Cumbria: Not really worth it in hindsight
Living in Manchester I got a call from one of my former DJing mates (in the Jonh Peel style nightclub gig sense, not the Judge Jules sense)saying 'come and do this rock band in Whitehaven'. Off I set on the bus into Manchester with my 400 CD flight case which weighed more than anything I'll ever carry anywhere long distance. I dragged it down Market Street to the station, and the journey up though the Lakes and that was fine. My mate's house was great, hadn't seen him in ages, and the gig was brilliant. This was about 2001 and nu metul was all the rage (I bought 'Last Resort' by some whiny yanks on the advice of my mate who said I'd need it!)the band were alright, can't remember their name, and the set went down a storm, I had them moshing to 'Baby One More Time' and a met a rather lovely young lady. The next day, alas, I had to return to Manchester. There was about one train leaving that day, which I duly caught, and it ran up to Carlisle then I changed for the People's Republic of Mancunia. I got on, along with the rest of Whitehaven, and got a seat at a table opposite a Geordie who'd been up in Whitehaven on a building job. Sod all in common but we yarned away the miles chatting about this and that. Decent sort. We were in the window seats at the end of a carriage near the bogs. Utterly hemmed in by the two sat next to us and the rammed aisles. So of course, half an hour into the hour long run to Carlisle he needs a piss, doesn't he?

Ten minutes later he's all "Ah cannae herld eet in mooch longah" and grimacing. I'm tapping people in the aisle, asking them to move so he can get the three metres to the pisser for a slash. There's nowhere for them to go other than out of the train. There was, as we found out shortly thereafter, nowhere for him to go but in the train.

"Ahhm gerrin in me fooking kecks, man"

"Aaah, fookin 'ell, ahhm gerrrin in me fookin kecks"

"Ahhhh, fook".

Poor, poor bastard. No-one knew where to put their faces. Mercifully, I'd managed to sit in my window seat with my case in front of my legs under the table, against the leg they sometimes have, so whatever might have been coming my way the case saved me from. The true wretchedness of this hapless Northumbrian's plight is not fully appreciable by anyone who does not factor in his being within plain sight of the door of an unoccupied toilet, and that his clenching valve was spent when (and only when) the train began its gradual slowing as it made final approach on Carlisle station. One more minute and he'd have been having the best piss of hs entire life. As it stood, he had the worst, and so did the rest of the carriage.

Carlisle station was characteristically sodden and drenched, so whatever spray might have caught my CD library was washed away in moments, but I was due to catch the next train down with him on board as he was going to Manchester as well. I just couldn't face the poor bastard. Not now, not after that. Now that we had something in common, a shared experience, we both wished we didn't. I veered off ANYWHERE ELSE and deliberately missed the train, resolving to catch the following Manc-bound boneshaker, due in twenty minutes. I did. I'd sooner have caught a skydiving hippopotamous.

The train was as rammed as the last, only I was last on, due to my case, which I had to stand with between my legs. It was up well past my knees, but the train was too cramped for me to sit down on it, as that would have needed an inch either side for me to flex my knees into.

It was here I learned that if you can lean equally onto three people on a cramped train, none will think you are leaning on them (I'm 5'8 and slim) and put your lateral pressure down to cramped conditions, so you can relax a little if you are brave. I was just at the point where I was beginning to feel rather zen about the whole thing, catching glances of the glorious Lakes in the gaps between those who separated me from the windows. Then, somewhere quaint I'd never heard of, FORESTRY COMMISSION WANKER gets on. He's FROM THE FORESTRY COMMISSION, MOTHERFUCKER. He's pre-booked a seat on this train, and he's fucking well going to get into it. Or so he thinks. He literally climbed over people hunched low in the aisles and bullied and shoved his way to his seat, where the person sat in it smiled up at him, knowing full well there was nowhere to be thrown by Forestry Commission Wanker even if FCW could have pulled him out of the seat. The doors from the end bit to the cabin closed, and I only had a view of this through many gaps between arms. I was lucky to see as much of it as I had, no idea if he ever got sat down, but he got off only a few stops later, looking vexed.

And in Bolton, we were emptied off and told we had to change. Bolton. That's just teasing me. Oh, and it was Sunday and everything was shut. And my connectionwas in an hour. I missed it, as a station monkey had sent me to the wrong bit. I began to envy the bloke with pissy trousers who'd made it back to Manchester already.

Got home in the end, and never quite made it back to Whitehaven for another gig, despite having a great time up there and wanting to see that lass again.

The train companies didn't apologise for length and neither shall I.
(governmentyard, Fri 30 May 2008, 0:35, Reply)