Tuesday, 31 August 2010


My concentration has been constantly punctuated by a group of teenage boys heading for the beach. Although distracting, it did make me pine a little bit for the freedom of endless summer days with friends.

The soundtrack to the journey has been provided by the giant 50-year-old bald rugby player near by. He has been blasting a song out of his earphones over and over. It's a dance version of The Boys of Summer. "I can see you/brown skin shining in the sun/ your dark hair combed back/ sunglasses on". I can't help but wonder if it's his dark hair combed back that he's feeling nostalgic about.

Typos? Blame my iPhone.

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

Travelling Douchebag

I'll admit it. I'm a bit cranky this morning. I've had three consecutive nights working until 2 or 3am on a project and getting up at 6. However, I'm pretty sure that the guy behind would qualify for inclusion on the Travelling Douchebag Wall of Shame anyway. He's lucky I can only hear him, or his photo would be here too.

This guy has managed to continually spew management speak into his phone at the top of his voice for 20 minutes now. How do these a-holes always get a signal? One of the other regular commuters was so distracted that he stopped working on his laptop and suggested we engage in a game of buzzword bingo. "I take your comments on board...We can move forward on this agenda...I took Monday's criticisms on the chin". He's going to take my criticisms on the chin in a minute.

Tuesday, 24 August 2010

Perfect sense

A train pulled up this morning bound for Carlisle. It had 15 cars on it. 15. Most appeared to have lamps and tables. The passengers on board were smiling. I kept staring at them because I couldn't believe rail passengers could be smiling. The seat per passenger ratio was probably 50:1.

Guess how many people got on or off? One. No wonder they were smiling. Smug b*stards. I will just huddle here on the platform with the other 75 people awaiting our two carriage palace in wheels with the seat per passenger ratio of about 0.8:1. You know it makes perfect sense.

Typos? Blame my iPhone.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

An award

Once or twice a year, I take my small child with me on the long commute to work. We spend part of the day at the office and skive the rest of the day in the museums. We while away the train journeys with rations of Percy Pig candies, crayons, and new activity books.

She's a pleasure, and I really enjoy these special trips. On the way back today, there was a Scouse grandma dressed in silver heels, tight top, and hot pants stretched over her orange-tinged skin. The three kids with her were little hellions. The 10-year-old blasted Eminem from a speaker attached to his mobile while tickling he 5-year-old until she squealed like a stuck pig. The middle boy kept running for the toilet, no doubt to purge all the bottles of pineapple pop he was chugging. All of this was met without the slightest shake of granny's peroxide head or raise of the overplucked eyebrows slathered in iridescent shadow. Then at the end of the trip, she dropped the hammer on them by telling them that they weren't going out for burgers and chips because they were so naughty. She yelled at them for longer than children can comprehend, apparently for the benefit of the other passengers rather than the children.

When they left, my daughter breathed a sigh of relief and said, "well they weren't very good children, were they?". Well put, kiddo. You deserve an award.

Typos? Blame my iPhone.