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This is a question The Worst Journey in the World

Aspley Cherry Garrard was the youngest member of the Scott Polar Expedition when he and two others lost their tent to the winds of a night-time snowstorm. They spent hours in temperatures below -70°F stumbling about the ice floes hoping they'd bump into it as it was their only hope of survival.

OK, so that was bad, but we reckon you've had worse. We know how hard you lot are.

(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 12:40)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Peruvian Buses
I think the hardest journey I've ever done was 25 hours from Cusco to Lima. The majority of the journey was spent on dirt roads; I was sat next to an overflowing toilet(which people still used throughout the journey); I had zero legroom as the seats were designed for people on average a foot shorter than me and to top it off I was unable to speak spanish so spent the whole journey near enough mute.

It could have been worse, most of it was at night so I was unable to see the massive precipices the driver was narrowly avoiding and the bus didn't get robbed by gunmen as happened occasionally on the route.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 14:03, Reply)
Peterborough don't do it.
I once persuaded Mrs Calgacus that it was worth driving back from a holiday in central France (Auxerre) to Scotland to watch a football match. "Should take us 8 hours," I said. Try 21 hours of solid hell, much of it spent on the M25, with the light relief of the exhaust falling off on a northern stretch of the M6. The score? 0-0. Reader, I married her.

I once went up Goat Fell on the island of Arran in 80mph winds and horizontal rain so heavy it was like the sea was trying to ride me bareback. When we got back down a nice lady in a hotel mentioned that some poor sod had been blown off (and not in a good way).

I once trudged back from Ibrox to central Glasgow in the deep snow after seeing my football team humped 7-0. Ibrox is not a friendly place for opposition fans cold and alone in the dark.

All that though pales into insignificance compared to the 20 minute taxi ride I took through Peterborough. What a dump. Do you realise people actually live there???
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 14:03, Reply)
used to live in wood green.
... but turnpike lane tube station was closer to our house, so we'd usually get off there.

one night after the pub we decided to stay on until wood green (c. 500 yards) to get a kebab.

I urgently need the loo but thought: well, 2 more minutes will be fine.

tube got stuck between those stations for 45 mins.

i was looking out for empty coke bottles when we got moving again. and wood green tube station now has one more big piss stain. (not that it mattered)
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:59, Reply)
m6
on a BSA old star....
broke down on M6, limped into services, hippy traveller suggests we go pick it up, he's on shrooms: want some?
shrooms later, lifting bike into back, stop at northampton and sitin a bust stop as locomotion failed us.
Plod at 2.a.m 'er, dead bike, gone by morning' hippy traveller throws up on shoes, his 4 yr old kid startschant: 'i want my mummy'
hitchiking back home, no bike, no money, no brain cells and it was raining....
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:50, Reply)
bus, hot, french
Went to the south of France (on the border with Italy) when I was about 16 for a school trip, cue a (planned) thirty hour bus journey.

They didn't tell us it would be about 40 degrees C in the bus on account of broken air conditioning, a forty five hour journey as they had 'forgotten'
that the Tour De France was still on all round the roads we were planned to go on, so cue a million mile detour around France
trying to get around the blocked roads.

I remember someone eating a spicy pepperami, and vomiting it back up into the aisle carpet, this coupled in a hot bus with pissed off children for 45 hours...gah, nasty.

Oh, and we all know Legless' stories are some of the best, so click !
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:49, Reply)
When I were a wee boy...
... I had to travel from the Sun back to Earth. Me and my good friends, Gilgadesh and Krakilowa, were racing for the express ship, which would have taken about a quarter of an hour to complete the journey.

Alas for me, as the conductor shouted his "All aboard!" while it was still a distance away!

Gilgadesh and Krakilowa, wisely, activated their hyper-boost shoes, which, although extremely useful, are about as asthetically pleasing as a peeled face, and just about as comfortable to wear. They quickly accelerated away from me and onto the ship.

The doors shut with the hiss of hydraulics, and through the portal I saw them both whip around to look out as they realised I was not there. I was close enough to batter on the door for a fraction of a second before the ship accelerated to near enough half light speed and shot away.

Even if I had known when the next ship was due, I didn't nearly have enough money to pay the fare to Earth, and so, instead, I set off walking.

Now, you may or may not know, that if a constant, average walking speed is maintained, it takes approximately one thousand and six years to walk the distance between the star you know as Sol and the Earth.

Unfortunately, I walk below the average walking speed, I did not walk constantly (having often spent time asleep, eating or using the toilet) and I did not take the direct route back, as I decided to stop off at Mercury and Venus on the way.

By the time I did reach Earth, my entire civilisation had fallen and a whole new one had risen up to take up it's place on Earth.
Fortunately, for myself, this new species looked very similar to my species (two arms, two legs, one head; it's a good design), and I was able to integrate myself into it's society with relative ease.

Well, that's my story, and if you ever meet anyone called Gilgadesh or Krakilowa, let me know, as it'd be nice to see a few friendly faces again.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:45, Reply)
Virgin
Sorry folks. Long story coming………

A while back I used to live in Manchester but work in London so it meant a weekly commute down to the smoke on a Monday and back on a Friday.

The return journey was always shit. The train was *always* packed to the roof with standing room only on a Friday night - unless you had a reserved seat which I always did.

So this one Friday, after a brutal week at work, I had a couple of pints before girding my loins and getting on the bloody Virgin train north. As usual, the train was packed to buggery and I found my seat and turfed out some chancer who had tried to nick my reserved seat. I grumpily settled in for the journey home.

Hmmmm. Train not moving. What's up? Then I heard the guard shouting:

"Move down, move down"

And the bastards were cramming more people on this already hideously overcrowded train. Bastards. Still, the train pulled away eventually and I lifted my eyes from my book and saw an exhausted looking girl carrying a baby. And she was standing. Standing all the way from London to Manchester - it was a non-stopping service.

Now I was brought up is to have a few manners. Woman with baby standing - me sitting - not right. So I stood up and offered her my seat, which she gratefully accepted, and I decided to bugger off to the restaurant car and try and get a seat there. I was also quietly boiling about how packed this train was and by the time I'd fought my way up the packed aisles I and reached the restaurant car I was bloody furious with Virgin.

As the food in the restaurant is extortionate it was, as usual, pretty quiet and I managed to get a seat. In fact, I managed to get a double seat to myself. And, as I looked up into First Class, I could see that there was hardly a soul up there in the posh seats. Well that just about did it. I passed from being really, really angry and reached let's-see-how-much-trouble-I-can-cause mode.

So I ordered a bottle of wine and a big meal. I sank the bottle in about 30 minutes (ever noticed how quickly you can drink when you're angry?) and ordered another one. Meal arrived, polished that off and ordered a large whiskey. As that arrived, so did Mr Ticket Inspector.

"Tickets please!" he trilled.

"And you can fuck off as well" I said. "I've got a valid ticket but there's no way I'm showing it to you. And another thing. See this food and booze I've just eaten? - Well I'm not paying for that either. It's a bloody disgrace the way you've packed this train. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're breaking some sort of Health and Safety laws. And, while I'm on, why hell aren't you letting those poor buggers who are standing have the unused seats in first class?"

Well, I was off on one now. I tore into him for about 15 minutes about how crap his company was and how he should be ashamed to be working for them. I ranted on about overcrowding and the idiocy of packing people in like cattle and leaving all that space in first class.

He wasn't happy and eventually we had a slanging match and he said if I didn't produce my ticket and didn't pay for my meal then he would call ahead and have the Transport Police waiting for me when we got to Manchester.

"YOU BLOODY MORON" I yelled. "THAT'S WHAT I WANT! I *WANT* TO BE ARRESTED. I WANT TO BE TAKEN TO COURT. AND WHEN I'M THERE I'LL MAKE SURE THAT THE FUCKING PRESS ARE AS WELL SO I CAN GET MY VIEWS ACROSS ON HOW YOU BLOODY BASTARDS ARE CRAMMING THE TRAINS TO DANGEROUS LEVELS JUST TO MAKE A FEW QUID. NOW PISS OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE....."

Honestly people - I very, very rarely lose my temper but that day I'd just had enough.

So we eventually arrived in Manchester and I sat quietly in my seat and waited for the police to arrive. After about 15 minutes, still no sign of Plod so I decided to go looking for the guard and present myself for arrest. I had to hunt around a bit but eventually found him.

"Well. Here I am. Where's the law. I want to be arrested." I said.

"I've had a word with the station manager and we've decided, in the circumstances, not to have you arrested after all" says guard.

I just looked at him.

"You, and your company, are a fucking bunch of gutless wonders...."

And off I wandered into the night.

Cheers
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:41, Reply)
stinky
Although the time in summer when we got stuck in the tunnel between stations and a baby vomited all over the guy next to me was pretty much as bad as it gets.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:36, Reply)
Sweaty
Any journey, on the Tube, ever. Don't drive so need to get it twice a day and quite often at weekends too.

I love it, but it is quite hard work.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:35, Reply)
turd on the tube
A few months back someone had let their dog do a massive and heinously stinky turd at the bottom of the escalators at Highbury and Islington tube. Thankfully managed to avoid it myself, but the guy in front, the guy who skidded for a good three feet in it, did the whirly-arms thing to stop falling over, and then had to get on a tube in the sweltering heat, in an enclosed space, stinking of dogshit, with everyone else in the carraige hating him... that guy had the worst journey ever. Bar none.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:32, Reply)
Long coach journeys
On the way back from a week long pissup in Barcelona, under the guise of a sports tour.

I had been out drinking heavily the night before (as all students do) and had gone home with a comely young wench. Woke up late, made a mad dash back to my room threw everything in a bag and jumped on the ready to depart coach.

Already it had been 12 hours since the last shower, plus i had the unmistakable smell of 'lady' wafting about me.

Cue 28 hours of coach, smelling of unwashed socks and the kind of shits that only a week of cheap spanish beer can give. Eep!

What made it even more unpleasent was the Portsmouth Uni football team at the back of the coach smelling like they hadn't showered all week. Even worse than that was waking up in the night to see my mate being given a handjob by a rugby lass. Pass the mind bleach!
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:32, Reply)
I wanna go home
Went to Barcelona last year just after Boxing day (my 21st birthday) for a few days as part of my birthday present with my mum. Bloody freezing but had a great time.

Got to the airport at just before 10am for a 12.45pm flight to Newcastle. Barcelona airport is bloody HUGE and walked for ages until we realised we were the wrong side of the airport. Took us ags to walk back but we still had plenty of time.

Take off time came and went. An hour and a half later we were told it was delayed. 3 hours later it was still delayed. At 6pm it still hadn't arrived and the stewerd was close to tears because she had no idea what was going on and about 14 load of chav parents with giant baby buggies and dozens of screaming chav childeren where making everyone loopy.

Finally the plane arrived at 8.30pm and the plane hadn't been cleaned and there was no food on the flight as the previous passangers had been stuck on the plane in Belfast for over 3 hours.

Pouring down with snow in Newcastle.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:32, Reply)
Crash landing
I was on a small bus travelling from Wells to Bristol. It was a hot day, there were no seats, and I had to stand. I faint easily at the best of times, and as was common back then I was a bit hungover. Far from ideal conditions.

Feeling a bit spacey, I turned to the person sitting next at me and asked if I could take their seat as I was feeling faint. They moved quickly- I must have looked poorly. Unfortunately I fainted just as I was sliding in to their seat.

And awoke, after a rather trippy dream about being under water. I'd slumped. Face down. Into. My. Seated. Neighbours. Crotch.

Not sure who was the most embarrassed...
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:31, Reply)
Fucking Lada bastard Riva
I went on a fun filled week to Spain a few years back.Rather than pay the weeks parking fee by dad took me and my mate to the airport and was going to pick us up when we got back.
A week of Beer and sun flew by and a good time was had by all.
When we landed back in rainy cold England my dad was nowhere to be seen.
Turns out his car had broken down on the way but not to worry my grandad was coming to pick us up.
Tiptop!
He pulss up in his new Lada Riva (the old fool got a new one every year) and of we toddled and then in Bracknell the car died, it just died.
So after an hour we were on our way again in a tow truck with the dead lada trailing behind.
Then on the motorway the fucking breakdown truck has a blow out and for two hours we are sat on the embankment next to a broken towtruck with a fucking Lada on the back.
People were yelling abuse, laughing and beeping their horns at us, the cunts.
When we finally did get home it had taken us 26 hours from the hotel to home.
18 of them were from Gatwick to Hereford.

crappy penis size joke and retarded yay I am on the front page comment are here.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:30, Reply)
Took a Flight out of
Newark Airport in New York and some Arab cunts flew it into the World Trade centre. Wankers.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:30, Reply)
Skint road trip
I had driven to the south of France in my elderly cavalier to visit relatives, and somehow managed to screw up my finances for the trip. My creditcard hit its max and stopped working. I thought I would have enough cash to get home but was rather mistaken. I drove north through france avoiding toll roads, paying for petrol using what cash ihad left and the change in the ashtray and arrived at calais with less than 1 euro in change. No food all day and no-where to sleep. A very, very cold night spent in the car munching on a dry baguette was had.
The ferry ticket was pre-booked so I got back to england early in the morning without problem and found myself in Dover with an empty petrol tank, a journey to aberdeen ahead of me and no money at all. I filled up at a petrol station just outside of town and my credit card was unsurprisingly refused. Police were contacted and I was allowed to go on my way if I promised to send money when i got home. Sadly 1 tank of petrol wasnt enough for the journey so unwilling to go through the same rigmarole again, I stopped in a layby and used black tape to modify my numberplate (changed a 3 to an 8 and a G to an O ) filled up and skipped off without paying.
Glad to be home, i forgot all about my promise to pay the station in dover until 2 weeks later the police phoned me up and politely reminded me.

Thats quite a lame story. sorry.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:22, Reply)
24 hours of hell..
Oh, God...

Here's what should have happened. Lift to London, train to Newhaven, ferry to Dieppe, a train to Paris, then another to Chartres.. All pre booked. Easy, right? Not.

Reading Festival, nineteen ninety something, I was about 16. I'd gone with nearly ex boyfriend, and he'd agreed to take me to London afterwards so I could get across to France and meet my mother. I knew he was nearly ex as my eyes had finally opened to the dodgy undercut and ponytail, inflated ego and tiny back up, if yer get my drift.. Plus he'd been shagging my mate. Nyeh.

So anyway, after the festival, nice and muddy, he drivies me up to Victoria station. Except he gets lost, even though he says he's driven in London 'loads'. Hyde Park Corner is not a place to discover you're going the wrong way and London cabbies aren't very sympathetic to people who obviously haven't a clue where they are going... And so I missed my train. And with it my ferry connection.

So, we decided that rather than me get to Newhaven straight away and wait all alone for the next (12 hours later) ferry, we'd hang out in London and I'd get a later train. Groovy - calls to family, all sorted.

'Cept the nearly ex took it upon himself to use a period of silence at the Serpentine to declare undying love, and profess abject repentance for his sins. Guilt trip a go-go. It was almost as if he knew he was days away from single life. His words were not received well - I went to Newhaven early.

So, thinks I, on my way now... Nice little coffee and a sit outside in the sun, before a lovely voyage by sea. It was a night crossing on the ferry, and I was looking forward to a bit of a kip, to getting to France and having a shower - remember, just come from a festival. So I wasn't best please when a chap who apparently styled himself on the man from Del Monte sat down next to me. He proceeded to alternate between chatting me up (many comments about, 'not minding a bit of dirt' - shudder) and refusing to tell me anything about himself, other than to waggle his eyebrows and say he was 'in business'. Convinced he was a slave trader, rapist or both, I didn't dare sleep, and spent a fitful night, awaiting Dieppe. Arriving there, I thought, and getting away from him, would be the end of my troubles...

Silly me. Foot passengers disembarking the ferry were shoved into the night with nothing more than a grunted set of directions to the train. It was dark, I was on the edge of a deserted town, being stalked by a madman in a panama hat, and the train pulls up right in the middle of the docks (no platform, y'understand, just some rails for it to handily squish people onto) like some sort of spectre. I found my seat, the stalker, fortunately, disappeared, but by this time, I was so wired on adrenaline, that sleeping was impossible. I barely remember getting Paris, as my youthful brain, devoid of the narcotics it was used to, created it's own chemical cocktail. Sinking onto the train to Chartres, after only a small amount of running like a mad tramp through the station, was a blessed relief.

I don't think any teenage girl was ever so pleased to see her mum as I was when I finally arrived, half a day late, covered in festival grime and the lingering scent of stalker. Compared to that, getting taken to a small side room by Customs at an airport, was a peach...
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:21, Reply)
You wern't there man......
Try this.

12 hour National Express trip from London straight after work (7:30pm) all the way up to Aberdeen with an aisle seat so no chance of sleep. Its more of an indurance test than a journey


If you can do this and not stab anyone, then my boy, you are a man
.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:18, Reply)
Ever had to...
...get on a minibus for a 13 hour journey through Swaziland and South Africa knowing full well you've got diarrhea?

Furrowed brows, deep concentration and a fear of farting do nothing to describe it!
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:12, Reply)
Hot train stand still
One of many bad journeys was an "Intercity" train from Devon to London. It was the height of summer and I'd been on a cycling/camping trip with a mate. We were out of money hence making journey home early and could afford no refreshments.

The 2 1/2 hour train journey ended up taking us about 9 hours but that wasn't the worst of it.

The air conditioning had packed up so the train was an oven as it sat still for hours on end. Every now and then we'd shuffle forward a few miles. We had to switch trains more than once as they decided the one we were on was broken.

The final straw was we were stopped IN A STATION, and the conductor would not open the doors for us to get out and get fresh air on the platform. His reason was "It's not a scheduled stop"!!! I argued the point that the journey wasn't scheduled to take 5 hours either (little knowing there were 4 more hours to go).
SO, thirsty, hungry, tired and sweaty I sat looking at the refreshment stall on the platform just metres away that may as well have been miles away. Incidentally by this point the trains on board refreshments had run out.
Special bonus was the £100 the ticket cost as I'd had to book it same day. At least I got it back when I complained.... in ticket vouchers.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:09, Reply)
i got off a plane from new york..
..during which they had ordered the wrong meal for me so i was given rice with mushrooms (satan's sweaty lymph nodes) with what smelt and tasted like Chanel No 5 poured over it, no radio or tv working, legroom seat by exit but surrounded by merkins having a ''meeting' in golfing kit shouting at hostesses for the technical problems...all this a week after 9/11.

And then I put on flip flops and broke my toe on the trolley.

yay, 9th! (it's a start...) i have more but just wanted to be on the first page... sad, i know
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:08, Reply)
travelling man
spent a glorious month rocking around morrocco with little Kapn. Came down through the Anti Atlas mountains into Marrakech, for a couple of days respite before setting off home. Both of us managed to overdo the sun a litle, and came down with heat exhaustion. This coupled with the fact we had severe giardia probably didnt help. Our final day, up early to catch the non stop train to Tangier and we had a problem finding the bus. Eventually pulled into the station to see our train pull away. Not another one for 12 hours, only enough money in our pockets to buy 1 boiled egg sarnie between the two of us, and the galloping trots. When we eventually got on the train, we were crammed into a carriage with 8 of the stinkiest locals imaginable, who proceeded to take their shoes off, fart, smoke arabic cigarettes and fight amongst themselves. Despite shaking like a shitting dog, near hallucinating with heat sickness and not having eaten in nearly 24 hours, we had to stay aawake for the whole joourney to make sure nobody touched our bags. I was bloody miserable at the end of it.
On teh plus side, I got to Gibraltar (my bro was flying from Tangier) and got fucked out of my mind on guinness. I remember being talked into an armwrestling contest with the SPanish navy armwrestling champion. At 5 foot 6, and looking like a load of knots in a bit of string, the entire english truckdriving content of teh pub we were in proceeded to bet heavily on my winning. He was the biggest fucker in the world. I have no recollection of getting back to the hotel, but I do know that they sat me in a row of three seats by myself on the plane home. I was a bit stinky!

i have more - maybe after lunch
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:06, Reply)
The last bus ...
late one night, staggering home from the pub, I hopped onto what I assumed was the correct bus for my house. It set off in the general direction of my home, then suddenly, without warning, turned around.

I was a little nervous at this point, not so much about the direction change, but about the guy sat across from me fiddling with razor blades. Oh, and the group of chavs at the back with a broken stella bottle each. And the strange smell. We started heading out into the less savoury parts of Sheffield, and soon were in housing estates that I didn't recognise at all.

Now, normally, if I get on the wrong bus, I hop off and walk home. This was now not possible. First, there was the fact that I had no idea where I was, and second was the insane murderous types I was sharing the bus with. I figured if I didn't sit tight, I might not be sitting at all any more.

After about 45 minutes of sitting in deathly silence, with only the sniggering chavs and the occassional *snick* sound of another piece of seat being cut open by the guy with the razor blades, I spotted something I recognised. I couldn't tell what it was, as it was too far away for my drunken, spazzy eyes to make out but it seemed really familiar.

Imagine my joy when I discovered it was ... the petrol station near my house. We had managed to go full circle through all the roughest, scariest areas of the city, and back home. I got off the bus and legged it before anybody could give chase and arrived home out of breath, legs aching and stone cold sober. I put the deadbolt on that night.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:00, Reply)
I normally have terrible journeys
I have had 2 people have epileptic fits one sitting beside me on a train and the other sitting behind me on a plane but there is one that springs to mind on my way back from my parents.

journey - Galasheils to Aldershot

Someone jumped infront of the bus (not my bus but one going the other way) on the way into Edinburgh and their head went through the windscreen.
Someone died of a heart attack in my carriage on the way from Edinburgh to London.
The train from London to Aldershot had no working lights.

I was a nervous wreck when I got home after seeing 2 people die infront of me and then being forced to sit in the dark for 45 minutes with lots of strangers. I have never been so glad to be home in all my life.
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 12:58, Reply)
Easy
I've been on a National Express Coach

Arctic? Pah!
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 12:58, Reply)
Commuting On Manchester Metrolink
Let me count the ways...

* Retarded-by-choice chavs on the way to thier restart courses/dealers/modern apprenticeships whilst playing soulless 150bpm shite on thier mobile phones at top volume without headphones - ignorant shitbags. They're always sneering too - why? I mean, what have they got to be so pleased about? If I was one of them, what with thier stunted intellect, nonexistent prospects and frankly woeful dress sense, I'd be considering suicide.

* Vacuous bints on thier mobile phones wasting oxygen and airtime chattering at length and volume on subjects that Jade Goody wouldn't bother with.

* Up-thier-own-arse bints who think that the entire world owes them every courtesy in the book, and that they owe everyone else none at all.

* Emo titheads with iPods (yeah, way not-to-go-with-the-flow there) and too much eye make-up glaring at you as if you're responsible for thier acne, when in fact it's the cheapass too-light foundation they trowel on to thier miserable mugs.

* Eastern European gentlemen (amongst others) who really need to be introduced to the concepts of deodorant, shampoo, mouthwash and Daz fucking Automatic. Just because personal hygiene was an afterthought in the fucking warzone you ran from, it doesn't make reeking like an animal universally acceptable - sort it or walk.

* My growing belief that most high schools now rigorously enforce the rule of 'You must, when in groups of any number, converse as loudly as possible at all times whilst using any form of public transport'

* Followers of any particularly strict faith looking at you as if you're something that they've just wiped from thier shoe and somehow reappeared. A bit rich, I always think, seeing as the fact they're on the tram too means they're no better off than I am, whether god(s) love them or not.

* Almost everyone cramming themselves into a tight group at the doors as the vehicle arrives at the platform, making it near-impossible for others to get off and creating a bottleneck which makes getting on take twice as long and the doors often close before those pitifully few with a little more courtesy and forethought manage to board. Stupid thoughtless impatient inconsiderate self-absorbed twats.

* The vehicles themselves evidently having been designed, built and tested in a nice cosy air-conditioned room, rendering them prone to failure if the temperature, humidity or air pressure stray even slightly above or below what you'd find in your living room.

* The system in general being so badly organised and funded that at rush hour every tram is a game of sardines on fuck-bastarding rails, which of course makes every one of the above delights that much less delightful.

Both

Fucking

Ways.

Every

Fucking

Day.

Only problem is, I hate driving even more.

/DISCLAIMER - reading this makes me sound like a mysoginistic child-hating BNP buddy but please, don't get the wrong idea - I only hate everyone at rush hour and I do it with equal impunity. Except for chavs - I hate them all the time ;)
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 12:54, Reply)
2nd!
Yeah!! WOOT!

Edit: The flight to my honeymoon destination took 11 hours, we were in economy, I'm 6ft 2inches tall and the man in front decided to recline he's chair back full tilt - for the whole flight!

I know it's not as bad as freezing your nuts off in some god forsaken land but I've got sensitive knee-caps y'know.


*shuffles off*
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 12:48, Reply)
the worst - bar none
I once stayed on a train through Preston.

Ended up in Blackpool

Been there ever since

FÚCKING NIGHTMARE

LAS VEGAS OF THE NORTH? - MY FUCKING ARSE.

No apologies for length as the lights are out and Im using Rohypnol
(, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 12:47, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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