WARNING: LONG BIT OF WRITING ENSUES. SUN READERS TURN AWAY NOW
Just look at that loathing in his eyes.
Before I continue, let me put this post into context. I have bad luck. So much so, that when I die and I’m reborn (only plausible explanation) I’ll probably be the result of a six way rut-a-thon consisting of Satan, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and a small impish woman named Dave. This will more than likely result in me having bowed legs, large horns on the top of my head and a burning desire to see the world end in a blaze of fire, brimstone and lots of blood. Yes, my luck really is that bad.
Anyway, it’s another train travel story, this time intermixed with a bit of bus travel too. I don’t usually mind travelling to work in Pudsey, but the train home is often hell. Trains just stop for no apparent reason. Trains are packed with people to the point where it’s impossible not to shed at least half a stone in body fluids by the time you’ve got off the other end. Of course, the profuse sweating only results in more condensed heat making the whole matter even more unbearable. If fat people ever made some kind of torture for us normal sized people to experience just exactly what it’s like comprising of almost complete meat and gravy, then a train at 5pm is exactly it.
No reason for this one. I just typed train drivers in google and found this image funny. I think it’s the denim.
After I’d grimaced and bared the first train, I prepared to face the second train: the one that takes me to Wakefield. This is usually the more pleasant of the two, but because the train from Pudsey to Leeds had so many fat people on it (presumably) we were going at a pace that would have made a snail’s grandmother look like an Olympic champion at the 100 metres in comparison. Resulting in me arriving at Leeds train station just in time to watch my train pull away. Why does that always happen? You never completely miss the train. The train driver always appears to wait to set off just as you arrive at it’s slowly closing doors puffing and panting like a 20 year old dog. They’re bastards, the lot of em.
So after I’d missed the first train by enough time to make me want to gouge out the train driver’s eyes with small furry animals, I decided I was going to attempt to get the next train – the one that apparently would leave at 17.48. If you’re a regular goer then you’ll probably be well versed in train times. My general rule is to add 2 minutes onto any train service running with Northern in the name. If it’s gets to 2 minutes before the train is meant to arrive, then add another 10 minutes on to the estimated arrival time. This was worse however, because the train was in the station. In fact, I’d been stood staring at it for the last 20 minutes wondering just why in God’s brother’s name the hadn’t bothered opening the door. I blame the train drivers. Bastards.
Seriously, all train drivers do is scowl. Look at his face.
Eventually I got to Wakefield, but I had no money on me to catch the bus. I’d got to Wakefield pretty late, so I didn’t have the time to stop for the ATM. I presumed I’d just get some money out of the ATM at the bus station. You can probably guess the next bit; yep, the ATM wasn’t working and I had 2 minutes before the bus arrived. I doubt he’d give me a free ride because just like train drivers, bus drivers are bastards. Only they say ‘mate’ to you whilst secretly inside thinking ‘DIE BUS TRAVELLER DIE!’
I can see it in their faces.
I decided the only course of action at such short notice was to run to the closest ATM, which happened to be quite fair way away. Thankfully this ATM was working, and I got the money, ran for the bus and caught the damn thing.
This is what I class as good luck.
Nov 14, 02:28 PM
Kimmy
I know exactly how you feel, though you do seem to have more bad luck than me by far….
