So, France.
Despite the best attempts of Jeremy "Jezza" Clarkson to put me off, I had a really good time. As old Jez once said;
"France, like Wales, is a wonderous and beautiful country, ruined entirely by the people who live there"I left at 1.30am, a truly ungodly hour, on a rainy Thursday morning. On the way the Preston, a city I despise like no other.. except Blackpool, I must have counted 4 lights on during my entire 11 mile journey, and three of those were in a 24 hour garage so it really hit home what a truly stupid time it was to be setting off on a long journey.
I hit Preston around 2am, where my only company in the deserted bus station was a lone asian security guard and a drunk bloke wielding the world's largest kebab across the street. It didn't bode well, only half an hour in and I was cold, wet and pissed off. I should say at this point that I don't want to put across the impression that I dislike travel, I very much enjoy visiting new places I just don't like to travel with Nat because this involves her suitcase, which is larger and heavier than the moon. I am the type of guy who can quite happily travel for a month with only a handful of t-shirts, some toiletries, some clean underwear and a copy of FHM. I of course found it curious she had packed her entire wardrobe, a car jack, a microwave, a lifesize cardboard cutout of Nelson Mandela and a set of musical tiepins but nothing in the way of pain relief for my destroyed back.
Because of the unique way in which The Hardcore Effect is funded, we'd been booked on a coach for the first leg of our journey. It had been decided after much chin scratching and pots of green tea that travelling the long and complicated way would provide great subject matter and would save our valuble pennies, infact there was very little difference between our chosen method and the smart mans choice, the plane. I must admit that at the time I had felt this was a smart choice, especially with two more destinations on the schedule before January, it turns out this was as smart and frugal as cutting off your own feet to save money on shoes.
Our Megabus service arrived late, the only positive about our whole trip on this service was the driver who took over in Preston, who makes the Queen's head butler look woefully inadequate and lazy. We boarded, and encountered a smell unlike anything outside a homeless person's boxer shorts and row after row of students. I've never subscribed to the "dirty student" stereotype, up until last month almost all my dearest friends had been students, they were clean, well fed and industrious people and plesant in everyway. Yet here I was, knee deep in the foul smelling detritis of my own wrongness.
If they weren't asleep across two seats, they were fat and sweaty. They all had the most horrendous B.O. and faded AFI t-shirts. Smart arse attitudes and loud poorly formed opinions surrounded me. Nat was, not surprisingly, uncomfortable with the idea of sitting next to one of these cretins and so when we saw there were no free seats together downstairs, we headed up to find there were even less seats upstairs. She turned and headed back down,a nd as I let her pass one fat sweaty idiot next to me piped up;
"yeah, there are no seats up here, so you're the dickheads"No, he was the dickhead as I was about to prove. I waited for Nat to be out of earshot, and filled with a rage that came from nowhere, I barked firmly under my breath that either he woudl apologise for that comment and never open his stupid mouth ever again, or I'd be expecting an apology of one of his surviving family members. Now, I'm no good at fighting.. at all. Infact I'm quite pathetic, but this proved to be the tone for the whole trip - Anger and impatience. I was not a man with which to fuck and unable to back it up or not, I was going to murder the next person to test me.
The fat idiot apologised rapidly, which I didnt expect, I was almost certain that he would have got up, gathered some sweaty student mates, and kicked me to death. Somewhat relieved, I descended the stairs where Nat had found a seat next to a sleeping bloke with long hair, and I took up position behind some young Russians and next to a person.. at this stage that was all I could figure out. It was definitly a person.. a sleeping person with a cagoul on and the hood pulled up.
We set off finally and I considered sleeping, but the noisy foreigners in front put me off this idea. One looked like Lovejoy, complete with the I'm-a-gypsy-thief earring, so instead I tightly clutched my i-pod and wallet and sat back for a sleepless night.
We arrived in London about 7am, and made our way to the Underground system. Which I fucking hate when I have luggage. People don't walk round you, they walk through you or over you, its the land British manners forgot and its so expensive that I had to sell my lovely new apartment to afford tickets for the short 4 stop ride.
I attempted to descend the stairs to the platform, but had to stop and find a chiropractor to realign my spine, until, complete with a new wheelchair I came back to finish the task, and after violently fighting my way onto the train I could relax for at least 7 minutes. I seem to have caught the eye of a young lady in the next car, who kept glancing over, making eye contact then flirtaciously looking away, before looking back and smiling. This sort of attention can under any circumstances usually be considered good, except she was reading jobs today, obviously looking for a new career after her previous job, as one of those things that used to advertise Monster Munch, had ended.
After a stop or four, and a million flights of stairs we finally got to the Eurostar departure lounge at London St. Pancras'
I was expecting luxury and relaxation here, what I got was some lukewarm brown water that was supposed to be coffee and a lot of Americans. The fat and loud American tourist is another stereotype I've never believed, I have American friends. I've known Melody for, as near as makes no difference, a decade. Which scientists say is "A fucking long time" for someone you met randomly in Yahoo chat when you were 12. She is smart, fun and I love her dearly, we've stopped short of buying a cottage in Devon but you get the picture that she certainly isn't fat, loud or obnoxious. Yet again however here I was, having to accept that I'd been stupider than the son of that Welsh woman from Big Brother, who admitted to a fondness for blinking, and a blancmange.
To summarise, the Eurostar is crap. I had no leg room of any description, more than on the Megabus, but still not enough for a guy as tall as myself. There was nothing but old chewing gum in the carpet and a long series of Americans mis-pronouncing words and being generally ignorant of European customs, such as not being overweight and annoying.
The driver then addressed us;
" 'Ello Madames et Monsieurs, I am Jean-Pierre and I weeell be your driver for deese trip to Paris Nord, we 'ave an expected travelling time of two 'ours zeventeen minutes, wheech I 'ope passes as pleasantly as ze hundred years war. For our fat American friends there ees an overpriced bistro in car number 4 selling traditonal French beefburgers and for ze Engleesh pigs travelling wiz us today zere is some warm beer wheech I would be honoured to speet into for you zis morning. We shall be arriving in Paris at 11 am local and correct time, where I 'ope you all contract bird flu, unless you are French. Pleese enjoy your trip wiz us today, Merci"So, while the American bloke next to me complained incessantly about being on a train which travels faster than the ones at home, which are overtaken by tectonic plates and people from Eastbourne, and a lack of free champagne to go with his bucket of Cola and fries which were made from the entire potato export quota of Ireland for this year. I sat back and waited for Paris.
More tomorrow..
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