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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, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Nigerian mission
A few years ago, i was sent to Nigeria to work for a large American company on a 6-week secondment. I was young and thought it would be a laugh and it was, sometimes. Anyway, i digress. The night before my flight was my sister's birthday. Cue night at School Disco in Hammersmith. Got home at 04:30. Taxi for the airport arrives at 06:00. Augh. Felt like crap at the airport so bought a coffee, despite there being a chemists crammed to the rafter with all sorts of drugs that would have seen me right. I was too hungover to think about it. Flew via Amsterdam to Lagos and realised that this was going to be bad when 400 Nigerians bolted for the plane as soon as we were allowed to board. I stayed sat down knowing my seat wasn't going to be taken. It wasn't, but all the overhead compartments were crammed with huge bags, tellys, all sorts so I had to sit with all my duty free and hand luggage. Hmmpf. Arrived in Lagos and, after a frankly rich attempt to check my passport, met up with my driver. I was with another employee at this time. He was about 45-50 and kept telling me all about the 'lovely Nigerian girls' until we got to the halfway house. The next morning I flew to Port Harcourt (scene of a recent plane crash - nice) in a turbo prop plane that wasn't fit to transport cattle. All-but crash landed at Port Harcourt in heavy rain and was left standing next to my bag on the tarmac whilst the plane buggered off again. Locals started sizing me up until a small excitable Nigerian man scuttled up to me and led me off to his car. Luckily he was the person I wanted to meet. Not so luckily, when i was dropped straight to work, I left my suitcase in his boot. Rats cocks. Eventually got my case back, sat at a desk in a smelly foreign country after 4 hours of sleep in 72 hours. That was a great journey.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 16:41, Reply)
It's apelo-vera-ge

(the last part pronounced "ghey")
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 16:22, Reply)
Just curious - is it ape-love-rage, or ape-lover-age. Or is it something more subtle that I am too stupid to get?
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 16:10, Reply)
The worst journey in the world.
Nothing that bad has happend to me but i picked up "the worst journey in the world" by Apsley Cherry-Garrard last Friday and its fantastic.

They were just tougher people back then.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 15:45, Reply)
Only one without a bus-pass......
When I was 16 my family once went on a trip to visit some relatives, beacuse my boss at work is an asshole he would'nt let me have off the day we we're due to set off, so we organised it for me to arrive a day later by coach, it was my first time travelling by coach and if I have anything to do with it it'll be my last. I had to endure 8 HOURS of a coach filled with the reek of a mixture of prune juice, worthers originals, old spice and something very much like piss. Not only that I had to listen to the old deary next to me tell me all about her friend Enid and all Enids bowel and veneral problems due to the fact that Enid used to be a "working girl". Nothing is more sickening to a hormone driven 16 year old boy than the description of an 80+ year olds vaginal tract.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 15:36, Reply)
Tramp tales
Somewhere in my brain I have developed an unbreakable association between trains and half-term seaside jaunts. Thus, even if the reason I'm on the train is because I'm commuting, it still feels like I'm on the way to Margate and I have the according sunny disposition, and natter merrily to my fellow passengers.

One day (a commuting one, not an actual seaside one) a tramp sat next to me on the train. Not a "homeless person", a proper tramp, complete with stubble, stained newspaper-filled pants and the unmistakable eau de toilette. I've always tried not to judge books by their covers; how rude it would be to relocate just because of a bit of a smell of urine, so I stayed put. He grunted and belched White Lightning fumes at me, I talked back to him; all was well.

Until the ticket collector came. I perkily flashed my season ticket in its little plastic holder; the tramp belched and pointed in my direction.

"She's got mine"

"Oh gosh, no sir, you must be mistaken!" I trilled. The tramp got angrier and started to flail drunkenly about, grabbing at my bag, waving his fists at the ticket man and all the time insisting I definitely had his ticket. I got more and more distressed in my pathetic girly way, and the ticket collector tried to calm the tramp and explain that, just this time, he was more inclined to believe the overly-polite office lady rather than the Special-Brew-scented hobo. (Which no doubt is the sort of prejudice these people have to face every day).

In the end the ticket collector fetched some nice bloke he knew that happened to be on the train and I hid in another carriage with him whilst the ticket guy dealt with enraged tramp. This experience taught me two things:
1) I'm crap in a crisis, even an extremely minor one and
2) If a book's cover is soaked in piss and Special Brew, sometimes it's OK to judge it
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 15:17, Reply)
In 1984, my family and I
moved over to the UK from Australia when I was at the tender age of seven. Dad goes booking tickets and (so I'm told) gets home with a bit of a guilty face saying he has good and bad news. Good news, we'd get to spend a week in Singapore and it was really cheap. Bad news? Well, we fly to Singapore on BA but then have to finish the journey with PIA (Pakistani International).

The journey between Singapore and London was in two legs, one on a rather shabby DC9 that smelt and is the only aircraft I have ever been sick on, the other on the dodgiest 747 I have ever seen. It must have been one of the original models of 747, smelt like a plastic bag full of turd and was tightly packed with an assorment of different patterned, well worn seats (suggesting that they'd all previously been fitted to about five different aircraft - possibly the actual ones from those 1970's air disaster films).

The flight boarded. Headsets and programmes were handed out (Paul McCartney was on the front of the programme, I don't know why) and then they heaved the fucker off the runway.

When the 'No Smoking' signs beeped off, the air became a thick grey. The audio system refused to work, so the programmes and headsets were a dead loss. They showed the first ten minutes of a pretty violent film (something to do with a violent armed bank job)which upset me and my brother (we were only seven and nine at the time) before the fucking projectors broke down. We stopped at some ungodly airport where there were scary beggars in the fucking foul toilets (almost as bad as the ones on the plane). Stopped again at Paris (why fucking Paris? It's only about another fifteen minutes to London) and then

The highlight of the whole trip!

Coming into Heathrow, there was a queue. The pilot begins to pull white knuckle 50 degree turns (hand luggage is rolling around the cabin) at the corners of the stack making everybody hang on for dear life. One of the final turns was so steep that it fucked up something in the planes waste system (I don't know what) and blue water with toilet roll in began to stream down the aisle toward the tail. I still feel sorry for anyone who was back there.

None of us would ever travel PIA ever again. Not even if it was the last flight out of Iraq.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 15:02, Reply)
Don't do it. National Express is the Orient Express in comparison.

On my last trip, from Leeds to London, I was the only English person on the bus. The others adopted their various national customs for boarding: fighting, pushing, squeezing, cajoling, feigning spinal injury, sending their children to the front to lie on the ground etc.

"Don't sit downstairs," said the driver. "The airconditioning's bust - it's like an oven." Upstairs, a man of Indonesian origin had filled three chairs with packing crates and industrial-sized sewer pipe. Most of the people there had clearly not washed since their teens. The toilet was broken too.

The journey was extended somewhat when a number of key junctions were closed, so we had to go via Oxford - a mere six hours compared to two on the train. Only the train costs 2 million quid, doesn't it?

Don't go to frickin' India or China - just get on a Megabus for the authentic Thrid World experience.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 14:55, Reply)
I'd almost forgotten this one......
Travelling in a coach full of people off to represent Sheffield in the twin town of Bochum in Germany. The coach is so full that we have bags in our laps and the toilet is full of suitcases. After a twenty hour drive we approach the town only to be told that in spite of it being one in the morning & blizzarding we still have to take part in the big civic welcoming ceremony. Thus I get changed into a Maid Marion costume (don't ask me!) in the aforementioned toilet and have to stand, absolutely freezing cold and wet through, on a stage for over an hour while various german dignitaries spouted off in German. It didn't get much beter after that either.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 14:53, Reply)
Drunken Spitter!
I'd missed the last direct train to get back to the lovely Stockton-On-Tees from Newcastle so had to get a train to Darlington and wait for stockton train there, i was already annoyed as i was lugging about a bag which weighed approximatley the same as michelle mcmanus and was missing valuable drinking time as i was out on the night with the lads, so i gets on the train to darlington, ipod battery goes, its at this point i first hear and sight the drunken scruffy idiot on our carriage hes staggering up the aisle with a 4 pack in one hand and a local newspaper in the other and frequently spitting onto the floor at first i found this amusing while watching the faces of the other passengers til i realised he was heading in my direction slowly but surely the drunket staggered and spit his way to the seat infront of me he then sat down but carried on his frequent spits the women opposite began to look scared an the man began yelling "WHO THE FUCK HAS GOT ME PAPER THEN!" he poked his head round the chair an looked at me and repeated his question i told him it was in his hand to which he looked puzzled! he than began to stand to me horror and started to shuffle to sit with the poor women she looked at me as if to say please dont let this drunken smelly spitting angry man sit next to me! i stood up an told him to go sit somewhere else the whole carriage watching i was expecting a drunken swing of a punch or one of his many spits to come my way but i and all the carriage gasped in amazement as he looked at me in disgust but then slowly and quietly went back to the other end of the train and sat sulking oh and still spitting! .... he was arrested at darlington i think after having a bit of a barmy with the train attendant! i wont miss my train again!

Long,Girth,Mass i have it all
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 14:51, Reply)
I have just been reminded of..
It was a flight back from Chicago to London. I was flying alone, and as is my usual way, I checked in at the last minute, thus having no choice of seat. Of course, I was flting economy.

As I walked down the aisle, I saw with mounting horror that I will be sharing a row of economy torture with the fattest man I had ever seen. He was *enormous*. You know the seat-belt extensions they give to pregnant women? This feller must have used three of those bad boys in serial! He was easily 30 stone.

Trip highlights:

When the food came along, I had to eat with my right elbow pointed straight up, in order to avoid touching manflesh, but this didn't matter, because after the food was finished, he lifted the armrest that was between us, and about a cubic foot of gut landed on my lap. Ugh.

In his defence, he seemed like a nice chap, and was clearly considerably less comfortable than me. I really felt for his wife though - she was about 8 stone, and must have had reinfoced ribs!
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 14:31, Reply)
i once went to luton
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 14:12, Reply)
short and sweet (unlike the journey)
falklands = 16/18 hrs... in cattle class, in plane full of grunts, no alcohol allowed on the flight...
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 14:10, Reply)
Rache, Mr M, Ancrenne and Lucky
The late great Spike Milligan told the same tale on Parky about 20 years ago. Maybe just maybe tailors and clothes shops near stations are all complete cads.

EDIT: I've just read this back to myself and if you say it in a high voice with a lisp and a plummy accent beginning with "well, acthually...." I sound a right cocky smartarse. Sorry about that!
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 13:44, Reply)
Bloody bastard fucking wasp cunt.
Well the title explains it all. I was travelling from Lincoln to Nottingham. A regular commute always ends up with you meeting new friends. The one day I get talking to this hottie from Newark I kicked her like a mule straight in the shin.

A wasp had crawled up my trouser leg, I hate spiders... so first thought is SPIDER up my leg so I used my other foot to crush it.

I did this too soft and the wasp stung me. I kicked so hard the girl I was talking too started crying with pain. I then whilst telling her I'm sorry and using one leg to kill the wasp had the little bastard stung me 4 more times before it fucking died.

She never sat near me again, despite seeing the dead proof on the floor of the train. It didn't end up a funny story of how we met, just a sad tale of how I kicked the hell out of a friendly stranger just passing her time with chit chat on the way to the daily grind.

I had to spend the rest of the journey feeling like someone had a lit lighter burning my flesh all the way to work.. not to mention the rest of the day with this throbbing pain and itchy red soreness... buggering fuck.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 13:19, Reply)
trains = hell
Many many years ago and then some I was forced to use the train as my main method of transport (Chiltern Turbo Line, London - The Midlands). One this particular occasion the train I was on decided to come to a complete stop within spitting distance of Royal Leamington Spa station. Nothing so unusual about this, trains have to stop for red lights all the time and within 5mins or so they get on their way.

Not this time.

A gazillion minutes passed, and we're still within sight of the station, which just so happens to be the end of the line for me. It's getting pretty aggravating sitting there thinking that I could just open the door and run down the embankment but to add to my misery my bladder starts telling me that I need to pee. So I make my way down to the only toilet in my part of the train and open the door to find a) the most nauseous smell known to man and b) the toilet bowl is full to the brim with liquid poop. There is no way in hell that I'm going to use this toilet even if it kills me and I return to my seat in the vain hope that the train will move soon.

It doesn't. In fact it continues not to move for what seems like eternity and it really doesn't help that my bladder is adament that it gets emptied sometime very soon.

I am thus forced into the humiliating situation of asking the guard if I can leave my section of the train and move to the other section as the only toilet is out of action. Thankfully the female guard is completely sympathetic to my pain and suffering and I'm pretty sure that this is against some British Rail safety policy, lets me exit the train, clamber along the bank and rejoin the other half. She did accompany me to make sure nothing untoward happened.

I cannot express the relief I felt as I emptied my bladder into the nice and clean toilet that was in the other half of the train. The happiness didn't stop there, for on the seat I moved I found a discarded paper which was enough to keep the boredom away whilst we waited for the train to move. Sure enough, I'd not sat down for that long when when the train finally made the last few yards to Royal Leamington Spa. Apparently the delay was caused by a train further up the track had broken down.. and I got a car after that because I never ever want to go through that again.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 13:10, Reply)
Not funny...
But I'm in a shit mood today, sorry.

Someone threw themselves in front of my tube home last night. The carriage I was in was in the tunnel and we had to break the emergency door lock thing to get out. Only no one said that it was a suicide, just that there'd been a serious incident and we all had to evacuate. Needless to say we all thought there'd been a bomb. So, a shit journey for all on the tube, for the woman on the platform who saw it happen, for the poor sod of a tube driver and for the person they had to remove from the track.

But thanks very much to the guy who got the emergency exit open, the other people in the carriage for being incredibly cool (despite the fact that I think everyone was freaking out a bit), the police for getting everyone out quickly and calmly and the nice Spanish lady at Hyde Park Corner who gave me a cigarette and directed me to where I could get the bus home. Much appreciated!

Can't even be bothered with a length joke. Meh.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 13:00, Reply)
Croydon Tramlink
I don't know how many miles I had travelled that night, or which full route I took - but I defintely rode face down in the middle of a carriage floor on the Croyon tram network for 5 hours, gripping a half eaten pasty in one hand, smelling like a brewery and in a brand new suit.

Let me explain:

In 2002 I was doing IT support for an Oil Company project in Colliers Wood. The project was designing something for the Siberian oil fields and the building was full of translators and moustachioed Russians (including the women)

I hadn't been there that long before I was invited to their Christmas party at Jim Thompson's in Wimbledon - so I happily went along for the free festivities and lashings of alchohol - in a brand new suit as well.

The afternoon went very well, generally lubricated by more whisky than I have ever seen (they were giving each other bottles of single malt as presents), vases of Hoergarten and Thai food that was totally inadequate at soaking up the sauce.

I phoned mrs Catchag at 6.45 to tell her that I was leaving (my tram ticket also confirmed the truth that I didn't continue drinking as it was bought at 18.55)- I had reached my limit - I knew that another drink would render me unnecessary so I left to go home to the other side of Croydon.

I woke up with a loud noise happening near me and something in my chest going weird, I thought I was having a heart attack, I then thought I had been attacked as the left side of my face was numb. This went on for a while before I realised that I was face down in the middle of a carriage floor with my phone ringing my chest pocket off - I crawled my way up a seat and saw the horrified looks of the other passengers on the tram - the left hand side of my face started to get pins and needles - I had a half eaten cornish pasty gripped and squashed in my obviously trodden on left hand - I felt sick, I didn't know where I was - GOD who the hell keeps ringing?

The tram pulled into a stop - for some reason, I jumped out and looked around - there was a full moon - I saw my breath it was so cold - I answered the phone


"At last! Where the hell are you? I've been calling for ages and was getting worried sick that you had got hurt!" - Said mrs Catchag

"You've been calling for ages?"

"Yes - it's 11.45 - where are you?"

"Er.... Morden - SHIT!"

The tram pulled away - leaving me in the fucking boonies - my bladder was close to rupture all of a sudden - the next tram time was not displayed.

I finally got home at 2.30am - after catching the last tram to East Croydon station, waiting for a train that I had missed, walking for a bit and then getting a taxi.

I was freezing to the bone, skint, dirty, I had already got the beer sweats and hangover and my contact lenses were stuck firmly to my eyeballs - Mrs Catchag made me sleep on the sofa

A good journey in all - as I hadn't ended up on the end of someone's boot, in a cell, A&E or woken up in a bush - but then again, not the best journey either.

*Your amusing comment about length, girth and handling here*
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 12:49, Reply)
Bloke shits in trousers on train
Rachelswipe, a version of that story is on one of Ricky Gervais' stand up thingys, so as much as I wanna believe it's true sadly, it's bollocks.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 12:35, Reply)
My worst
Holidaying in Australia with my gf and friends we are trying to get from Sydney to the Gold Coast. Decide to take the train, seems like a good option, travel agent says its cheaper...

Journey starts at 8:00pm and ends at 4:00. Yes thats 14 hours, but i figure there with my gf, comfy seats cant be all that bad. Find out we bought our tickets too late and train is full so im all by myself at the back of the train and they get upgraded to 'premium' (found out that means they are at front of carriage, so no seat in front thats it).

So im all at the back by myself with an empty seat next to me, shes at the front with an empty seat. Swap? youd think so but no, did it a few times but apparently causing all sorts of admin problems with the one passenger occupying the seat next to me for 3 out of 14 hours ... so nah, get back to your bloody seat and stay there. Read book until lights go out after 2 hours, not allowed to use my reading light because it 'disturbs other passengers'. Ipod out of batteries, laptop dead too. So since i cant sleep on any form of transport i sit there, staring at the wall listening to the crummy squeaky carriage in a crappy seat with no legroom for 14 hours. Get off, get on coach to hotel. In winter at 4:00am 3 hours on the coach with no heating so like an arctic winter, even less legroom!
Get to hotel at 7:30am find room will not be ready until 3:00. So sit outside until then before finding we could have flown for an hour and a half, in the morning, for less money.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 12:18, Reply)
A couple of bad ones spring to mind...
...I've done a fair few nightmare journeys.

I travelled on the greyhound in the USA for about two months.

I remember Seattle to New York was about 4 days trapped on a bus with the same sweaty maniacs. This wasn't helped by the two people having sex up the back of the bus at one stage, the man who appeared to be having a conversation with thin air, and the guy who was bragging about busting out of prison. After 4 days on the bus I was a sweaty wreck much like everyone else. My feet appeared to have acquired a layer of cheesy goodness too.

My favourite flight of all time must be Tokyo to Moscow on Russia's national airline, Aeroflot.

In-flight, we were subjected to the same film played twice, some sort of communist soviet propaganda film about the strength of russia's economy and airline (a little wacky bearing in mind this was just a couple of years ago). Flying over China we experienced some of the worst turbulence I've ever known. It didn't help that we were doing the 8 hour flight in a glorified easyjet airbus.

The crowning glory was the flight attendants. They took surliness to new levels. Some guy asked for ice with his complimentary glass of water and the air hostess looked at him like he'd just shat on the floor.

We landed in Moscow in what can only be described as the perfect storm. Lightning was flashing down either side of the plane as we descended. When we touched down the whole plane burst into a round of applause and started cheering.

The connecting Aeroflot flight to London was boring though, no-one cheered when we landed and they never showed the weird communist film again.

p.s. mine could be longer with proper stimulation.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 11:45, Reply)
certainly a lot of incontinent and incompetent people running British Rail...
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 11:38, Reply)
welll well well...
During the summer holidays my old air cadet squadron used to organise weeks away at far
flung raf, army and navy bases.

now being under the impression that a 4 hour
drive to the elan valley in wales. which our
head -shed managed to aquire a training camp
specifically for our squadron because he was
something impressive in the police force.

now the cadets being a charity, their van was
of the shittest quality. i mean at over 50
miles an hour you had to pray and hold on to
the doors. otherwise they will, jump the fuck
out and slide up the road. this thing i
remember was a leyland sherpa or something
obscure. and it had sliding windows.

now what do most kids get after 2 hours of
driving, and you cant stop the bus (otherwise
ill fall down the fucking hill you spent the
last 30 mins getting up).

you make them puke out of the window.

trouble is they are at teh front of the bus,
leaning out of the door windows emptying their

the poor fuckers at the back of the bus also
had the windows open.

guess what got sucked in.

lucky i wasnt a cool kid then and didnt sit at
the back :D
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 11:33, Reply)
so's my dad
maybe it was the same guy.

or maybe i'm very naive.

does that mean he didn't really make his cheese sandwiches himself either???
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 11:21, Reply)
my dad's boss
working at the bank in the 1960's when if you weren't a hippy you were a bowler hat wearing, umbrella carrying businessman.

he went out for lunch and picked up his new suit trousers which had been altered at the tailors. then he joined the rest of them at their christmas do.

by 5pm he was royally drunk. he got on the train home at 9pm and promptly fell asleep. in his sleep, he sharted and covered his trousers and the seat in effluent. he woke up in horror, but fortunately the carriage was empty.

approaching his stop, he frantically tugged off his soiled trousers and pants. looking around, he wound down the window and threw the evidence out of the window. with a sigh of relief, he opened the carrier bag to put on his new trousers......

.... and pulled out a cream polo necked jumper.

(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 10:57, Reply)
I was working on-site in Ipswich...
{wasn't sure whether I should post this one - sensitive subject - not really funny either}

...on the day of the London bombings. It was my last day there and I was scheduled to head back up north in the afternoon, returning home by mid-evening - I was looking forward to it as I hadn't seen the (then relatively new) other half for three days. Instead I got home after midnight because trains that had even a sniff of the capital were fucked big-time. I didn't get on one about it though - after all, a lot of people had a far worse time than I did that day. Very nasty business.

However, I overheard a bunch of chavs in my carriage bitching loudly about it during one connecting journey - one of them was being particularly offensive in his views of the victims and perpetrators alike. Now that put me on one. As dangerous as those little shits can be, I couldn't keep quiet - not for that. I got up and approached the table seat they were occupying. The resulting dialogue was very similar to:

'Oi, dickhead - yeah you, you motormouthed little prick {attempted backchat} YOU'VE TALKED ENOUGH - SHUT UP! {end backchat} - Dozens of people have died today already for no good reason, and that makes hundreds, maybe even thousands more who'll have to get on without them for the rest of thier lives when they shouldn't have to. I know it's a foreign concept for the likes of you but this time you'll show some fucking respect where I can hear you or you'll be riding under this thing rather than on it - got it?'

I got a few glares from motormouth and his peers but no more backchat, and they shut up for the remainder of thier journey in my presence. Several older bizniz types nearby gave me a 'nice one' look.

Chav-ism - don'cha just hate it? Regular readers will have figured out long ago that I certainly do. Being for the most part an I'm-Okay-You're-Okay type, I've tried to find something to like about them, really I have, but there's just not a single thing. Not one. If I could have traded the lives of two or more of those worthless fucks for every one of the poor buggers who died that day I would have, and still would today.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 10:48, Reply)
My worst journey actually got me nowhere...
My worst journey was actually on a big wheel at a winter fair in our town (The Mart if you are unfortunate enough to know it), thus rendering it pointless as it got me nowhere but was supposedly in the name of fun and frivolity.

My best friend, boyfriend of the time and myself cosied ourselves into the carriage whilst they convinced me (a rider for the first time) that the ride was not going to fall over/collapse into a ball of flame/eject me at its highest point.

Just as I was getting into the ride, it stopped. I was informed this was to let passengers off at then bottom. As we sat suspended almost at the top, a few little 'flakes' of white pitter pattered past our eyes. As Charlotte declared "It's snowing" we looked up open mouthed (as seems to be a natural reflex). Upon clocking the man vomiting on us from the carriage above, we soon realised it was not in fact snow.

Charlotte and I began to jiggle around whilst the man vomited on us FOUR more times and we screamed "I gock ick ong my ipsh get it ogh!" without daring to close our mouths for fear of digesting the already digested. Eventually the carriage started to move.

We got off cloaked in spew and had to drive home in my Metro with all the windows open...on second thoughts THAT was the worst journey ever.

P.S. We later found out it was one of my mums employees who had sicked on us as he went into work and bragged about it...my mum and all her cronies who knew the story burst out laughing and told him who they had been sick on..not a jot of sympathy!!
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 10:45, Reply)
And again...
Trying to get home during a break at college, it's only two hours so I get the train, quicker than the metro. Notice a train to Sunderland leaving in about 10-15 minutes so I rush over to the platform and, sure enough, there is a Northern train standing there. I run over, jump on just as the doors are closing (I really should have been paying attention to this) and gratefully take a seat.
Ticket inspection, I show my travelcard, which only gets me anywhere in Tyne and Wear.
'Where are you going?'
'No you're not.'
'I've got the wrong train haven't I?'
Silence again.
'What do you want to do? You can get off at Cramlington and try and get a bus back into Newcastle, or you can stay on until Morpeth and head straight back with us?'
And being a complete tit, I decided to get off at Cramlington, not realising that my travelcard wouldn't get me back because it's not in Tyne and Wear.
Cue an hour of wandering around frantically, with only 20p on me, no mobile, no proper train pass and no fucking clue where I was. I couldn't make a reverse charge call to anyone because I only knew my parents' mobile numbers and nobody else could help me, I couldn't get the train back because the travelcard obviously wasn't valid and I didn't have my magical go-anywhere-free train pass.
What did I decide to do? I decided to walk back, following any road sign saying Newcastle. Halfway down the road a bus went past and I realised it was the one I'd been waiting for until I realised it wouldn't get me back.
I've never run so fast in my life.
'Can this get me back to Newcastle?' I showed my pass to the driver.
'You'll have to pay to the border.'
'How much is it?' Like it would be 20p.
'Oh, I don't have enough...OK.'
'Oh, you can just get on.'
I've never felt such a rush of love for anyone else in my life. And a manky old bus seat has never been so comfortable.
Naturally, I only got back into Newcastle in enough time to run back from the bus station to college for my next lesson. So much for a break.
(, Wed 13 Sep 2006, 8:57, Reply)

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