Return of the Train Cowboy

For me, Christmas does not mean worshiping God, Jesus Christ, Mary or any other fictional character from the children's moral story book also known as the 'Bible'. Far from it. For me, Christmas means Iceland mince pies (deplorable), cheap Carol CDs from the 99p store (gut-wrenching) and crappy presents from relatives I haven't seen since I was two (crappy). Unfortunately, I was to visit some of these relatives for the first time in years. On the way there however, I was to spend the night with my grand parents who, I am proud to say, are actually the type you see in the Wherther's Originals adverts, constantly baking cakes, making lemon curd and willingly handing over the television remote for the duration of my stay.

However, the journey was not to be as straight forward as 2004. Why pick a Christmas two years ago you may think? The answer is it was pretty much the same as last year. What follows may shock and awe you but unfortunately will not even cause Chris Grayling to glance up from his morning Telegraph, so filled it is with the intriguing story of Big Brother contestant Realar Shole launching their Autobiography at the age of 12. I'll explain...

I arrived at Liverpool Lime Street with a fist full of sterling and a large and badly designed travel case. I had previously purchased my Young Person's Railcard for a whooping £20 (one thing subsidisation looked past) and only needed the right ticket to board my train. I was to be travelling to Nottingham first, to visit set of aging relatives number one (the one's who live in a lemon curd factory). I was told that there was a bus replacement service between Warrington and Dronfield, but the trains were fully operational between Liverpool and Warrington and this so-called Dronfield, Nottingham and then onto Norwich. Spirits dampened, I ordered a single and awaited my luxurious new Central Trains sprinter train.

Unfortunately, due to some ghastly mix-up between service operators, there was no high-speed, highly air-conditioned Central Trains service, but instead an announcement that make my heart sink and my breath stink: "Central Trains would like to apologise for the delay in your service today. Due to aspects beyond our control, the 15:29 Central Trains service between..." (shuffling of papers and coughing) "...Liverpool and Warrington, has been canceled due to aspects beyond our control. A replacement bus service will operate between Liverpool and Warrington for the 15:29, 16:29 and 17:29 Central Trains services to Warrington."

If my heart was round my knees before, it was round my ankles now. I consulted a nearby rail official for confirmation of this change. "Yup, looks like it, done it?" he replied. I asked him again about the other bus replacement service between Warrington and Dronfield. "Wot? Oh yeh, happens all the time." He then strode off, probably to smoke another fag, this time on platform seven. Eventually, I found someone who directed me to the correct bus stop, which was actually about half mile away.

Finally, after about another half hour wait, an old, crappy double-decker, last used in the Crimean War, lurched dangerously close to my foot and opened its doors after the driver's several attempts with the hydraulic lever system. By now it was getting dark and this was probably a good thing as I didn't really want to see to full contents of the crevice behind the seat where I was sitting. It looked like Florence Nightingale's dress covered in baboon shit. We (myself and four other weary passengers who had obviously just been shopping in Liverpool's overcrowded and badly designed shopping district) then had to endure another fifteen minute wait until the 'planned' departure time, sometime around half past four.

The rest of the initial bus journey was not so bad and I arrived in Warrington at about half past seven. Then, to my astonished and utterly utter amazement, there was a train waiting there on one of the lesser used platforms. A jolly-looking train official bounded down the steps to the coach lay-by where we had just parked. "Good news everyone!" he beamed, as though everything had been perfect and we had all just won massive premium bonds. "There is a train waiting to take us Dronfield!" And like the pied piper (or whatever the guy with the flute and green tights is called is called) he led the thirty-or-so passengers (more had joined at other stations along the route) off back up the steps and frolicked onto the train. I trailed behind, heaving my case up the steps, wishing someone would help me.

Eventually, after a spectacular one hour journey through the mountains at night (I imagined them to be spectacular, even though I couldn't actually see anything; the windows were covered in so much crud. Plus it was night of course) the train arrived at Dronfield. We all disembarked dutifully, dismal now that the novelty journey had ended.

Where to now then, I though. The departures screen confirmed that there was not another local train to Nottingham for about 40 minutes. I noticed a colourful poster on the station wall. It was about the nationally-famous Dronfield lace museum and workshops: open till 6pm Thursdays. Damn. It was only Wednesday.

Instead I found alternative enjoyment at the local fish and chip shop, although the chips resembled fried maggots. This managed to pass the time until the next local train was due. Unfortunaly, about a third of the seat were damaged in some way. Some had been soiled with God knows what, others did not contain padded seats and one had even been removed completely, frame and all. Even worse I had to sit opposite a man who smelled like I was in a urinal and he was using it. I prayed to all the Gods I could think of that he didn't vomit: I was point blank in the firing line.

Familiar sights started to fly past (slowly) as I approached Nottingham. This final train actually arrived slightly early, unless my watch had suddenly packed in. I boarded a bus to take me to the other side of the city, where the 'bakery' was and asked how much a student ticket was. Spying my case, the bus driver replied: "Its the same where ever you go in this country, mate." I paid the him £1 he was asking for and thanked him in a Russian accent.

Travel weary, I scraped my case up the 1/2 gradient hill up to my grandparent's bungalow and collapsed over the threshold in a heap. My grandmother revived me with a massive Victoria sponge and cup of strong tea.