I hate the last train home. I much prefer the penultimate train, not because it's earlier but because it tends to be full of fairly normal people who, like me have probably had a couple of drinks but are nonetheless normal and probably a bit tired. The penultimate train is smaller and crappier than the last train: The last train is an inter city which means decent seats and a smoother ride, whereas the penultimate train is cramped, noisy and always on the verge of breaking down (the operator, First Great Western, are notorious for spending fuck all money on maintaining their trains). But the last train is always full of the shit-faced dregs of humanity. The drunk middle aged men trying to flirt with the drunk middle aged scrubbers, the pissed up kids, the gobby twats, the arsehole lads who shout and jostle everyone. I hate each and every one of them with a fervour and would be happy to see them all fall under the damn train.
So why am I on the last train tonight? Not through choice I can assure you, but because the penultimate train of the night has been cancelled without any real explanation. This is fairly normal: As paying passengers and tax payers (in many cases, though by no means all) who therefore not only pay for ovetpriced tickets for the dubious 'privilege' traveling by train but also fund huge subsidies for private rail operators through taxation, we are treated little better than an inconvenient form of cargo that train companies grudgingly put up with in order to generate huge profits.
All of which is why I am desperately trying to ignore the drunken screeching and general fuckwittery of this late night vomit comet by writing this blog entry and listening to an especially good Charlie May mix.
For the non existent person who has been holding their breath for a new blog entry, I am not only sorry that it's such a weak and shitty rant but also that you are probably dead as a result of holding your breath for the best part of a couple of years. Sorry about that.