Part and parcel of the accepted university life is an unrivalled ability to rack up an insurmountable debt, to be able to walk to the local shop and buy a Twister lolly in the winter (underrated but simple pleasure) and an aptitude of living off a cheap and diverse selection of local takeaways.
However, another realisation coupled with university life is that train services are absolutely diabolical.
Being a university student in Leeds but coming from Mansfield, the holidays generally begin with a three/four hour journey home. That’s fine; train journeys provide me with the perfect entertainment of judging every single person near me. You want me to move my bag and sit next to me? Yeah, fair enough, but don’t expect me to stop singing Colourblind by Darius under my breath.
I digress. This year’s Easter holidays began just wonderfully, spending time with my beautiful girlfriend (she’s probably reading) caring/pretending to care (delete as applicable) what clothes she’s buying. The time came however when we had to go home. With three bags packed full of shite, that’s not an ideal journey.
What National Rail decided to do though, was to make this journey even fucking worse.
Transgression #1) Broken ticket machine
That’s all well and good as just a one-off, but the ticket machine at Burley Park never fucking works. It has about as much worth as Nick Clegg’s morals.
Transgression #2) Idiot
So I was forced to buy my ticket at the Leeds stations ticket office. Fair enough. Only the gentleman servicing my request was an absolute dick-munch. “Return from Burley Park to Mansfield please, mate”, I respectfully asked. “To where?” said the gentleman.
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| Surprised the cameraman has the ability to capture heaven, really |
Here’s my first fucking bear-bug. What criteria did this monumental jackwagon have to pass to get a job at National Rail? It certainly wasn’t a simple grasp of geography, nor general use of the English language. I’m not going to go on a xenophobic and downright retarded right on why foreigners don’t deserve jobs in Britain, because I feel that if they can do the jobs better than anyone else, they should. But why employ a man who can’t speak English in the third busiest national rail service? It’s like employing someone with self-respect and a likeable demeanour to work at a bank.
He didn’t stop there on his individual crusade to be a penis, though. Having spelt out the name of my hometown to him (at this point I had 10 minutes to catch my train, which was on the other side of the station), he finally completed the transaction. “£33 please.” I nearly choked on my talent and awesomeness. With a tumult of hilarious, verbose insults flying around my head, I literally just picked up my bags and walked off.
Now, my ticket should be £22. You might be thinking to yourself: “Oi, nobhead. That’s only £10 difference.” My response is this: fuck off, I’m a student. I can get 10 bags of Maoam Balls or Haribo Supermix for that.
The one saving grace for National Rail was a delightful old ticket-lady, who allowed me to use my rail-card on the train. You, madam, are a saint, and National Rail has no idea of your excellence. Seek further employment elsewhere, you maverick.
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