Saturday, 27 September 2008
Extreme ways of coping with the National Express
I really hate the National Express, but I'm that poor at the minute I can't avoid it at all. I had to take the coach from London to Bradford today at about 11.30pm - the worst possible time to travel on one of these things, because everyone wants to travel at that time.
The coach was the usual mix of immigrants, students, dead beats and vagrants except this time there was a new kind of Express user - the cockney racist wideboy. Two of these wideboys got on and within about five minutes one of them had spurted out "It stinks like fucking curry on here" followed by a conversation with a friend, in which he said: "We're the only English people on this wagon!" He was a real big man and smoked two cigarettes on the coach like a rubbish version of Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast.
Anyway, the best thing I saw was this women sitting next to me. I can kind of empathise with her because getting comfortable on a National Express, even when you have two seats, is pretty impossible. But she has taken this to a whole nutha level. She got on, rang up her friend, talked really loud for half an hour, then downed a can of Super Malt, whipped out this green rag and pretended she wasn't on the coach for the rest of the journey.
Got to admire her honest 'I hate being on this coach with you lot' attitude but after two hours of her being under I was scared for her wellbeing. I didn't try to wake her up though - I wasn't that bothered.