It was just a simple two hour, 30 minute journey from Cardiff Central to London Paddington, but it wouldn’t be a train ride if there weren’t obnoxious assholes on it that made it seem longer. For a change of pace, none of the assholes were children, or parents of. This time, none of them spoke English, and one of them I didn’t encounter at all. 

                         I got on the train at about 8:50, 15 minutes before departure time, leaving Cardiff after two really good nights at the new Jongleurs there. The train was pretty sparsely populated, but choosing to sit right in front of me in non-reserved seats were two Eastern Europeans (I’d hesitate to get any more specific, and I know enough Russian to determine that wasn’t what they were speaking, but I’m fairly certain it was in that vicinity), who immediately engaged in a very animated, top-volume discussion. They persisted at their decibel level until I accidentally (really!) kicked the back of one of their seats, after which one of them uttered one English word, “Sorry,” and they then continued their conversation at volume level 7 instead of the 11 they had been on.

                         OMG, thought I when I envisioned this one not letting up all the way to London, but as the train began its departure, the gents got up from their seats and moved to the middle of the train, where the rest of their entourage was. As they moved across the carriage, I couldn’t help but notice a little bit of hand holding. OK, so I didn’t understand a word they said, but through the body language, it was clear they had personal issues they needed to discuss away from the rest of their gang, and chose to share those issues with me. Just a theory, though; they could have just as easily been discussing yesterday’s West Ham victory over Stoke. Whatever, they were gone from my midst and I could enjoy reading the Mail on Sunday with its always-entertaining right-of-right-wing columns by Peter Hitchens and the always obnoxious “Oh I hate being famous cause all you do is meet other famous people” dispatches from Piers Morgan.  

                           Me and the Mail enjoyed each others’ relatively quiet company for a good two hours, then I realized all I’d ingested today was tea in the hotel room. My timing of when I decided to hit the snack bar was actually quite awful. I had already done all I could with the diagram-less cryptic crossword puzzle as well as the near-impossible-even-with-Google-at-hand trivia puzzle, and was immersed in their Sudoku puzzle, a bit more challenging as it has 144 squares as opposed to the 81 on normal ones. I had my moment of hunger after only filling in about 15 squares, so went to the snack area two carriages away. I didn’t realize the train was only about two minutes away from stopping at Reading, where a throng of people were waiting to board. So there I was, holding my just-purchased blueberry muffin, but unable to move until the oncoming traffic allowed me to. By the time I got back to my carriage it was standing room only, and I was getting worried that my seat would be taken by some idiot not recognizing that it was probably occupied. Well, the seat was still there for me, but the paper wasn’t!

                             Now this is not a crime I’d wish to go and prosecute, but when the paper is open to a puzzle page, and it’s pretty evident that the person is not done with the paper, how can someone ignore that and take not just that section, but all FOUR of them, two of which I hadn’t read yet? I guess easy to do when you’re a twat! And not only was the train full to capacity, but I was now being treated to a new group of annoying people, talking loudly and rapidly in Spanish! That language I know, having lived in California and Arizona for a combined 42 years. I try to remind myself that England is as much a melting pot for multiple ethnicities as are New York and California, but I found a hint of ill will running through as I was inundated with these loud voices. A harsh thing to say, maybe not in the John Galliano realm, but I hope no one takes it as a blanket condemnation, or a why-don’t-they-go-back-where-they-came-from tirade. This repartee would last the remaining 45 minutes, and I could only amuse myself by re-reading old text messages on my mobile. I all but RAN off the train when it got to Paddington.

                             In spite of the normal flow of twat traffic, this didn’t spoil my day. I was prepared for more aggravation as I knew that the crucial sections of tube lines were going to be shut and it was going to be replacement buses for at least half the trip. For some reason, that leg of the journey seemed to go relatively fast, and from Paddington to my doorstep took under two hours. That’s some consolation, I suppose. It’s almost a given that when you’re using any form of public transport, you’re going to encounter the twat factor. With that large a flow of people, twattage seems almost inevitable. Then again, if everyone was calm and civil, what would I have to blather on about? Love to all of you, even the dickhead who stole my paper.