Assorted Potato Related Incidents

I have just spent my Sunday surrounded by small and/or boring people. The two options for the remaining part of my weekend were:

A) Endure my step-father's parents - why I have to be inflicted with his side of the family I don't know

B) Visit my dad and step-mum and look after their two children of ages two and one

I took the later option since I had not seen my father since the previous Thursday. Come to think of it I hadn't seen my half-step-grandparent thingies for about a month. Oh dear. They can continue to live in their tight-knit world of jam and inadequate washing-up skills while I clean up baby-goo and baby-poo on the other side of the county.

I began the 40km trek over to West Kirby via my favourite and most well run mode of transport - the train! Please excuse me while I wipe the sarcasm from the corners of my mouth. Actually, trains are quite decent for traveling very long distances, such as those to London. It seems as soon as Virgin is taken out of the equation, the whole thing falls to pieces. Fortunately, the price burden was reduced due to my student rail card (cost £20 but takes a third off anyrail fair across the country. Except weekdays before 10am for some reason: minimum fair of £8 applies). The 40 minute journey costs just £2.50 return, with the discount.

As I descended the 50 year old escalators to the underground station (no lie, the stations predate even my aging father), a rabble of happy-looking people came bustling up the other escalator in the other direction. Unfortunately, I recognised someone from West Kirby, meaning I had just missed a train. Fortunately, they didn't notice me so I didn't have to talk to them. As I got to the platform, low and behold, the electronic (only new thing in that station) sign system informed me that the next train to West Kirby would be arriving in approximately 28 minutes. Bugger.

I sat down on the maroon plastic seats installed with the original 1960s station decor and opened Philip Pullman's Northern Lights. Presently, a youngish woman, reasonably attractive, sat down next to me and opened a pack of smoky bacon Snack-A-Jacks.

"Want one?" she asked generously.
"No thank you," I answered, "I'm on an undiet."
"Oh," she replied solemnly, "so am I." and she took out a bag of Malteasers.
She then preceded to devour a whole apple, a bacon and cheese sandwich from Boots, a large bottle of Ribena, two scotch eggs and a tic tac.
"Less than 4 calories each," she said holding out the tic tacs to me.
I sighed thankfully, unwilling to repeat my need for putting on weight urgently, and had a green one.

An unusually uneventful train journey later, devoid of crashes, muggings or any other form of in-journey entertainment, I arrived refreshed yet hungry in West Kirby, with only the short one minute walk between me and the two little horrors. Then there's the kids of course.

Our day was to be spent at Gordale Garden Centre and Bathroom World. My step-mother requires a new toothbrush holder. As for the garden centre, who knows. I arrived at Gordale wedged in the back seat between two cocooning EU-regulation safety seats covered in snot and spittle. How that happened when they were actually asleep I'm not quite sure. We had a deplorable jacket potato in the centre cafe. When I ordered one with a baked bean and cheese topping, the bloke behind the counter asked my if I wanted it hot or cold.
"Cold, no wait. I think I'll try it hot this time, thank you."
"No extra charge on that, mind," he said, as if it wasn't already expensive enough already.

Halfway through my warm baked beans I realised that my potato must have imploded with the weight of all the cheese sauce it was sitting in. I discovered a small pebble at the bottom of the dish instead.

After lunch, we inspected the contents of the garden centre, one example of commercial diversification gone mad. I'm sure there were more out-of-date road atlases and dog-related calendars than plants. Then we spotted todays finest attraction. Merwyn Williams was giving a talk on potato growing. Wales' favourite gardener was revealing his tips to the public on how he was won the Annual Welsh Potato Show for the past nine years running. I listened agog as he spilled the spuds on half his life's work. One things for sure though: potatoes and old, balding Welsh men should never have been put in the same potting shed together. Then I went and inspected the junipers.

The Blue Coat Redemption

The same kid is still staring at me from across the dining hall. He's been doing this for the past few minutes. I'm not even sure he's blinked in all that time. Maybe he's dead.

The bell resonates throughout the ill-lit room to proclaim the start of afternoon lessons. I get up and head towards the creaking double doors that predate education itself.

"I understand you're a man who can get things," I hear a voice in my ear. It's that same kid.
"I've been known to locate certain things from time to time," I reply after a pause, slightly interested now in his undivided attention of me.
"How much two grey coursework folders, three highlighters, two yellow, one orange, a black biro and a Brunch Bar?" he asks from the list in his head. I do a quick mental calculation.
"£3.20" I reply, "You can have the pen free. Meet me on the maths corridor at 1:35 tomorrow."
"Thanks," he stammers ambivalently.

It seems business has been flourishing lately. I'm sometimes known as Red around the corridors of chaos that is my college. Last time I checked, selling things wasn't legitimate, although I prefer to call it swapping; cash for goods sort of thing.

The whole thing started a couple of years ago with the newly opened Home Bargains store opposite our school. Although I tend to use some other suppliers from time to time, generally for the more expensive and unusual types of double-ended Fair-trade green gel pens, this store has sewn the seeds of my of current business success.

Coupled with a qualification in Business Studies, I am set to do very well in my chosen area of school-based illegal activity. Others people have chosen more risky careers (generally the extroverts) such as theft, drugs and trying to avoid the dining hall queue system. There are only however, two and a half years left at my college and my turnover isn't exactly exciting. I now find myself regularly journeying over to the other side of the city just to get some cheap folders or writing implements from various warehouses. The problem now is that people are actually realising that it doesn't actually require that much effort to cross the road at the bottom of the hill and go into Home Bargains themselves. People now have the stamina and initiative to avoid my 15% mark-ups.

But, the real secret to my success is not just excellent salesmanship skills, high quality products or low, low prices, but scouting. Before buying anything more expensive than a bus ticket, I will always have a good look around every shop in the city that I can find that would sell a particular product. The same applies to supplies for others. When I have discovered the cheapest option for an item, I will constantly check back on all the other places just to make sure I haven't been getting ripped-off. Any savings will usually be passed onto me, unless particularly large or I need a quick sale, in which case I am my own sales executive with a bit of bartering power. As a Victorian sea merchant would say: "Arghh, I love a good deal!" (In the Sea Captain's voice from the Simpsons)

Thankfully, with everyone so busy and pre-occupied with coursework and detentions for queue-jumping, added to that the shear laziness of my customers, the profits should be bountiful and finance for a university degree secure.

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.

Supporting the Community

Leaving college only yesterday, I thought there must have been a terror alert fluorescent yellow issued, for there were literally hoards of police officers, so-called "community support officers" (trainee cops), traffic wardens and a sprinkling of local travel authority operatives, all attired in the aforementioned colour. But there was no security alert, bank robbery or militant coup.

Instead, these civil servants were carrying out the menial task of ensuring that all bus passengers had the correct tickets and that no-one was parking in the bus stop to access the conveniently placed ATM.

Now I'm not one for meddling in local policy, but I sure do like a good winge about it. In a society that is suffering from terrorism, frequent violent assaults, rape and convicted prisoners roaming the streets, whether or not someone has paid to extortionate minimum fair of £1.50 to travel home one evening should be at the bottom of their 'most wanted' list. No less than 11 of this conglomeration of 'police' were counted by my eyes, and others were probably on their tea break checking no-one had dropped some litter on the next street.

I'm not one for meddling in local policy, but I sure do like a good winge about it

Each time a bus arrived at the stop in front of me (I had to wait there for several minutes because the busiest and smallest bus, i.e. mine, did not arrive on time, again) three of four of these officials boarded along with the other passengers and proceeded along the length of the aisle to check tickets and make sure no-one had their feet on the seats.

Obviously the potential of the traffic wardens was to 'ward' off any driver careless enough to accidently leave their car on the double-yellow no-parking-at-any-time-otherwise-you'll-die lines, whilst extracting cash from the nearby ATM (always remember to get out an extra £30 to pay your imminent fine). Their cars can block the busses getting to the right stop, cauing them to halt on the main road and thus cause carnage and congestion further down the road right next to a motorway (freeway) junction. Stationery cars and a 110kph speed limit only metres away are not best friends.

"What are we doing at a school bus stop?"

However, despite this futile attempt to create clear passage for the busses, they decided to place a sign at the edge of the bus stop lay-by informing of the police authority's clamp down on obstructive drivers.

I didn't think much of this until I realised that they had opted to park their bright yellow police van (I crave for the subtle blue American versions) at the other end of the bus lay-by, thus reducing the capacity of the tarmac stretch. I turned round and saw that each of the officers was oozing irony and incompetence at the seams. Outrage flowed in equal measures from my every orifice.

I eventually boarded my cramped, smelly and generally nauseating ride home. The police and bus company's manifestation strategy to boost public awareness, morale whatever, and make it seem as though they're doing something with their millions failed to rub off on me. Alas, I was mugged during the arduous trek up the hill to my flat.

All Torque, No Walk

What's this? Another blog to clog up the web-waves? Well yes, actually. After contributing sporadically to Jingoistic for the past few months, I have decided to consolidate several projects into this one blog entitled All Torque, No Walk. Readers of Jingoistic will be disappointed to hear that my column at the Daily Mail has not yet been erected. However, this should be the vital stepping stone towards that illustrious position.

Furthermore, analysis of Jingoistic proves that personal anecdotes are more successful than satirical blows at the modern media, particularly politics and video games. If you're not thinking "How about I just never visit this blog again- it reeks", please come again. I promise superior punctuation compared with Jingo.