Most people who follow me on twitter will be familiar with my train tweets. An exaggerated commentary of my trips home from London, some of which are genuinely off the wall. On my way home from the London Salesforce Developers meet-up of October 2019 I was suddenly reminded of a late night trip home around 15 years ago that was more entertaining than anything my imagination could cook up, but every part is true.
Warning – strong language and unpleasant adult scenes ahead.
It was a regular night in many respects – I was on my way home after a post work event and I’d had a couple of beers. I knew I had a long journey ahead so I’d made sure to cut myself off relatively early in the evening – definitely before I hit double figures – something that a couple of my fellow commuters should have also done.
Back then I travelled First Class, which wasn’t particularly luxurious but meant I could turn up at the station 30 seconds before the train left and still be assured of a seat. Upon entering the carriage I spotted a fellow Bacchus worshipper and we exchanged a nod of recognition.
He’d gone for the fast food blowout – something else I typically avoid given that I don’t always know how I will bear up on the journey, and the movement of the carriages combined with a hot night can be unsettling.
Before we departed we were joined by a well dressed gentleman who dropped into his seat and passed out. He became known as Mr Fuck, for reasons that will shortly be made clear.
Our Journey Begins
After smashing through his takeaway, my first travelling companion settled back to read his paper, but after a couple of minutes looked less than comfortable.
Around 10 minutes in he’d turned a pale grey colour and was clearly regretting his dining choices.
After 20 minutes he’d folded his newspaper into a makeshift bag and was throwing up into it with vigour. I’ll give him his due, he didn’t spill a drop. When we arrived at his station he pocked up his home made bag of sick and walked, giving me a sheepish grin and another knowing nod. If only every drunk was so tidy!
Mr Fuck woke up at this point and then went straight back to sleep.
Anyone for Witham?
Around 20 minutes later we arrived at my station, Witham. I’d woken up in Colchester a couple of weeks before and had an expensive cab ride home. Mr Fuck was still passed out and I could see my past experience playing out in front of me.
I couldn’t leave Mr Fuck to suffer like I did, so I shook him awake and told his startled face “We’re at Witham”. In true click bait headline fashion, his response astounded me.
Enter Mr Fuck
“FUUUUUUUUUCK” he screamed at the top of his voice.
“Have you missed your stop” I asked, full of concern.
“FUUUUUUUUUUCK” he retorted, standing up this time and bellowing into my face.
“Where are you going?” I asked him. Again, the same response, although this time taking more interest in his surroundings. Three fuck war cries down, I was wondering how many more he had in him.
“Are you getting off at Witham” I asked, thinking I was doing all the work in this conversation.
Slumping back in his seat, whatever demon had taken him over departed, and he very politely replied “No, I’m getting off at Colchester, but thank you so much for checking on me”.
To this day I still wonder what he thought was happening to him,