Train In Vain - Monday

‘And switch that mobile off.’ Instructs my wife, as I set out on a sporting adventure with my drinking buddy, skittish and excited as a schoolboy. We have two tickets to one of the big events in the city, no driving involved, and wallets full of cash. Plus the sun is out.

My mood is further enhanced when a group of giggly girls sit across the train carriage from us, and momentarily I imagine one of them is giving me the eye, until I catch sight of my reflection in the window and see a greying middle-aged misanthrope looking back grouchily. I only just stop short of asking the mirror image what he thinks he’s staring at?

Then the young women across the aisle start texting and calling on their mobiles manically and I realise even if they were remotely interested in me, I couldn’t bear to share the same room for more than five minutes, despite the skimpy shorts and sleeveless tops.

‘Shall I tell them?’ Mutters my mate nodding towards the blue window sticker, informing all passengers this is a designated quiet coach with no mobiles, or MP3 players to be used. I’m thinking, good on you pal, until he follows up with: ‘Just to get the conversation going.’ Fortunately we hit a tunnel and he too spies himself in the glass and thinks better of it, particularly as the twittering opposite stops with the simultaneous loss of signal.

A scrum of supporters awaits us at the next station, a location that is seemingly sponsored by a local estate agent, their company name and logo sitting below the designation of the stop. Not sure who should be most embarrassed by the linking of names, but on balance - unless the wrong leaves are on the line - I’m thinking travellers dislike property purveyors a tad more than fat controllers.

‘Come on you lot,’ grumbles a testy sounding voice over the tannoy, as I spot the scramble for access and resolve, should I ever come to power, to ban replica team shirts on anyone over the age of forty. ‘There’s twenty doors on this train, sort yourselves out.’

A communal muttering of disbelief runs around the carriage at the surly announcement, as I say loud enough for all. ‘His customer services course left a little to be desired.’ I’m rewarded with a rolling chuckle and nods of agreement, before the newly boarded passengers spill into our coach and start searching for seats women haven’t left their bags on.

Two stops along, the train heaving with sweaty oafs, I begin to warm to the announcer as a kindred spirit, as he cajoles the latest platform full of nylon-shirted logo-wearing dummies to. ‘Hurry up and use some of the other doors you people, this isn’t a sheep dog trial!’

‘Scratch public announcer from the list of alternative careers,’ I tell my mate wryly, as a fat man in a Chelsea shirt pushes his belly in my face and takes a phone call above my head. ‘That bloke on the speaker sounds as fed-up with the public as I am.’ Meanwhile, the LED readout on the ceiling interrupts a scrolling message informing passengers of the next stop, with an entreaty asking the guard to contact the driver.

I’m briefly distracted, pondering just what the driver wants, and why he can’t communicate with the guard more effectively? Possibly the mobile network overloaded by morons announcing to all: “I’m on the train”. Then I tune into the conversation Mr Lampard is having.

‘How much?’ he shouts in anger. ‘Are they having a laugh? We’ve only just reduced, I’m not giving it away.’ And he catches my eye and shakes his head before muttering. ‘Bloody estate agents eh?’ To a now appreciative carriage, seemingly enjoying his gag more than my earlier one.

‘Leave it,’ cautions my mate with a restraining arm, as he spots my anger flaring and our stop approaching. ‘Time to go.’
‘Tell them they can take a walk,’ bellows the insulted seller as I ease past his vast stomach, wondering briefly about the wisdom of telling him if he cut down on his food bills, he could afford to take a bigger chop on the asking price.

We lost.