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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)
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Worst ever
All the way from Manchester to Anglesey with a pit bull in the back that someone had fed a rotting chicken carcass to the night before.

To make matters worse, we'd sprayed her with vanilla air freshener to try and counteract the smell of her numerous farts, which actually added to the 'smog'.

I will never be able to buy that air freshener again, or indeed visit Anglesey.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 14:42, Reply)
Hell, France
Some good stories so far but I reckon this one outstrips most of the European journeys by a distance...

I would have been about 15 and already 6 ft tall. In his infinite wisdom my father decided that flying wasn't for us and that we should drive the 1000 or so miles from home (near Blackburn, Lancs) to our French campsite. In a Montego. Which isn't anywhere near as big as it looks. Into which was packed me, my similarly-sized brother, both parents and my sister who would have been about 8. And all our luggage.

Again using some of his already-legendary wisdom, Papa insisted we set off at 5am to ensure we arrived at Dover in plenty of time to catch the ferry. So off we went. Within four miles my mother realised she had absolutely agonising cystitis, so we then had to spend the first 3 hours driving round Bolton and then Manchester to find a duty chemist. Eventually we did, but by then Papa's plan was off schedule and he had to average over 100mph to catch up. Mama, meanwhile, was having to make him stop at every services so she could make pee, which didn't improve his temper.

This would have been bad enough, but my brother was (still is, and always has been) a natural born gold medal standard aggravating twat. My normally placid sister, rather than become the butt of this behaviour, joined in thus doubling the fun. Were it not for the presence of my increasingly irate parents, there would have been two corpses in the back of that car with me, which would have been vastly preferable. In fact, the odds on which of us was to become a murderer first were falling all the time on that journey.

Anyway, somehow I managed to make it down to Dover without losing my hair/ rag/ sanity. At this point my father informed me, for the first time, that the ferry wasn't due to leave for another EIGHT HOURS and that we would now be sleeping in the car. Should I therefore stretch out on the pavement, then? Oh no, because there were a lot of nutters about in the Dover ferry car park (there weren't) and we should all sleep in our seats!!!! This was obviously impossible, so my brother and I stretched our feet out of the windows, thus ensuring that any nutters could have had their fill of whatever it was Papa determined needed protecting.

Cue the next morning, we boarded the ferry. OK, now the journey got a little better - unlike some of the stories on here we got a smooth crossing and no-one was seasick. But I, in taking advantage of the complimentary full english breakfast managed to get the most salmonella'ed underfried egg I've ever had the misfortune to try. Miraculously, this didn't manifest itself until the moment we hit the campsite though my guts were turning over for the last 150 miles (and it was deinfitely that egg because we didn't stop to eat again!).

Apart from the constant aggravation and frequent piss stops we managed to make it to the campsite, whereupon I immediately had to go rid my body of everything inside it, repeatedly, for the entire first week. We couldn't locate an English-speaking doctor, my folks arguments made World War 2 seem like a minor disagreement over cutlery and my brother, who remained blissfully sickness-free, went into the woods with a Swiss boy to be given large quantities of free narcotics. The shit. While I could barely move from my bed.

My mothers' cystitis remained a feature of the holiday until we returned, and though the journey back was otherwise relatively calmer we did hit a four hour traffic jam on the M6. The best bit, though, was the day after we returned, when my dad suggested we all sit down "and decide where we're going next year", on the grounds that it would probably be our last family holiday together. As one, we told him where to shove it... and duly, that disastrous nightmare of a fortnight was our last holiday together. The French were a load of up-their-own-arses cuntwads, too...

I would apologise for length but be glad it wasn't as long as the fecking journey... also I'm a caaaant!
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 14:39, Reply)
I'm the fat cunt from 'Lost'.
Plane crashed, now stranded on desert island for months with no chips. - beat that for a shite journey.

Oh, and to top it all off, now my bird has been shot, so there goes my one and only chance of playing hide the sausage.

fucking bollocks.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 14:13, Reply)
nifty fifty
I can vouch for prem1um - it is the worst bus route ever , it's basically transport for the local lunatics..
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 13:59, Reply)
Worst Journey evAr!!!
n00b here, 1st message and all that.

I suppose my worst journey ever was when I was driving home one night and had a head on collision with a Volvo estate, resulting in a broken arm and concussion, but the worst journey with comedy happenings can be found described below.

Back in '96, I lived in Norwich and was a a proud member of the Norfolk Arsenal Supporters club. We used to travel to lots of games home and away, and one such away trip was to the town of Middlesborough. We all piled in our hired, rusty, smelly, knackered Transit mini-bus and set off on the long journey in good spirits, jesting amongst ourselves how the natives in Middlesborough had particularly flexible views on the ownership of property, that is to say, they'll nick anything that isn't nailed down - just like Scousers.

Anyway, we find somewhen near the Riverside to park, on a main road with a few other similar mini-buses parked along it, then head off to the pub and onto the match. We win the match, and everyone's in good spirits, that is until the first person stops walking and says "I though we parked it here??" Turns out some light-fingered herbert had made off with our mini-bus. Anyway, Middlesborough old bill couldn't do anything about it, so the next job was to find a way home, although as soon as the van was pronounced missing, several members buggered off to the pub, so we had to spend about an hour rounding everyone back up again.

Someone in the group buys everyone a one way train ticket to Norwich on their card, and we're on our way again.
Train gets to York - catches fire - everyone off the train. Hang around for ages, then the next train arrives and takes us to Peterborough. Trouble is, the train fire had made us late for the connecting train to Norwich. No problem, British Rail (or whoever) offers to pay for Taxis from Peterborough to Norwich. So we all pile into two aging Nissan Bluebirds, each driven by an Asian lad who didn't look a day over 14. What ensued from this point was the worst, most terrifying white knuckle car journey I have every undertaken. The entire midnight trip was taken flat out all the way, in the dark (obviously) with sidelights only and the cabbies racing each other and overtaking at every opportunity, including on blind bends, hill crests etc. We were suprised to make it back to Naaaarch in one piece, and didn't go to Boro again. Or Liverpool for that matter.

Long, wasn't it. Fank yoo.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 13:11, Reply)
When 50kms is simply too far...
I once found myself training with the British Army on the prairie in Suffield, Canada - approximately 4 hours from Calgary.

After running around and shouting bang for a few weeks, we were all given a 'run ashore' (i.e. 'go out on the pi$$' in normal people speak) so off we rode to the nearest 'city' called Medicine Hat.

A good night was had by all - including yours truly - and various people filtered in and out of my line of sight, clutching females in what they probably believed was a romantic manner. As the night wore on, I recognised fewer and fewer people, until actually there were virtually no people around at all.

Through the alcoholic haze, I became dimly aware that I needed to be back out on the ground in reasonable shape the following day so headed off to the taxi rank. One small problem - they had stopped some 90 minutes previously. It was at this stage I realised my watch had stopped at around 0340hrs.

So I had to stagger back up the Trans-Canadian Highway all on my own, a 50km journey hindered by the fact that the inevitable hangover kicked in almost immediately, and the certain knowledge that I was going to be VERY late indeed.

7 hours later I made it back. Missed the transport out and got slapped with a £350 fine.

My misdemeanour was knocked into the shade by one of my mates returning three days later, having been handcuffed to a bed in an Indian trailer park by an insane squaw and abused.

He left the Army shortly afterwards, but luckily I got his spare kit. Woo!

[Apologies for length and girth etc - it is Newbie Tuesday after all...]
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 13:09, Reply)
en france-i used to love my friends...
mid 80's went to france to stay with friends who'd swapped their house for a bit.
i got volunteered on the night before departure to stay up and awake em at 4.30 a.m.
So, a solo and sober night followed by wanting to sleep in the car from Provence to Caen. their two year old smashed me with a hammer-in the face-even if 1 eyelid drooped, demanding i play peek a boo and smiley face. after 2 hours i suggested a swap of places but no-they were 'co drivers' so could not swap seats...4 hrs. please, please, please, got me: 'we're almost there' 8 hrs. got me 'I didn't realise you were such feckin miserable twunk'
we didn't speak for 3 months agfter this. the kid is now 24 and thinks i'm a 'great uncle' little does she know that the entire family were almost wiped out in alcohol/sleep deprived rage by a man with a perm........length-no apologies necessary
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 12:57, Reply)
Nightmare on the Nifty Fifty
Not just another worst local bus journey story - this experience scarred me for life.

The number 50 bus service in Birmingham has the reputation of being Europes most frequent service*, passing through six or seven heavily populated innercity and residential areas on its way.

Living in and around the 50 route and being a poor bastard who cant drive, I have seen quite a few incidents over the years on the buses, including:

- a woman repeatedly smashing another womans head against the bus window until she lost consciousness
- a crackhead going for a young guy with two broken glass bottles and chasing him off the bus into the sunset
- kevs (chav ancestry) setting the top deck on fire and escaping out of the (top) emergency exit
- frequent police raids on the bus with a sniffer dog

I'm not saying its a ghetto bus, just that it seems to have a lot of action. Bud smokin', spray can totin', chav scrotum action. But enough of those fun memories. All of that paled into insignificance one night last year.

I was sitting halfway in the downstairs deck with my girlfriend. It was about 9pm: the time when all local nutters come out of the woodwork. The bus was around half full as it pulled up to a stop and a few people got on.

From the shadows emerged a small figure, wearing a dark long coat**. As the figure shuffled onto the bus and into the light I could see it was an old woman with a hood partially covering her face.

She came slowly down the aisle, completely ignoring the driver, peering at people with eyes like saucers, bulging out. The terrifying thing about her was that she had some kind of bright green paint/liquid smeared over her mouth and nose and it was splattered pretty much everywhere else on her.

Then the smell of solvents hit me, a powerful stench of pure alcohol mixed with burnt plastic. She walked past to the back of the bus, leaving a trail of green footprints.

Sitting tight, we could hear her rooting around in the rubbish on the back of the bus mumbling in a low voice as the intense odour of whatever she had been sniffing/eating/drinking filled the bus. She started to shuffle back. As she came past me (sitting on the outside seat) her head quickly turned and from under the hood, she stared at me for a good couple of seconds. Those seconds were decades to me, transfixed by the vacant, malevolent look. Then the green wizened face was gone, leaving me with the shakes and a recurrent bad dream.

Probably sounds like fuck-all to you hard knock b3tan travellers but glue sniffers and solvent-addicts scared the fucking shite out of me before this happened. Not one of my most favourite journeys.

*PR claim devised by the rent-a-bums at Travel West Midlands
**Think I Know What You Did Last Summer
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 12:28, Reply)
Never Fly Low Cost
Ryanair, flying out of Treviso airport near Venice Jan 2002, we got fogged in. So Ryanair cancelled the flight, and took all their staff out of the airport terminal building so no-one could ask them any questions.
We had to stand in a queue for 2 hours to be told in pidgeon english by poor airport staff that the fog meant there were no flights available, and we needed to get a train to Breschia where there was a flight the following morning. we bought our tickets and trained it over to Breschia.
For anyone who's been in that neck of the Italian woods, Breschia is a crappy light-industrial town in the mid-north of Italy, and about as attractive as genital warts.
The airport is the worst I've ever been in in the free world, its a big tin box with loud gaudy shops in it, and we got to spend the night sleeping on one of it's hard uncomfortable benches.
In the morning, MORE FOG!! and dear old Ryanair cancelled their flights again without telling us.
If it wasnt for an extremely bright member of airport staff who negotiated 3 coaches to take us to Milan where the aircraft had landed, we'd probably still be there.
So we arrive at Milan and eventually take off, 24 hours after our original flight.
2 hours later we arrive in Stanstead, pissed off and tired.
I will never fly low-cost airlines again
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 11:56, Reply)
My friend was travelling through Asia. She wanted to go somewhere pretty remote, so she paid a guy to take her there on the back of his motorbike.

All was fine...

...until he started wanking.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 11:42, Reply)
Never Travel With Family...
Just to set the scene…

Aarhus, Denmark, 1996. A 16-year-old Devil-In-Tights, Mum, Stepdad and Grandparents.

In a Peugeot 406.

We’d gone over for some family birthday or other (although why my Grandparents were there is anyone’s guess, as I am the Demon Seed from the ‘foreign’ side of the family), and there was the not entirely mouth-watering prospect of a 3 hour car journey to Esbjerg.

In the Peugeot. With me trapped between the Grandparents in the back. With a total incompetent driving. 3 hours turned in 6 hours, punctuated with toilet stops, roadside picnics (to the tune of fervent prayers to whatever Deity may have been passing to please, please make it all end), and endless Werther’s Originals.

I don’t know if the holiday counts as part of the journey, but cue a pair of octogenarians demanding I translate what the (very polite) young lady at the bar had just said (insisting she had been insulting), speaking in very loud, very slow voices and making us drive to bloody GERMANY to see a town that had the same name as the Village they live in.

On the plane ride home my Grandmother freaked out because the pilot ‘wasn’t English’. (Then again, this is the same woman who, on her first ever plane ride (circa 1980), started screaming “THE PLANE’S BROKEN!!” when the flaps dropped as the plane came in to land.)

Length? It’s my first time, I don’t know what I’m doing… ;o)
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 11:16, Reply)
Worst Journeys
I cant give you a specific date or time.

The worst journeys for me were travelling on the Citylink bus between Edinburgh and my hometown, and vice versa, when I had some of the worst student hangovers of my life.

The bus felt like it was atleast 51C, and there was not a breath of air, I alway seemed to get the seat next to the sweatiest middle aged bloke in Scotland, just behind the rear axel, where every pot hole feels like the Grand Canyon. Mr Sweaty is also huge, so I only have 2/3 of my ass on the seat and have to hold on going round corners.

And a few of these journeys were made when people could still smoke on the bus.

I never once tossed my lunch up, but I silently screamed and begged to any deity listening for an instant merciful death. Head pounding, alcohol dripping out of every pore, stomach always just on the edge of spewing from the movement and the olifactory assault, legs aching from not being on the seat properly, and yet I would do it again 2 weeks later. Twat.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 10:29, Reply)
Dorchester to Toulouse
This is not very spectacular, but easily the worst journey I've ever had, mostly due to my blasé lack of forward planning and ability to attract weirdos.

It's the summer of 1993 and I've just finished 6 weeks of archaeological dig in deepest Dorset. I have to get from the tiny one-goat village I'm camping in to the tiny one-goat village in the south of France where my parents have helpfully moved to.

After 6 weeks' camping I am filthy and suffering from prolonged camping food symptoms. It's hot and I am dressed like Carl McCoy from Fields of the Nephilim (yes, I know). I decide the best way 'home' is to get the bus to Bournemouth, pick up my stuff, then get the bus to Southampton, ferry to Cherbourg, then train to Toulouse. Easy.

Tiny one-goat bus arrives and I get on it with my stinking bag of unwashed clothes. Change (bus) at Dorchester, get bus to Bournemouth. It's hot and sweaty all the way. 2 hours later, arrive Bournemouth. Walk 3 miles back to my student house to pick up stuff. Decide to take enormous stereo and (separate) CD player, and whatever clean clothes I can find (half a sock). Heavy, but manageable on rickety plastic trolley. Walk back to bus station. I am the only person in Bournemouth wearing a long coat and scarecrow hat.

Bus arrives in Southampton in the early evening. I have to get the ferry but I have no idea where Southampton docks are. Someone tells me it's an hour's walk. I start walking. 20 minutes later, wheel falls off trolley. Arsebiscuits. Stuff too heavy to carry for longer than 3 minutes at a time. I panic. Find phone box, ring my mum. She rings my uncle who lives in Southampton. I haven't seen him for 15 years, due to him being a nutcase and/or Hitler. He turns up, says 'Get in' and drives me to the docks without a word. I get out with my stuff and he drives off before I can close the door. I lug my stuff onto the ferry and collapse in a stinky corner. I am copiously sick for most of the crossing due to stress and the heat. Still got my hat on, though.

Ferry arrives at Cherbourg, by which time I have patched up trolley wheel. Ferry terminal is miles from train station. I walk. I just make the train, but not before putting a dent in my stereo in the rush. Train to Toulouse goes via Paris, so I have to change. Change stations. Arses. After some disorientation I get on the Metro to the Gare Austerlitz. I look and smell like a corpse, especially as I notice there is sick on my hat. People start to avoid me - except for one half-dressed freak who starts to hassle me for money. He doesn't have any teeth. The carriage is packed so I tell him to piss off. He just stares at me. The carriage starts to empty over a series of stops. The guy is still staring at me with his hand out. I get worried - it's two stops till I have to get off. He gives up, and gets off with one stop to go. I'm so relieved I take my hat off.

I get to Gare Austerlitz and I've missed the Toulouse train. ARSES. It's 5 hours till the next one. I collapse in a corner. The gendarmes eye me suspiciously. Also eyeing me suspiciously is a very well-dressed man. He comes over and asks me if I'm ok - I tell him I'm just tired. He twigs I'm British and gives me a funny look, then he asks me to go for a coffee. I (stupidly) accept. It turns out he's an automatic door salesman from Versailles. He wants me to go and live with him. I tell him I'm going home but he won't have it. He becomes faintly aggressive and goes on about how lonely he is. He keeps staring oddly at my luggage, and tells me I 'must go' with him. I stand up to get away; he stands up too. I tell him I have to go to the toilet (with my luggage). His face lights up. I shit myself.

I get to the toilet as quickly as I can without running. Shit - he's following me. I get through the door, lock myself inside a cubicle and brace the door with my feet and luggage. I stay there for 3 hours. Periodically, someone pushes silently against the door. I get worried that I'll miss the train, so I have to come out. He's gone. I get the train.

I get out at Toulouse. While I'm waiting, I see my parents go past, slowly, in the car. They see me but it doesn't register. I look like an exhumed Edward Scissorhands with a hat on. They come past again - I see my mum mouth "is that him?" through the car window. I've been travelling for 28 hours and I can only just manage to say hello.

On the way back to Britain, I get the plane. At no point do I shit myself.

length etc.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 10:12, Reply)
Coming back from the Leeds bash
I had the worst hangover in Christendom. Too incapable to get a train, I begged fellow B3tan milknosugar for a lift back to Manchester.

After we'd got off the motorway and were driving through some town or other, I asked him if we were back in Manchester yet. He looked somewhat taken aback and asked me if I was joking.

Then pointed out that we were 300 yards from my house.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 10:09, Reply)
The 10A Bus - There's One From The Vault (inspired by Panteneman)...
...ah, yet another fond memory of my pissant hometown. I can back you up 100percent with how terrible that journey could be. I used to live in Thatto myself for a few years y'see, but I was one of the bigger ones who beat the brick-throwing little cunts with planks (hey, they just got too cheeky sometimes and they needed telling) rather than being a brick-thrower myself.

I remember the last time I travelled to Liverpool on the 10A with the then-GF years ago on the way to see some poncey manufactured PWL shower of shit 'perform live' - her idea. As we neared the future City of Culture*, there was a disagreement between some poor herbert and a bunch of standard-spec chav retards at the back and predictably, he got the crap beaten out of him and then back in again. It pained me to sit there and let it happen, but as the GF quite rightly pointed out, my intervention would not have altered the herbert's fate in the slightest - I would have simply shared in it, and maybe she would too as they had a handful of thier poundshop-attired, sallow-eyed bitches in tow, shrilly egging them on. This was a lesson the driver had apparently already learned, seeing as he didn't even look in thier general direction once.

From that day on, the GF insisted we got the train which wasn't always better (some kids once hit the windows with a catapult, shattering them and cutting some bloke's face with the shrapnel), but it was an easy ride more often than the 10A. I've since left St Helens for a locale where the population's red cells don't outnumber neurons, so I've never revisitied the rollercoaster crash that is travelling on the 10A. Not gutted.

I've travelled courtesy of Ogden's a few times too, who seemingly bought all thier vehicles second-hand in the late 60's and have never looked back - read 'back' as in 'back at the passenger area to see how minging and generally shit those things are'. In fact, I was in the same class at school as Mr Ogden's son. Evidently Big O spent as much on his kids as he did on his coaches - my folks were on the dole throughout my high school years and even I was better dressed than Little O. I would've been gutted in his position - my folks had fuck-all to spend so at least I had an excuse. Don't be too hard on Blackpool though - granted, the lights are a total waste of time and interesting only to those whose birth predates the invention of the electric lightbulb, but a good time can be had in the day or night provided you know where to avoid.

* Incidentally can someone tell me how, no but really, HOW THE FUCK did that happen? Do you know the guy who masterminded that is re-jigging the CSA now? Batman Dad and his peers are fucked.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 9:50, Reply)
The Almighty Cabcharge
Once upon a time two small boys tried to get to schoolies week in Byron Bay. Unfortunately our easy overnight ride turned into a 2 night fucking busride from hell due to a cow/camel (they couldn't pick one on the PA) killing itself somewhere on the track. We spied two other mates from school, still waiting on the train tracks (which were completely deserted) looking for a train that was never arriving. We all pile onto the (shit) bus and one of them reveals a full smoke packet of blue speed. The trip passed quickly from Melbourne to about the NSW boarder where a small indigenous lad boarded the bus and proceeded to take a piss everywhere but the toilet bowl, a lovely little stream emerging from the cubicle and snaking through the aisle. My three mates found this hilarious as they were completely retarded, but I couldn't see the humour.

Entered Sydney finally and found that our next connecting train was delayed because of bushfires. Enough is efuckingnough. Given blank cabcharge courtesy of CountryLink trains and told to board our next bus on the other side of town after the cab trip. Informed cab driver I was an employee of the service and needed to get up to Grafton tut sweet to survey situation. Charged $750 to the most incompetant fucking company on earth and cut a full bushfire and several hours from the trip (we would have gone right to Byron but the bloke needed to get home to his wife).
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 9:08, Reply)
I took a 14 hour bus ride through Queensland with a bus load of Germans. Don't talk to me about Hell. I lived it.

It started poorly when the German sitting next to me told me he had been sunbathing naked and had burnt his wedding tackle so, if I didn't mind, he was going to plonk his tackle out so it wasn't rubbing against his shorts. Actually I did mind but there was no stopping him. Throughout the journey I would start to doze, only to be woken with a start to find my head far too close to his old fella.

At one point he asked me what the English word was for where someone else has the same name as you. It's "name sake" but I had a mental blank and couldn't think of it. He replied, with a very haughty, German tone "The English language is inferior."
I was moved to reply "Not only that but we don't have a word for 'We lost two world wars in the 20th century either'".
My response, while satisfying at the time, was perhaps a mistake as the tackle out German stood up and shouted something in German to the rest of the bus. Then I had a parade of German women taking turns to scream at me in German. I would say they were "mad German women" but the "mad" part is rather redundant, don't you think? I mean, all one has to say is "I met a German woman the other day" and you would automatically respond "In what way was she absolutely batshit insane?"

So, to make a long story shorter, I spent 14 hours on a bus with a tackle out German man and a group of clearly insane German women all shouting at me in German about how much of a bastard I was.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 7:46, Reply)
worst ride ever
Thumbing back, with my then girlfriend, (God, where is she now?), from my home town to my work place up the east coast of ireland. 8 o' clock in the morning, got a lift in a morris minor, me in the front seat, she in the back, lady driver. Going all the way. Little did I know. Motoring along, I turned around in my seat to make a point and placed my right hand on the back of the drivers seat. GF grabbed my hand and forced it down and up under her skirt. And off we went, lady driver, GF frigging herself stupid with my fingers for what seemed like the entire journey and me trying to get the window down to ease the scent of juices which wafted from the back. Worst journey I've ever had. Sob, sob, sob...
Thanks for listening.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 2:35, Reply)
Returning home from Glasto 98
My First Glastobury, 1998. It fucking tipped it down for the week before, and contiunued for the whole weekend. If you were there, you'll remember how awful it was.

My solution? Go with a shitload of billy and be twatted for 4 days and forget how you are going to feel by Monday.

Anyway monday arrived and started our journey home to manchester Unfortunately, the other 'driver' was in too much of a paranoid mess to drive (was getting freaked out by me driving around corners), me I was hollucinating that motorway flyovers were infact hedges, but I was driving through them because I knew my mind was playing tricks on me...

Realising I was actually quite likely to die if I carried on driving with that attitude, I pulled over at the 1st service station, paid the £40 for a travelodge and passed out for a good 18 hours. best £40 I've ever spent.

Long term effect - Been to every glastonbursy since. Never touched amphetemine again.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 0:08, Reply)
I was told that to get to Laos I would have to spend 2 days travelling on a river boat
I had visions of a lovely big Mississippi-type steamer with comfy seats, a cafe and maybe even a bar.

The boat turned out to be a glorified rowboat with an engine on the back. Hard wooden seats, which had been designed for the narrow Asian bottom, made it impossible to sleep. There was no cafe of course, but someone did manage to pick up a large dead catfish that was floating on the water.

There was a toilet however. By 'toilet' I mean there was a hole in the back of the boat surrounded by waist-high planks of wood. To get to it you had to crawl along the luggage space, at the back of the boat, past the odd chicken and the dead catfish which had been stored there.

We were given some bread on our stopover, which was nice, but we had to tap it to get all the ants off.

Still, it was better than Virgin trains.
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 22:20, Reply)
F*ck Thameslink
Once took me 3 hours to get from St Albans to West Hampstead Thameslink. Scheduled time - 14 mins. The reason for the delay - it was too hot! WTF. Too hot? Anyone would have thought it was f*cking the Sahara desert or something. Too f*cking hot my ar$e.

Oh and my cock is big, hot and sweaty.
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 22:05, Reply)
Fishy Northampton
On a bus home to leicester from Northampton uni, hungover from my last proper night out as a student as a friend had brought all my drinks (about 9 shots and various other drinks).

It was the hottest day of the year and no windows on the coach, no air con and heaters were on..not only that but i hate the smell of fish (this does come into the story). so on comes this bloke, his fat wife and kid and they come of wafting the smell of fish.

They sit right behind me, so im feeling sick, its so hot i feel i might vomit and then they start eating fish sandwiches... i sat the rest of the journey with my tshirt over my face
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 20:58, Reply)
Highschool busrides
Sharp turn. Everybody run to one side of the bus, see if we can tip it!
Everybody ends up in casualty.
No school! We win!

Man, I dont miss highschool at all...
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 20:27, Reply)
10A Liverpool bus and the "phantom brick throwers"
More 10A horrors:

There was a phase of delinquent little b___ards that were continuously trying to put the windows through on the buses at night as they drove through Thatto Heath. Hiding in the park, under the cover of darkness.

I was with my GF and set off out to see a film in St Helens. The bus driver actually told us to stay within the centre of the bus to avoid anything if it happened to come through a window. It was in their local rag that someone got injured and was picking chunks of glass out of their face. Niiiiiice!

Also, getting the last ever 10A at night is a game of Russian Roulette. I would rather fork out money for a taxi than use my ticket to return back to my GF's gaff. We come to an "executive" decision about this lets say...
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 19:52, Reply)
Ogdens Travel & Blackpool, Arrgh!
Another pretty grim one was going to Blackpool last year with my GF.

Don't see the fascination in that place, but it was a good day out UNTIL we returned home. Or, at least tried to....

On returning home, there were massive jams because of people gawping at a bunch of f__king coloured bulbs arranged in patterns and stuff. Trapped on a coach of old people and kids, travelling at millimeters an hour, compounded by the fact he took the wrong way out of there. With no WC facilities as it was a skanky old coach that barely passes it's MOT, if it EVER did. No air con or ability to open a window, only them sodding sky light things and the vent things that are above your heads were mostly not working, OR the map reading lights. I was trapped in a coach journey to hell, or, alternatively heaven for Moths.

Ended up returning back to her gaff at 01.30 - thought I was going to be on the coach forever. F__k knows how kids would have felt on the coach, as they obviously have dramatically lower attention spans then adults.

Like, what the hell is Blackpool Lights about?? If I wanted to watch a light show I would have stared at one of my gadgets that has lots of flashing lights, like, dunno, my ADSL router, the audio level display on my tape deck or mini disc on my Hi-FI seperates. What ARE these people that see them?? re-incarnated f____ng moths or something?!!?

She wants to go to Blackpool again...Over my dead ar_ehole!!!
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 19:44, Reply)
9 hours
from manchester to london courtesy of that bearded branson.

the train was boiling hot. they had cancelled the two previous ones, and it was a sunday night. so it was like a cattle truck filled with sardine cans. our seats had long since been declassified and stolen, and we didn't get on til macclesfield so we were crowd surfing to find that out.

and my friend jo had picked this trip to bring a CLOTHES HORSE with her. nice.

when we limped into stoke at a quarter the speed of a pushbike, the engine stopped. we needed a "run round" to put the engine at the back on the front because it was leaking and the poor driver was being dripped on. how long can it take to swop 2 engines on a train?

well, 2.5 hours is the answer.

meanwhile the guard had announced they had "forgotten" to fill up the shop. there was 1 sandwich between the entire train. (it was egg and soggy cress. it was still there when we got to london).

i can't go on, it's too traumatic and i'm boring myself... but really, branson, get a grip!
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 19:08, Reply)
Challenge Cup Final
Leeds were playing in the Challenge Cup Final in Cardiff and there was a coach from Headingley to take all the rugby fans down there.

And what did the coach driver play on the stereo for the entire journey? The Busted album.

(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 17:05, Reply)
or actually...in Colombia this year
me and my girlfriend flew from medellin to cartagena

half way through the short flight, we got turbulance so bad, i got thrown out my seat....to make matters worse...there was a load of people screaming...and some psycho woman in front praying.

definately worst flight I've had....a real brwon trouser ride.
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 16:41, Reply)
Bratislava - London
years ago...before cheap airline travel....it was the done thing for cheap scotsmen like me to take the EuroCoach....or whatever it was called.

anyway...I got stuck getting the overnight bus to London from Bratislava....the driver had an Irish comedian on the tape deck for the 14 hours it took...every 5mins for the whole journey I heard "hey, d'ye like that one?....write it doon"

oh, and some dirty slovak vomited on the chair behind me.

I think I promised never to travel by coach again and to this day, never have.
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 16:38, Reply)
So I was on this plane and there were all these snakes see...

That isn't clever/funny is it? I bet the film isn't either.

Did everybody else just ignore this obvious bandwagon through an unprecedented outbreak of common sense?
(, Mon 11 Sep 2006, 16:37, Reply)

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