I returned to my epic nosepicking session. At Edinburgh I changed trains and finally alighted at Glasgow.

At about 22:00 on a Sunday night.

There were no customer services types around, apart from a tramp an me there was no one there.

Fucksox

I had no money on me, I did however have a credit card which may or may not work so I thought I'd chance my arm with a cab.

Making my way to the taxi rank I knew it was a long shot, 10 seconds later I knew it was more a case of "NaefuckingchancesonImnaetakkinganeefookeranywareona manckycreditcardfuckoff"

Or "no sorry" in English

I had to get to the Glasgow airport for a flight in the morning. I had ( still have ) two feet, and legs. So I set off walking.

Now the only time I'd been through Glasgow was on a bus or a train, walking along the train tracks seemed a bit silly so I decided to try the but route which I knew vaguely. It ran a long a dual carriageway, not the best idea really.

To make matters worse it was sleeting constantly, but there were hilights on my walk, namely being tailed by a police car through a town which I now know is Govan, and...well thats about it really.

I made the airport a fewe hours later, pissing wet through and cold, the rest of the journey was easy after that, even though some kind souls decided to wake me up from my comfy bed in a lounge somewhere to ask if I was going to Spain


Fucking Spain ???????????
(polar69, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:31, Reply)

Chavs in planes
I can't remember whether it was asboJet or Pikeyair, but I once spent a three hour flight trying to ignore the conversation that drifted towards me as it took place between members of the family sitting in front of me.

As far as I could make out, the son had just asked his father and mother about the size of the biggest orgy in which they'd been participants. They were in the process of answering in some detail.

I tried not to hear anything else.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:30, 3 replies)