The Curmudgeon

You see, I have to mention names which might give deep offence to some Yorkshire folk. I've tried to avoid them but all must be revealed in the interests of honest journalism. So here they are: London. Almost as bad, Northern Spirit, the railway operators. And, bordering on the blasphemous, Railtrack.

You see, having spent a couple of weeks in the so-called Third World, I had to go to London. Not out of choice. Most certainly not to see The Dome. But on business at the expense of a kind but perhaps misguided company which deemed my presence necessary.

They put me in a room the size of a matchbox which, admittedly, did overlook Hyde Park. Grand view, but the radiators did not work so I half froze to death. I caused a rumpus by asking for some more tea bags only to discover that I was only allowed two every 24 hours. And this room cost £165 a night!

After coming fresh from the so-called Third World, where two of our hotels cost £18 a night and had scenic water falls running through the reception areas and courteous staff, I thought this a tad on the tight side.

Worse was to come. Tired, jet-legged and jaded, I was due to discover the true capital of the Third World, a place where the natives are rude and ignorant, where the toilets and the tables are filthy, where the trains are even filthier.

I am talking here of Leeds Railway Station, where I finally arrived, two heavy bags in hand, to make my connection to Mar'ton. It made Jakarta look clean, Bangkok sound peaceful.

I was lulled into a sense of false security, at first, no doubt a plot to make the final insult ever the more wounding. You see, the King's Cross train, according to the timetable, is supposed to arrive at Leeds four or five minutes before the Mar'ton train departs, time enough to change platforms.

That's the theory. The last four or five times I have made the journey, however, the London train has always managed to be six minutes late, so that you can just see the Mar'ton Misery departing the station.

This time, in a state of shock, I realised the Misery was still there so I ran with my bags full of rock, barely believing my luck. Then the Northern Spirit boot went in...

I got to the train, all three carriages of it, old enough for Dick Turpin to have robbed (or was it Jesse James?). It was packed so full with standing commuters that, even with the assistance of a porter, no-one would make room for me and my bags.

So I waited for the next train, trudging to the buffet in deep gloom. I should have stayed on the wind-swept platform, for the buffet was packed, rocking with music, the tables covered in dirty glasses and overflowing ashtrays, the toilets disgusting.

I was nearly knocked down by a young but sturdy woman, my bags going flying. And not a word of apology. And we in Britain have the gall to pride ourselves as being of the First World!

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.