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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, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Midline mainland!
Anyone who's been on a midline mainland will tell you that the doors between the carrages only open when a button is pressed on the actual door itself, and that they like to close whenever they want to, and to hell with anything in their way.

I was going to Luton, on the Nottingham train. I couldn't find a seat, so I did what I normally do, open a door, stick my head in to see if there's a seat or not, and then go the other way.

Except this time.. the door closed. On my neck. Not a problem, I though, I'll just hit the button to open it... except this paticualr door now didn't want to budge. I try again. Nothing. By this time someone notices and tries to help me open the door. Nothing. Cue a few more people trying. Still nothing.

At this point I realsie something. The door is cutting into my neck rather hard, and thus I'm staring to become unconscious. The last thing I remember is someone going 'He doesn't look too good', before it all went black.

From what I was told, the passengers who tried to help me then pulled the emergancy stop chord, and eventaully I was freed not long after that. I woke up in an ambulence on the way to the hospital.

I did get compensated though! I now don't have to pay for my midline mainland trips for a year :)

(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 2:55, Reply)
Not me but my Husband
Who is a shipping magnate (but I run the company) decided with a mate that as we have owned boats for years we were going to buy a ship that supplied fuel to yachties and the commercial fleets locally in the Solent, so organises ME who gets the job to book all the flights to get them both to Tromso in nothern Norway to view said vessel.

I'll try and keep it short.

Book Ryanair from Stansted to Oslo, then Braathens Airways from Oslo to Tromso. Left a 2 hour gap at the airport at Oslo to leave them time for some breakfast as the flight time from STD to OSL was at 0700, 2 hours max, Braathens at 1130 take off to TRO. First off they never got the flight from STD at 0700 as the flight was overbooked and the attendant at the check-in desk asked them to wait in their seats in the lounge (whilst they talked and didn't kick up) whilst the flight took off. So, I get a phone call at 0715 giving me grief that they have missed the flight, and the next one from STD is 1800 that evening and so now they have missed all their connections and the meeting with the agent who is selling the blasted fuel boat. So, I get on the phone and try and sort it out - successfuuly - until when they get to Oslo it isn't Oslo at all, it's 2 and a half f*cking hours to Oslo by train so the flights I've changed pleading no extra charges are now defunct. Cue HB calling me on his mobile phone to now say he forgot his phone charger and only has 2 battery bars left. He's on the train, after staying the night in some outback place in Norway and - guess what - its COLD.

So - they get to Oslo airport - I've given up at this stage trying to sort flights - its up to them now to sweet talk the desks to get up to Tromso. Desk girls say "you aren't seasonsed travellers are you" ......Next thing I know they are there, Tromso, 36 hours late. Get a call from matey the agent as he has a signal and batteries, the SP is HB and his mate are thinking about the deal. They have also asked the hotel about phone chargers with no result. No-one has any Nokia phones in Norway (then in 2001)

So now - they have to do the journey back. Imagine the scene about the re-bookings of the flights, I gave up.

Oh my, did I get hell about that when they back. Like its my fault ???

Subsequently I will never fly with Ryanair even if I am kinapped in Columbia, even if I am accused of a drug charge :-)

We never bought the boat, we built one instead, but not a fuel boat. It was almost as bad. Dont ever get into boats unless you know what you are doing because I don't even know if I know about boats any more. BTW we are building - yet - another boat. Mind you I flew aircraft years ago.

Ryanair can go forth and multiply big time.

Apologies about length and girth
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 23:24, Reply)
Not long happened.
As part of my hunt for a place to accomodate myself for the next year, I travelled up to Dundee two weeks ago for an overnight stay.

Travelling up there on the train, not a problem. I get there, find out the flat I was looking at has its front door lock half-off, and go out with two mates before crashing on one of their sofas.

Next morning, I'm phoning up places to see whether there's anywhere to stay - Found two, got the application forms, yay.

Time to head back home, I get the train to Edinburgh. When I arrive, I find there's a train heading the usual way that's leaving in a couple of minutes so I rush onto the train.

I'm sitting in a seat on the train, and look around before noticing the stops being listed on the LED screen. And more specifically, the fact that I don't recognise any of them.

I get up and talk to the conductor, and I find out what happened.

Did the train leave from Edinburgh? Yep.

Is the train heading to Birmingham New Street as expected? Yep.

Is the train going along the West Coast line? Nope, it's heading along the East Coast - Fuck.

Long story short, I end up getting a change from Leeds heading to my intended destination, three hours later than planned.

Maybe I should've took notice when the train was leaving 40 minutes earlier than expected.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 22:06, Reply)
I love the sea...
Aah, I'd forgotten about my trip to France about five years ago.

The day before was a long drive from Scotland to Portsmouth (or some where far from here) with the car packed full of holiday things. After a whole bloody day driving, where upon I got a little car sick but was generally okie-dokie, we arrived and walked around to see some shops, get fresh air, and then the five of us went to bed at a two bedded Travel Inn.

The next day we were again up at the crack of dawn and trundled onto the ferry for our six hour trip. It started with breakfast where my dad tried to be nice by insisting on buying us an extra large coke each. When we realised that this wasn't such a good breakfast he made us drink every last drop saying he didn't want to have wasted the money.

So off we went to the posh seating area when the waves began, and I'm talking huge waves. No one was allowed outside and the coke began to swill around inside me as we were tipped about. I could hear people dying in the corridors nearby and the toilets smelled. I choose to lie down and close my eyes, ignoring my stomach, and when I did look up, my dad had disappeared under the table to be sick. My sister and brother were above table level busy filling their sick bags and my mum was eating Bourneville.

She asked me if I wanted a sick bag, tried to make me sit up and take one but I said no, not wanting to move incase the inevitable happened. It happened any way just as I had clamped my hand to my mouth so I ended up spraying cokey vomit all down my legs, the seats and my families jackets that I'd been using as covers.

After that we left the posh seating area and went to lie down in a quiet corridor where staff regularly stepped over us and we fell asleep on the floor.

After disembarking we had another three hours in the car, feeling and smelling horrible and sweating from the heat. I had to walk through the nice camping grounds with white (why white?) blotches all over my jeans and people looking at me like I'd risen from the dead.

Luckily the ferry back was calm and we spent it all outside watching the gulls and planes that tried to crash into us.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 21:09, Reply)
Worst Journey Ever
In 1977 I was waiting for the London train at Crewe railway station, the train arrived and was packed, there was one seat left in my carraige, I found myself in a race with a short dark haired chap with a funny nose. He got the seat, looked up at me and said "Don't be blue Peter".
Needless to say HE had the last laugh
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 20:59, Reply)
Every car journey
is shit by default, but any car journey with my younger sister is worse. Especially if my older brother, who is perfectly nice on his own, is there. All they seem to do is antagonise each other.
I've given up going to Sheffield with them when they drop him back at university there.

There's been the bus replacement services, one last week stuck on a coach between Sunderland and Newcastle at half eight in the morning, trying to weave through a stupidly busy and narrow street when it could have gone straight up the main road (which it ended up turning on to) next to the most irritating man ever, who kept shaking his head in disgust every few minutes. YES, IT'S SHIT, GET OVER IT. It took the weirdest and possibly longest route to Newcastle I've ever seen, making me continually later for my first day at college. And then when I got off I tripped over my shoelaces. Arses.

My mantra for life is 'follow where the live music takes me'. Fortunately due to a kind accident of birth I've ended up with a free train pass and I can actually do this.
We tend to end up in Leeds a lot. There's been the train journeys back on Friday afternoons when I've had to stand next to the only working toilet on the train because some planks had decided to fill all the other ones with their luggage. And then it turned out that it wasn't actually working because the door didn't shut.
There was the first time I went to London without my parents, back in June. About ten or so of us were travelling from all over the country for a gig, and then the day before everyone's arrangements were cocked up by that fucking fire near the King's Cross signalling centre. Apologies if you live there and like it, but I mean, after getting stuck there for two hours on a train when I was little after the train guard caught his hand in one of the train doors, I never liked Peterborough much anyway, but having to change there on my way into London didn't change my mind. (My dad works in a certain major train company's accountancy centre, checking balances for each station or something like that, and even they called it 'the P place' because none of them liked it) Although it was worth it, the rest of that day right up until midnight and beyond was fucking top.

And then there's every journey I've ever made on the metro. For example just take the time I was trying to get to Newcastle to 'work', there was a Northern train stuck on the platform at one station (because of how straight the track is at that stretch I could actually see it in the distance), so the metro terminated at one station and left us to get a bus to Heworth/Newcastle, but managed to spectacularly pass the buck and claim that because it was a Northern train that broke down, they weren't obliged to put on a free replacement. Despite the fact that it was categorically obvious that the metros could have got past the broken down train, the one we were on that terminated closed the doors and went off in that direction, straight past it. Bunch of cunts. And then waiting for my dad to come and pick me up I lay on a wall only to realise it was crawling with hundreds of red ants.

Alright, so some of them weren't that bad, but you asked. I tend to make most journeys via train and I like them usually. Either that or I've blocked the worst ones out of my mind, I still can't remember which one it was where I got off a train and got filled with urges to kiss the ground, I was so glad I was wherever I was going. At least I've never had to travel by Megabus yet...
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 20:53, Reply)
This morning
Today's journey to work was like no other. I woke up half an hour late and therefore had to run about like a lunatic to get ready in time. Of course, I left the house late and drove extremely fast to the train station in the vain hope of still catching my train. It was pouring with rain, and I realised I had forgotten my umbrella when I was pulled over for speeding. Luckily let off for my crime, I proceeded to park outside my Nan's house and walk to the station in the pouring rain. I was then almost killed crossing the road by some dozy bitch who didn't stop at the traffic lights where I was crossing.

I could have coped with all this, had a pigeon not shit on me as I walked under the railway bridge, and then some religious nutter not accosted me to talk about God while I was wiping bird faeces from my new blouse.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 20:29, Reply)
wet west country
From the age of six, we had a family holiday somewhere in the west country ( god knows why...we only lived 20 minutes from the sea in Norfolk!)
We always seemed to leave home in the middle of the night ( to avoid the rush...Dad said) and always got stuck in the most horrendous traffic jam.
For three years running I managed to disgrace myself by wetting my knickers in the back of the car.
We always had to stop at the same service station for me to be hauled off and get changed into dry clothes
My sister who was two years older used to love this, especially as by the third year, I had to sit on a towel on top of a bin liner.
can remember fuck all about the rest of the holiday!!!
happy days?
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 20:01, Reply)
they say that the greatest journey of all

is the journey of learning to love yourself.

Which didn't stop me being kicked out of a service station for wanking.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 19:43, Reply)
A friend of a friend had been involved in a car accident in which his fiance had died. fast forward a month and 6 friends (including friend of friend who is driving) are all going on a little road trip to Edinburgh for the comedy festival. Just as we get in the car he mentions that it's the first time he's driven since the accident. So what do I say?

"Whoah- hands up if you don't want to drive with the murderer!"

I'm such a cunt. Suffice to say the journey was UNBEARABLE and I have never spoken to him again.

{Compare story/penis length to journey length here}
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 18:14, Reply)
Epic. I wished I was dead.
One Saturday afternoon in February this year, my mate J and and I were working our way through a couple of bottles of wine and lamenting the fact that we don't seem to have any crazy adventures anymore. So I said "I bet you wouldn't go to France right now!". This was a red rag to a pissed bull so we set off for France there and then which was Brighton at 9pm. We took Js campervan aka "the partybus" which only needed the battery changing (in the dark and pissed) and a couple of gallons of vegetable oil (instead of deisel). We made it to the channel tunnel for the midnight train via the Offie) and got some pretty funny looks from the police there but were allowed on. France Ho! We drove down the back roads to St Omer hoping to find some clubs - it was now about 3am and we were trolleyed. It all looks a bit bleak until we spot some flashing lights coming from a boat in the canal - it was a floating discotheque and still going. Bribery and half an hours persuasion got us into the club/boat where we got very trolleyed and had a great laugh with the locals until about 6am.

What's so bad about that?? The next bit. I wished I was dead.
Not wanting to sleep in the campervan in the centre of town, we headed off towards coutryside.
We saw a trail up to a few trees and thought we'd stop there untroubled for the night. Down the trail J drives the partybus onto a field to turn it around - it gets stuck. It was about 1 degree outside so after half an hour stumbling in the mud and dark trying to dig / push our way out we give up and sleep to sort it out the next day. 11am, the gas has run out in the night and we wake up shivering badly and we discover Js partner has helpfully taken all the food and even t-bags out of the van. We spent about an hour trying to dig the van out - me pushing it nearly collapsing with exhaustion - to no avail. We walked to the nearest village about two miles away - every (both) shop was closed, even the bar, it was completely deserted. Phoning the RAC was met with the blunt response that there was no European cover and if we wanted help it would be about 4 hours and £400 which we didn't have; their enquiry as to exactly where we were was met with "Err, we don't actually know". By this time, we are panicking big time, we are freezing cold, covered in mud and thirstily hungover. It is snowing. Horizontally. More attempts at the van get us 2 yards so it completely blocks the track (not that we've seen any motorists anywhere). We now discover that the wheels won't turn and there is the stench of a failing clutch and after all this revving we pretty low on fuel. At this point we start to suspect we are totally fucked - absolutely fucked with nothing to turn to. Our mobile phones have run out of batteries. After half an hour or so of abject despair a dodgy looking French bloke with a shotgun comes ambling up the track - of course we fear the worst as we are starting to get a little delirious. After a bit of tutting he points us over a hill saying there is farm! We trudge up to the farm with a glimmer of hope - explaining the problem and our subsequent absolute desperation, he disappears and re-appears with a tractor. He pulls us out and we head back to Calais BUT WAIT we can't find any open petrol stations we tried four (unstaffed) but they wouldn't take our English cards. Panic panic - head for the motorway, we keep winding down the window to get rid of the stink from the clutch (which we are praying won't give out) but we are shaking with cold. The back door of the van flies open and we lose a bunch of stuff and I nearly fall out trying to close it. J starts having a proper panic attack (flailing arm grabbing things and screaming) whilst driving in the snow, high wind and failing light on the wrong side of the road so we decide to stop few minutes to calm him down, at least to scream at him "I KNOW THERE'S NO FUCKING DEISEL BUT WHAT ABOUT THE FUCKING CLUTCH". On starting the van up again, we discover the electrics are gone. No indicators, no windscreen wipers. I want to die - it would be much easier than this. We try to carry on regardless but the snow was obscuring the windscreen and we nearly crashed into some cars that weren't looking for hand signals. So we spend an HOUR fixing the electrics (with a paper clip). Some time about know, Js partner is reporting us missing to the police and our parents (we are 27 and 30 - wtf?). We keep going for Calais with the fuel gauge on zero, below the red, fully expecting to die at any second. We made it somehow and joined the queue for the Channel Tunnel - very very relieved. But no! The French customs think we're drug nutters and search every square inch of the partybus and us. This takes two hours and we had to stand outside still shivering from the cold, covered in mud, stinking of booze and looking like scarecrows. Eventually we get clear of them by 20 yards only to be stopped by the English customs (on the French side). They just laughed at us a bit while we sobbed out some of the story. The trip back to Brighton was pretty much in silence, punctuated with a few little crying fits. We were both physically and emotionally at breaking point.

On getting back home my luck changed - I bagged the fittest shag ever in a nightclub. Js luck didn't change - his car got towed away and crushed for having no tax the next day.

Thankyou for your patience. I'm never going to France again.

*I don't condone drink driving. I only do it when I'm drunk. (Seriously though, I know it was fucking stupid.)
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 17:37, Reply)
Siouxfan, I think youre right
However dont worry about offending residents...the vast majority have to be offenders themselves...

Edit: I was brought up in Balsall Heath so a bit rich coming from me...
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 17:08, Reply)
Coach to Amsterdam
1993. Traveling by coach with a couple of mates to Amsterdam to celebrate New Year. Our saner friends decided to fly, but lured by the prospect of a cheap fare we rocked up at Victoria in London at about 9 at night to get this thing.

Cue 12 hours of hell, caused mainly by the fact that some twat decided to try and flush their half eaten doner kebab down the chemical toilet as we were pulling out of the terminal, putting it out of order for the entire journey.

We're already half cut and we've got booze, but the price of a slate of stella on the ferry was just too good to resist (think it was under a tenner), so we get one each. We then pool resources with another group on the bus (we're all getting on famously by now), who for some reason have just bought a load of baileys and fancy a lager.

It all gets very messy and we arrive in Amsterdam at about 9am surrounded by piss filled cans of wife beater and a mate who's unconscious with the booze. He then has to be forcefully removed from the bus because he steadfastly refuses to believe that we’re in Amsterdam because he doesn't recognize the car park we were in (and could see no canals, clogs or prostitutes I suppose). Oh, I forgot to mention we'd nowhere to stay…..

Coming back was no better. For some reason we go a different way and the ferry goes from Ostend. Don't know if you ever experienced the delights of an early 90’s Sally Ferry, but think of a big rusting tug boat containing a large DSS waiting room and you won't be far wrong.

A member of the crew manages to wrap a cable around the propeller (I kid you not), so we're stuck there for 4 hours whilst they sort that one out. The boat's taking everyone home after new year, so the place is fit to burst. There's nowhere to sit and people are lying in the corridors. It's like the evacuation of Dunkirk.

A gang of scousers get lippy with the crew so the captain shuts the bar and threatens all of us there with arrest. This does not help my paranoia, as I've just swallowed nearly an eighth of Amsterdam’s finest because I know I can't bring it home and I'm too pretty to go to prison. The only place I can find to get some sleep is with my head next to a video game, which woke me up every 3 minutes when it announced the high scores.

I have to be practically carried onto the coach for the last leg of the journey.

We get home and I announce to my mates that I'm just going to have “a bit of a lie down”.

I'm asleep for 23 hours.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:51, Reply)
premium - re: nifty fifty route
used to live in both KH and Moseley.
Its always been the same. I think it may be the proximity to Druids Heath and the Maypole.
No offence to any residents - but they scare the poo out of me.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:47, Reply)
Huuuuuuge testicles!
What has made a large amount of journeys by bus unpleasant for me have been the many men with unfeasibly large testicles that I have had to sit next to.

At least I *assume* that they have unfeasibly large testicles, it's one possible explanation why they sit with their legs open so widely that they take up an entire double seat. The wankers.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:43, Reply)
On me way to school...
In Austria when this cunt shoves me in his van and keeps me in his cellar for 8 years.
I was gutted as well, it was Tuesday, there was Sausage and Mash for lunch. Me mum wasnt happy either. She wanted to be the one to lock me up for years on end before killing herself. Still, live and learn.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:42, Reply)
Twas the days of slam doors….

Last train from waterloo (to pompey via surrey doncha kno')full of pissed biznizz people.
The train stopped in the middle of nowheres
A biznizz man woke up: ‘eh, what?’
Picked up his briefcase, brolly, jammed his hat on and unsteadily opened the door and stepped out.
There was a muffle and a thump.
A minute later, a hat was thrown in, then the brolly, then the briefcase…
Hands appeared and he hefted himself up, put his hat back on, picked up the brolly and briefcase, said ‘you must think me an awful fool’ and then stepped through the other door.
I pissed meself
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:37, Reply)
He-ey baby!
For me my worst journey has to be from a few years back, i had spent all day in sheffield with a mate of mine. time to go home, so dropped off at the station for a quick train to Leeds, nuff said.

No, train cancelled and a replacement bus service. Ok, not too bad done these before. Easy just sit back and read.
It would have been plain sailing if it had not of been for the 4 pissed up squaddie meadowhall chav cnuts who decide to sing "Hey Baby!" (I f**king hated that song) all the way home.
Well sing is not the correct description. You see they only knew the chorus. Pure hell i tell ye!
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:36, Reply)
might be true
ok me 8, gary glitter, minivan with tinted windows on way to vietnam sore arse hiv, ebola and yellow fever and to top it all off i was pregnant and im a male
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:26, Reply)
Not 'worst' just a 'ickle bit freeky!
I remember a couple of drunken bus journeys home from town (just 30 minute hops really).
I'm a rather nice drunk really, I just sit quietly in my hazy state and gawp out the window usually.

The first one, featured two chav-ettes. This was before the term was coined though, so they were then known as "little fekkin skank moon-dogs". This pair were being loud and obnoxious as is the requirement of their ilk (think: little miss Jocelyns sketch, but white geordie girls). Long story short, one of them announces to the world that she's "ganna piss me nickaz" and proceeds to squat infront of the back seat and urinate on the floor. Unfortunately the route is rather hilly and this was not a discreet tinkle. Yes, the 90% lambrusco liquid flowed back and forth along the upper deck of the bus for the remainder of my journey. The odd thing was that it wasn't at night either it was like 5 or 6 o'clock tea time!

The second is a very sketch memory (a bit more drunk at the time). I just remember that there was a group of lads getting rowdy behind me and starting to thump something. It being winter, I felt an icy breeze on my neck, prompting me to turn and discover that they had kicked a window out (frame and all - just gone) and alighted "the spider man way". To which i shrugged and pulled up my collar to stay warm. It wasn't until I was reminded of events the followwing day that I remembered we were again (as usual - we were teenagers) on the upper deck of the bus.
I hope the bastards broke their ankles, that bus was freezing with a window missing.

Funnily enough, I could count on my fingers the number of times I've used public transport since I passed my test 9 years ago.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:17, Reply)
i know...and even the early buses!
Once I got a bus about 7.15am to town on way to work, some little bumbaclaat was smoking some very potent skunk upstairs. By the time I got to work I reeked of mary jane and hadnt even had the pleasure...
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:10, Reply)
Prem1um, just around the corner
No idea why it attracts so many mentalists but it does. Getting the last bus is one hell of an experience ..
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:06, Reply)
the journey from tyranny and fear

to a prosperous, democratic Iraq is one which I'm sure we can all agree has been the best journey ever.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 16:03, Reply)
Flibbey, do you live on the nifty route then?
I was robbed once on it aged 13 and my sister was threatened at knifepoint by a mentalist. What surprises me is that Moseley/Kings Heath arent hardcore places, so why does it have a more than average share of scallies and nutters?
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 15:40, Reply)
Missed the last train home
There are times when I hate the folks that schedule trains. I mean, whose bright idea is it to make sure that the last train on a Saturday night is stupidly early. Take a recent example:
The last train back from Oxford to Reading is a 11:03pm. I ask you, 23:03. Ridiculous.

Of course having once missed the last train home from Paddington, I usually check the time of the last train, so I don't ever have to face the prospect of blowing a months salary on a taxi fare. So it was all fine, except I didn't account for how long my wife took in the bogs and how slowly she walks.

So 11:03, off the train went, while I was 10 metres away. I briefly thought of running for it, and just taking a loss on the divorce settlement - and it was very tempting, but unfortunately my good side got the better of me and I resigned myself to the 9 hour wait for the first train of the morning.

I spent a couple of hours sitting (OK *fuming*) in front of the station, before trying to find a place to sleep that was a) not covered in piss and bits of kebab and b) not likely to lead to me getting stabbed and bum-raped. This was Oxford on a Saturday night, outside term time. There weren't any places of such a high standard.

After another couple of hours, I came across the bus station, and noticed that there was an airport shuttle to Heathrow that ran all night. I knew there was one from Heathrow that went to Reading. Yay. About an hour later we were at Heathrow, and another hour and half latre we were back at Reading.

Ironically, the total cost of two airport shuttles for two people and taxi at the end of it probably came to more than a taxi home from Oxford would have cost.

I realise that this is a crap story, but I have never been to fucking Peru or Morocco, so you'll have to make do with a shite story about a journey from Oxford to Reading via Heathrow Airport. Deal with it.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 15:30, Reply)
Not my journey
but a guy approached my wife at a petrol station in Watford, Hertfordshire last week. It seems he'd driven from somewhere up North and he asked if she knew a specific town. She'd never heard of it, so she asked to see the piece of paper he was clutching with the address on it.
She gives it a moment or two then,
"Uh, I think you've overshot by about 150 miles. That's Herefordshire"

I'm guessing his journey of an additional 7 hours with the other 4 people crammed in his car wasn't the greatest.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 15:30, Reply)
I had a similar experience. I was sleeping on a flight from Zurich to Bombay, and woke up to find that my wife was no longer sitting next to me. I looked around, and found that she had moved to the seat on the opposite side of the aisle, one row forward. I must have had something important to say to her, because I stretched my leg to tap her on the shoulder with my big toe, to wake her up. As soon as I had tapped, I looked up to see my wife coming down the aisle, returning from the lavatory. The old Indian woman whom I had actually tapped, with my toe, while she was asleep, was not amused.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 15:27, Reply)
Oh yes
I fell asleep once on a bus in Thailand, did a massive twitch and punched the lady next to me in the tits. It wasn't my worst journey, and I can't imagine it was hers either. It was probably an honour.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 15:22, Reply)
Ugandan Chocolate...
Winding up through the mountains in Uganda, feeling pretty sick at all the twists and turns in this hot, rustheap of a bus.

Suddenly I'm gagging as I get the strongest whiff of shit filling my nostrils. I figure it's probably the livestock in the fields outside the bus. Funny thing is the smell gets stronger when I turn my head INSIDE the bus.

I then realise that the baby in its mother's arms next to me has shat itself quite spectacularly. Mother looks non-plussed and unsure of how to proceed.

In true chivalrous style, all the Ugandan men have moved to the front of the bus and are pointing and laughing.

I reach inside my rucksack and pull out my emergency bog roll and hand it to mum.

As if this happens all the time, she calmly takes my bogroll without a word and starts the arse wiping process.

This continues for 40 miles.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 15:01, Reply)
rubbish beginning to the new year
Had a massive New Year's at a dance party on a beach in Oaxaca, Mexico and was due to meet a friend in Puebla in 2 days. I was terribly suburnt and dehydrated; coming down, peeling and hallucinating, yet somehow survived a ride in a dodgy camionetta, several hours at a bus stop and a 12+ hour bus ride from Oaxaca coast to Puebla over twisting mountain paths. The bus driver loaded the kids into the luggage hold under the bus, whacked a frightening D grade video of the adventures of a Mexican Nun into the very wobbly VCR and cranked the aircon to max. I was shaking violently from sunstroke and the cold, but that didnt stop a strange French Canadian in the seat next to me spooning me in his sleep. To top it all off, every time the driver hit the brakes on that winding road the door to the toilet at the back of the bus swung open; mmm, so fragrant.
(, Tue 12 Sep 2006, 14:46, Reply)

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