YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!
The Puppet
“York? Fookin Shitehole!” shouted the Geordie.
At first, hearing every town at which the train stopped described as a “Fookin’ Shitehole!” had a certain earthy charm.
But not after three hours and twelve such outbursts.
Furthermore the carriage was CLEARLY DESIGNATED as Quiet, a point re-emphasised by the ever so helpful onboard team (By the by, the egg and cress sandwiches were a particular delight on this journey).
Needing an evacuation, I turned off my iPod (Beethoven has become de rigueur on long journeys and to have it drowned out with fruity language is very disconcerting) stood and walked towards the toilet.
Fortunately, toilets on modern trains allow flushing within the station. Many’s the time when waiting on a platform, I would be confronted by freshly laid droppings as a train pulled away. I praise the engineers who solved the riddle of flushing a train’s toilet in the station locale. Upon such minor improvements can we benchmark human progress.
Having soaped, washed, rinsed and dried my hands all within the confines of a small, brilliantly designed basin, I returned to my seat with a pleasantly empty bowel and re-engaged Beethoven’s stirring symphonies.
The Geordie sat five or so rows away. He was large. Squeezed into a Parka jacket several sizes too small. The Parka bore a variety of badges. Food stains pocked his T-shirt.
Then as if shouting, “Fookin’ Shitehole!” wasn’t enough, he produced a glove puppet.
Sweep from the Sooty Show. Holding the puppet to his ear he said, “What’s that Sweep? You think York’s a Fookin’ Shitehole too?”
I considered pointing out that it was Sooty who whispered into Mr Corbett’s ear whilst Sweep prattled away in that squeaky vibrato. But decided against it. For a number of reasons, the most important of which was the man was a loon.
As I know from personal experience, interacting with the barking on trains is not a good idea. The “Do you want to see me put my head in a jam jar?” episode of 1997 and 2004’s “Nude dancing cardigan,” sprang to mind.
We arrived at Darlington.
“Darlington? Fookin’ Shitehole!” New passengers glanced up at him without recalling the first law of The Nutter On A Train.
Avoid.
As we left Darlington, he stood. His trousers were so short that they revealed a portion of shin above the sock line. Trouser length was not high on his list of priorities. It should be. For everyone.
Why not buy clothes of proportionate length?
He moved with a discernible limp indicating the need for corrective joint surgery in the near future. Hip or knee? I couldn’t in all honesty tell you.
“C’mon Sweep let’s go for a walk. Does anybody want to say hello to Sweep?”
The silence was profound. The new arrivals, cuckolded by their innocence sought the safety of laptops or newspapers. One scrambled by me, presumably for the toilet, groaning loudly when noticing the Toilet Engaged sign was lit. Maybe several passengers already cowered from The Geordie in there, oblivious to the marvellous onboard waste storage system.
“Say hello to Sweep!” he would say with an undertow of naive menace. Passengers muttered a nervous response.
As he bore down on me, my watch told me it was time for my hourly swivel. On train journeys in excess of two hours, I try to get a spot of exercise every hour by standing on the connecting plate between carriages and swivel as the train rounds a corner. It’s good fun. Mostly.
Alas, my iPod lead became tangled with the seat’s adjustable armrest. I am a fan of the adjustable armrest, often giving silent praise for their design. But not this time.
He was only two rows away. I tugged ferociously unable to free myself.
One row.
Still trapped.
“Say hello to Sweep!”
I looked up, the iPod lead still throttled the armrest. One of his Parka badges read, “I like Chicken”. He smiled revealing his half a dozen or so useable teeth. Skin tags erupted around the collar of his T-Shirt. He smelled of pee.
“Hello Sweep.”
Was I about to relive 2012’s, “Do you want to see my pet haddock? I keep it under me hat!” To this day the thought of fish causes my ear imbalance to flare up.
I needed a tinkle. Even though I had just been. Bladder shock.
He began to utter the dreaded phrase, “Is this seat fr……?”
The Guard announced our arrival into Durham station. Bobby Bonkers returned to his seat in order to bellow, “Durham? Fookin Shitehole!”
I was sweating profusely from this Close Encounter of The Deranged Mind.
I was safe. For the time being. The train pulled away. Ten minutes to Newcastle, my destination. I finally untangled the iPod lead, walked to the connecting plate between the two carriages and swiveled with gusto.
“Newcastle! Fookin Shitehole!”
The Geordie also left the train at Newcastle. I had a twenty yards on him but could hear him closing. Fast.
“Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole,” he barked, Sweep on one hand, three Morrison’s carrier bags in the other.
I made the barriers, presented my ticket and quickly moved through. I’m not a fan of the ticket barrier seeing them as a clumsy metaphor for corporate mistrust. But I was grateful they were here today.
The Geordie put down his bags. Sweep whispered in his ear.
“I know Sweep, I’ve got me ticket somewhere.”
He patted his pockets theatrically. I shuddered at the shortness of his trousers and made my way to the Taxi rank, eager to be away.
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