Waste

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Train

The Worst Journey Of My Life.

About three weeks ago, the plan was this :
Take the train to Sheffield, look around during the University open day, then take the train back.
Easy!

Act I - The First Train Journey.

It all went well until we got half way there. We stopped.

After perhaps twenty minutes, something came through the speakers.

“This is your driver for today speaking, folks. I’m afraid I don’t know why we’re not moving, but I’ll try and find out soon.”

HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY NOT KNOW? IT’S YOUR DAMN TRAIN.

Then another thirty minutes pass, until suddenly a frantic-sounding driver crackles on the intercom thing.

“Sorry folks, but this train, er, isn’t moving. There’s another train outside which will take you the last step of your journey, but it’s leaving in a few seconds!”

This is 100% true.

There was a brief pause while this information filtered down, and then a mad rush as people grabbed bags, stuffed coffee cups into pockets, closed laptops, rammed on hats and sprinted across the pebbles towards the other train. Literally ten seconds after we got on, the doors shut and it slid out of the station. Incredible.

We finally then make it to Sheffield, and go into the main hall. There, we see a dozen paintings of ex-teachers, all holding scrolls and staring at the painter with a look of either intense concentration or chronic constipation. Hours later, we head out onto the street to get back to the train station…

Act II - The Tram.

Let me relay this with total, total clarity.
We're waiting for the tram after the open day in Sheffield. Someone who looks like they fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down approaches us, brandishing some kind of clicky box with a handle. After a brief discussion, it turns out this apparition will give us tickets for the tram.
Now, this tram stop has two sides and two sets of raily things. Therefore, surely two different trams come through here, right?
We ask her, in clear English, standing on the left side of the station - "Does this tram take us to the train station?"
She answers, "Yes."
Funnily enough, we thought this might be accurate, seeing as SHE WAS ONE OF THE DAMN TRAM PEOPLE (I call them Trammies).
A few minutes later, tram pulls up, we get on, and it trundles off.

Now, thirty minutes go past. We go past lots and lots of stops, but not a single one looks like a train station, or has any kind of trainy sense to it. We notice our Trammie making her way back through the pedestrian throng and I ask her a question.
"This is the tram for the train station, right?"
This was one of those moments where the world holds its breath. Either my faith in the incompetent people of Sheffield will be rewarded, she'll reply affirmatively, and the next stop will be the train station. Alternatively, this might happen:
"No. That's the other tram, the blue line. You're on the orange line."
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US THAT BEFORE WE PAID FOR OUR TICKET AND GOT ON YOUR FUCKING TRAM YOU STUPID INCOMPETENT SOW?
So we miss our train and have to get one two hours later. But there was more pain to come...

Act III - Why Other People Should Not Be Allowed Out Of Their Houses

So, two hours later, we get on the train that is supposed to head back. In the seat opposite me, a man sits down. He is perhaps thirty years old, wearing the least fashionable clothes I have ever seen combined on one person, and with his shirt tucked into his trousers and his trousers pulled up around nipple height. Additionally, his top teeth hang over his bottom lip, giving him an impression of dangerous inbreeding.

But okay, I guess such people must logically exist to balance out averages – for every incredibly beautiful person, there must be a…one of these. Anyway, about three minutes into the train moving out of the station, this man – at least 30 years old – sticks his finger straight up a nostril to the knuckle. He then proceeds to rummage around inside, perhaps searching for whatever happened to his self-esteem.

Worse, he then takes it out of his nose, critically inspects the contents, wipes it on his sleeve, and continues to hum a tune.

Later, a woman sits down to me with the girth of a small planet. I genuinely have to shrink myself into the wall to avoid being crushed, and for someone my height that's no easy task. What made it worse was that this woman seemed to think she wasn't using up enough of her damn chair - and enough of mine - and over a period of the next hour wobbled closer and closer to me.

I hate society.

Act IV - The Second Train Journey.

We get to Birmingham – I think. Or somewhere similar. Anyway, the train stops in a siding for half an hour, and nobody can work out why the train isn’t moving. Eventually, there’s a bing-bong and the train driver starts talking.

“We’re sorry ladies and gentlemen, but because British Rail are staggeringly incompetent, we have to now go on a two hour diversion. Sorry about this.”

The entire carriage groans. Various people get off, curse, scream, explode, combust, or die. One person even mutters “We’ll see about that…” and storms in the direction of the driving carriage (what is this called?).

Thirty minutes later – “Actually, we’re NOT being diverted, but you do have to wait another hour. HA!”

Eventually we get home.

It was hellish.

I am never using public transport again in my entire life.

Notes :

Note 1 :

This was on an internet forum about Bioshock.

Originally posted by: manowar821

Originally posted by: Regs

[ **Important Note: Game requires Internet connection for activation** ]

God dammit!

GOD FUCKING DAMMIT TO SHIT HELL!!!!!

How can someone possibly complain about something that requires internet activation, while being on the damn internet? Such people astound me.

Note 2 :

I cashed in another 2700 freeroll (poker tourney), finishing 23^rd this time. However, this time it was HORSE. It’s a mixed game, which plays ten hands of Holdem, ten hands of Omaha, ten hands of Razz, ten hands of Stud, then ten hands of Stud Eight. That means every ten hands you have to change what you’re doing and totally alter your strategy. Considerably more interesting.

Although, one curiosity – No-Limit Holdem is obviously my best game, yet I don’t seem that good at Limit Holdem. Strange.

Since then, I’ve also come 35^th, and in the top 200 twice more.

Oh, and yesterday I played two nine-person tournaments at the same time and won them both. That was nice too.

Note 3 :

There is no note 4, but note 3 is a lie.

Note 4 :

Note 3 tells the truth, but this note is a lie.

LEMONMAN

Just like Fry -

ARGH! IMAGE HOSTED BY TRIPOD. NEW IMAGE SOON. [Picture of Fry from Futurama screaming]


- I am now at my wit's end trying to think of something funny to put on the blog. Well, that's not totally true. I have five topics, but none of them are particularly AMUSING. Which is the damned problem!
Wait, I know! SHEFFIELD! I CAN SCREAM ABOUT SHEFFIELD!
Expect that tomorrow.

However, unlike Fry, I am not my own grandfather, and nor did I once invade my own brain using a smaller copy of myself.