Let's face it. Noisy eaters are either a) ignorant, b) stupid or c) couldn't give a shit. Either way I'm seeing, sorry... hearing, a rise in it. What used to be a random txt every now and again, now sees my inbox full (usually with the name 'Char' or 'Ser' above it). This mornings? "Someone eating a donut really noisily on the train". Public transport has to be where you find the main culprits. Or maybe it's just because you have nothing else to do but sit there and listen to them. Quite frankly, I'd rather pull off my own ears and throw them on the tracks. Coincidentally, after receiving the donut txt from Charlotte, I myself was treated to the nauseating melody of someone's eating habits. Now usually when I get on the bus, I'm safe within my headphones, happily protected from any outside noise. You can imagine the horror, after sitting in front of today's noisy eater, when I looked into my bag and realised that due to rushing out of the flat to Uni, I had forgotten said headphones and therefore had to endure the entire journey listening to Little Miss Disgusting eating what I can only imagine was blu-tack. I was almost as horrified as David Platt when Gail didn't tell him she was selling the house! Maybe more! (Charlotte will most definately understand the severity of the situation, as will many other Corra fans).
Anyway, there I was, lost without my music, absent mindedly reading the adverts on the bus over and over again (did you know day riders have gone up by 20 pence? Extortion), when on she gets. I didn't even have 30 seconds peace before the sloppy chomping began. God knows what she was eating. It took her long enough. Just as I thought it had ended, she began again. I could physically feel my blood boiling up inside me. Unless noisy eaters get to you too, you cannot understand the monumental feeling of anger and irritation at such a tiny reverberation. To make matters worse, every time the bus turned a corner, the woman seemed to lean with it, bringing her closer to my ear. It may have been my imagination, but that alone was conjuring up visions of me turning around and punching her square in the face. As the bus turned to the left it gave me the chance to get a glimpse of the audible eater. She was big. Not Michelle McManus big. Big Momma's House big. There'd be no throwing punches. As she finished a bag of crisps (shouldn't have been eating them in the first place if you ask me) she even took the time to lick each finger. No. Not even lick. Suck! It was like listening to an elephant down at the watering hole. It didn't stop at four fingers. BOTH HANDS. Who eats crisps with two hands!? I swear she'd noticed my repulsion and was finding ways to aggravate me and my gag reflex. By this point I was bordering suicide. I began contemplating where to jump off the bus to get the cleanest death. Just as I settled on a high action dive out of the bus doors and over the bridge onto the dual carriageway (okay so maybe not the cleanest death but sure would be the quickest, not to mention how stupid I'd look if I chanced it at the traffic lights and simply rolled onto the grass) the sickening soundtrack to my journey home stopped. I thought I'd gone deaf. Was she finally full?
Was she hell. OUT CAME THE STARBURST! Could any other choice have been more disastrous? I found myself continually checking my shopping on the seat next to me in the fear that tiny flecks of spit or at the very least, invisible germs were being sprayed onto my bottle of wine. I began willing the crying baby in front of me not to stop. Anything to drown out the slushy, reckless scoffing of Big Momma. I even considered kicking the pushchair once or twice just to keep her going! As my stop neared I collected my things together faster (but more grateful) than a naughty kid leaving the headmaster's office. I thanked the bus driver for the worst 10 minute trip home I'd ever endured and glanced back at Big Momma. The knowing smirk on her face may have been a figment of my imagination. The empty crisps packets scattered around her were not. Thank God it was sunny as I stepped off the bus, (I had to disguise my expression as 'dazzled') because the permanent look of disgust that was plastered across my face didn't disappear for a loooooong time.
Monday 3 October 2011
Friday 17 June 2011
The non-existent spatial awareness of being a waitress
I am no longer a lady of leisure. With Uni over and done with for yet another year, I definitely needed to fill my time with something - in my case it being pints of Carling, cappuccinos and smothered chicken back at beautiful Birchwood. Despite moaning about work I do actually enjoy my job. Everyone moans. About work. About everything. Yet customers at a restaurant seem to be the top offenders. The best comment last week: "the onion was a bit too oniony". Not only did they say this, they said it after ordering 'extra onion' on a cheese sandwich. Just stay at home. Please.
Lately I've realised people assume that as I'm there to serve them, I must be able to cater to their every need. If this was true I'd have had to sleep with the Scouser that told me I was gorgeous three times yesterday after numerous vodka and cokes. This is what I'm talking about - spatial awareness. Barmaids such as the ones in Coyote Ugly might be okay with rubbing their boobs in your face, but this is Cas, and if you hold onto my hand when I give you your change once more I'm going to have to slap you. Scenarios like that only happen in films. I'm not going to dance on the bar for you. Get over it. Another example (although with better intentions than the Scouser) - taking a mans order at the till he suddenly reached over and took hold of my wrist. He must have only had hold of me for about 2 seconds but to me it felt like an hour. Any longer and I'd have screamed 'TAKE THE MONEY JUST DON'T HURT ME!' Eventually he told me my tattoo was very nice and in an unusual place. I thanked him. I didn't tell him I thought it was a hold up. Where do I think I am? An episode of Murder in Suburbia!?
The conversational aspect of working in a restaurant has to be my favourite. The amount of people I see in one day is great and you couldn't write some of the things that happen. It never gets old. Shall I tell you what does? Approaching a table, carrying their order and opening with the words "I've got a well done rump". You can imagine the response. "OH HAHAHAHAHAHA HAVE YOU!? HAHAHAHAHAHA". Yes. Hilarious. Needless to say I've altered the way I proffer the steak.
Spatial awareness with kids is difficult at the best of times. Try explaining to Little Tommy that if he runs at someone carrying three plates of food Little Tommy will have the contents of those plates all over his head and Little Tommy won't be so happy when he's crying in A&E with third degree burns from a gravy boat. WILL HE!? My suggestions are Little Tommy's parents shouldn't use the play area as a way of getting half an hours respite from the little fricking sweetheart! A few infant onlookers did learn their lesson the other day however, when an undisciplined three year old came zooming at me on a baby bike, only to get a hefty knee in the face from yours truly. I'm sorry I couldn't see over the Lasagne I was carrying. Fine. I'm not sorry. But it shut him up and resigned him to his seat for the next hour. See. He learnt a valuable lesson. What's the saying? You've got to be cruel to be kind? Damn, I should be a teacher.
The other thing I'm great at is pulling the OAP's. Nobody my own age. Nobody attractive. No. The over 60's. The other day one Grandad made me stand at the table while he asked the other members of his family 'Look, isn't she beautiful?' His daughter finally shut him up when she noticed the pink in my cheeks was from embarrassment, not blusher. Old Roger probably just thought I was radiant. I was humiliated and only trying to clear your plates. Unless you're from Premier, I ain't interested.
As for 'the customer is always right'. Perrrrrrlease!
Lately I've realised people assume that as I'm there to serve them, I must be able to cater to their every need. If this was true I'd have had to sleep with the Scouser that told me I was gorgeous three times yesterday after numerous vodka and cokes. This is what I'm talking about - spatial awareness. Barmaids such as the ones in Coyote Ugly might be okay with rubbing their boobs in your face, but this is Cas, and if you hold onto my hand when I give you your change once more I'm going to have to slap you. Scenarios like that only happen in films. I'm not going to dance on the bar for you. Get over it. Another example (although with better intentions than the Scouser) - taking a mans order at the till he suddenly reached over and took hold of my wrist. He must have only had hold of me for about 2 seconds but to me it felt like an hour. Any longer and I'd have screamed 'TAKE THE MONEY JUST DON'T HURT ME!' Eventually he told me my tattoo was very nice and in an unusual place. I thanked him. I didn't tell him I thought it was a hold up. Where do I think I am? An episode of Murder in Suburbia!?
The conversational aspect of working in a restaurant has to be my favourite. The amount of people I see in one day is great and you couldn't write some of the things that happen. It never gets old. Shall I tell you what does? Approaching a table, carrying their order and opening with the words "I've got a well done rump". You can imagine the response. "OH HAHAHAHAHAHA HAVE YOU!? HAHAHAHAHAHA". Yes. Hilarious. Needless to say I've altered the way I proffer the steak.
Spatial awareness with kids is difficult at the best of times. Try explaining to Little Tommy that if he runs at someone carrying three plates of food Little Tommy will have the contents of those plates all over his head and Little Tommy won't be so happy when he's crying in A&E with third degree burns from a gravy boat. WILL HE!? My suggestions are Little Tommy's parents shouldn't use the play area as a way of getting half an hours respite from the little fricking sweetheart! A few infant onlookers did learn their lesson the other day however, when an undisciplined three year old came zooming at me on a baby bike, only to get a hefty knee in the face from yours truly. I'm sorry I couldn't see over the Lasagne I was carrying. Fine. I'm not sorry. But it shut him up and resigned him to his seat for the next hour. See. He learnt a valuable lesson. What's the saying? You've got to be cruel to be kind? Damn, I should be a teacher.
The other thing I'm great at is pulling the OAP's. Nobody my own age. Nobody attractive. No. The over 60's. The other day one Grandad made me stand at the table while he asked the other members of his family 'Look, isn't she beautiful?' His daughter finally shut him up when she noticed the pink in my cheeks was from embarrassment, not blusher. Old Roger probably just thought I was radiant. I was humiliated and only trying to clear your plates. Unless you're from Premier, I ain't interested.
As for 'the customer is always right'. Perrrrrrlease!
Monday 30 May 2011
NHS: Nurses Hinder Survival
Holy Mac. My stats tell me I've not posted a blog for about 2 months. It's actually true that as soon as you get out of Uni you forget how to string a sentence together unless it includes the words 'vodka', 'coke' and 'please', and lets face it, by the tenth glass the 'please' is out of the window too. I've not had a lecture since March and won't have another until late September. I blame my timetable entirely for the pure volume of wine I've consumed in the last two months and it doesn't look like it's about to stop. Although completing my second year of Uni has meant I've been out and got so drunk that I've got home, tried to open the door to my house with the key to my flat, complained to my Mum that she locked me out and sat in the garden in the rain for an hour until my neighbour (young and attractive thankfully, not old and perverse... no wait he's still perverse) came to the rescue, I have found the time to start writing my book. I call it a book, it's just a short story, but if it wins first prize at a Manchester literature competition it gets me ten grand. Yes. Ten grand. (If anyone reading this tries to befriend me after I win I WILL know your game!) Writing my book reminded me that I have a poor neglected blog and so seeing as I've become a lady of leisure as of late, I decided I better get the creative juices flowing as well as the rose. Winning the literature prize money would probably have its downside though - I'll have enough money to carry on 'socialising', I'll pay for Charlotte to bathe in Malibu and she'll get to that point of intoxication where she tells every guy in a low cut t-shirt he looks like he's in The Wanted. (They do though don't they?)
Let's get to the point. My sister is in hospital once again. She loves it there apparantly. To shed some light on the topic, she has Lupus, something to do with her immune system blah blah blah, so every now and again she takes little vacations at the highly acclaimed resort known as Pinderfields. I'm kidding. She doesn't get to do karaoke or go swimming and there isn't an all you can eat buffet. There is, however, an endless supply of bedpans, a button which goes through to a nurse at your beck and call (apparantly) and a tiny TV which shows CITV and the Russian News (Why? Seriously? I've walked up and down that ward and I haven't seen one Russian child.) Haven't they ever heard of MTV?
The most annoying thing about hospitals is that they claim to be making you better, but I swear more people die in there than walk out of their own accord. They take hours to administer simple medication - I can get a packet of Paracetamol for 30 pence. Never mind how fast your liquid drippy shit goes in to their veins, it took you 2 hours to carry it out. I could have run to the shop and given every patient in the hospital some if they wanted! (Although probably not the guy in the opposite room who has a bottle of whiskey stashed under his bed... I'd end up arrested for assisted suicide.) My point is they're happy to ignore most of the patients in that place. At one point my sister had a fever and was throwing up, Jack Daniels was drawing up an escape strategy and Little Miss Diabetic in the room next door was trashing everything and dishing out threats to the hospital staff. I had a few for them myself, although "Touch me again and I'll smash your fucking face in" definately surpassed anything I had in mind on the aggression scale. To be fair she was sectioned, but they probably lock up everyone who dares to defy their rules. Has anyone noticed the rise in admittants to mental hospitals lately? They're not crazy! They just want some damn attention! Nurses take note: when you hear the ding! when a patient presses their little button it doesn't mean you can recline in your spinny chair and ponder another brew (Yes I've seen you.) It means get off your fat (more often than not - too many custard creams in the staff room) arse and see where it's coming from. Because Jack Daniels has already dug himself out of his room with a spork. Well done.
Let's get to the point. My sister is in hospital once again. She loves it there apparantly. To shed some light on the topic, she has Lupus, something to do with her immune system blah blah blah, so every now and again she takes little vacations at the highly acclaimed resort known as Pinderfields. I'm kidding. She doesn't get to do karaoke or go swimming and there isn't an all you can eat buffet. There is, however, an endless supply of bedpans, a button which goes through to a nurse at your beck and call (apparantly) and a tiny TV which shows CITV and the Russian News (Why? Seriously? I've walked up and down that ward and I haven't seen one Russian child.) Haven't they ever heard of MTV?
The most annoying thing about hospitals is that they claim to be making you better, but I swear more people die in there than walk out of their own accord. They take hours to administer simple medication - I can get a packet of Paracetamol for 30 pence. Never mind how fast your liquid drippy shit goes in to their veins, it took you 2 hours to carry it out. I could have run to the shop and given every patient in the hospital some if they wanted! (Although probably not the guy in the opposite room who has a bottle of whiskey stashed under his bed... I'd end up arrested for assisted suicide.) My point is they're happy to ignore most of the patients in that place. At one point my sister had a fever and was throwing up, Jack Daniels was drawing up an escape strategy and Little Miss Diabetic in the room next door was trashing everything and dishing out threats to the hospital staff. I had a few for them myself, although "Touch me again and I'll smash your fucking face in" definately surpassed anything I had in mind on the aggression scale. To be fair she was sectioned, but they probably lock up everyone who dares to defy their rules. Has anyone noticed the rise in admittants to mental hospitals lately? They're not crazy! They just want some damn attention! Nurses take note: when you hear the ding! when a patient presses their little button it doesn't mean you can recline in your spinny chair and ponder another brew (Yes I've seen you.) It means get off your fat (more often than not - too many custard creams in the staff room) arse and see where it's coming from. Because Jack Daniels has already dug himself out of his room with a spork. Well done.
Monday 21 March 2011
Leeds Fest 2011
It's just around 2 hours until the tickets for Leeds and Reading festival 2011 go on sale and I'd need an extra pair of arms to count how many people have facebook statuses about the line-up. To be honest, I'd never even heard of Leeds Fest until I was about 17, then suddenly it became this huge thing that we all just HAD to go to, otherwise we were 'gay' (although I have to mention, I first went because I love live bands and a weekend away camping, singing, dancing and getting wasted sounded amazing - not because I was scared of turning homosexual). Anyway, the last two festivals I went to, 08 and 09, were awesome. For those 5 days in Bramham Park you truly do live in a bubble with no worries. I say no worries, Leeds Fest has been the cause of the only two big arguments me and Charl have ever had. One because I was adamant our friends tent was where I said (It wasn't. I was drunk. I couldn't have told you where I was, never mind the tent) and the other when when we were seperated and couldn't find eachother despite our fool-proof plan of meeting at a relentless sign... Seperated because of my love of Feeder, and her love of Pendulum and being kicked in the crotch (She doesn't have a love of being kicked in the crotch... as far as I know. It just happened while AT Pendulum.) Apart from these minor blips, the festival gives me some of the best times of my life so far.
Which is probably why, come days like today when the tickets go on sale, everything turns into a frenzy until people have their tickets and are satisfied with the line-up. The line-up is what gave me the means to write this rant. What I can't stand is people moaning about who has been chosen to play - if you're going to buy a ticket anyway because you want to sit in a field all weekend getting well and truly totalled then shut the hell up. If you're disappointed that people you wanted to see aren't playing, just enjoy the bands you do like. I'm not a huge fan of indie bands, but my excitement for the people I do like overrides the need for me to slate them. Never mind posting facebook statuses declaring you'd "rather die than see My Chemical Romance". For one, I don't think you would, unless you're a suicidal maniac, and two, DON'T GO SEE THEM THEN! All these walking contradictions who claim the line-up is the shittest they've ever seen, only to go and spend £200 to attend can only be described as fools. Or they just like the sound of their own voice. My Chemical Romance, for me and Charlotte, would be a highlight. Ever since we sat in the learning centre (a room full of computers - we're not retarded) in year 10 listening to The Black Parade album we've longed to see them. It went so far as to us finding an A4 photo of Gerard Way stuck to someones folder in R.E. and thinking it appropriate to prop him up so he looked over us as we learned... as opposed to Jesus. Somehow I don't think our religious education teacher was best pleased we were worshipping a man who sings lyrics such as "mama, we all go to hell, it's really quite pleasant except for the smell".
Whoever the line-up, we know we'll have a weekend we'll never forget - especially if the rumours are true. So there Charl will be sat at 7.15pm tonight on See tickets, ready to hit Buy, while I'm on speaker phone all set to scream out the line-up to her. I won't be slagging off who I don't want to see, I'll be too worked up over the bands I do want to see. Unless the rumours are true about The Strokes, man they are shit! :P
Which is probably why, come days like today when the tickets go on sale, everything turns into a frenzy until people have their tickets and are satisfied with the line-up. The line-up is what gave me the means to write this rant. What I can't stand is people moaning about who has been chosen to play - if you're going to buy a ticket anyway because you want to sit in a field all weekend getting well and truly totalled then shut the hell up. If you're disappointed that people you wanted to see aren't playing, just enjoy the bands you do like. I'm not a huge fan of indie bands, but my excitement for the people I do like overrides the need for me to slate them. Never mind posting facebook statuses declaring you'd "rather die than see My Chemical Romance". For one, I don't think you would, unless you're a suicidal maniac, and two, DON'T GO SEE THEM THEN! All these walking contradictions who claim the line-up is the shittest they've ever seen, only to go and spend £200 to attend can only be described as fools. Or they just like the sound of their own voice. My Chemical Romance, for me and Charlotte, would be a highlight. Ever since we sat in the learning centre (a room full of computers - we're not retarded) in year 10 listening to The Black Parade album we've longed to see them. It went so far as to us finding an A4 photo of Gerard Way stuck to someones folder in R.E. and thinking it appropriate to prop him up so he looked over us as we learned... as opposed to Jesus. Somehow I don't think our religious education teacher was best pleased we were worshipping a man who sings lyrics such as "mama, we all go to hell, it's really quite pleasant except for the smell".
Whoever the line-up, we know we'll have a weekend we'll never forget - especially if the rumours are true. So there Charl will be sat at 7.15pm tonight on See tickets, ready to hit Buy, while I'm on speaker phone all set to scream out the line-up to her. I won't be slagging off who I don't want to see, I'll be too worked up over the bands I do want to see. Unless the rumours are true about The Strokes, man they are shit! :P
Thursday 10 March 2011
Starbucks - The American Dream?
I've been neglecting my blog lately. I have to say it's not because I've not found anything funny or annoying to write about, because trust me, I have. Only a couple of weeks ago I got stuck stood up on the train from Leeds to Castleford (I'm now jinxed when it comes to public transport thanks to Charlotte) inbetween a chav with a bike, playing noise, sorry music, from his phone while holding it next to his ear (I know not many of these types have qualifications but their stupidity amazes me) and an extremely overweight couple eating eachothers faces. It was probably the worst position I have ever been in, in my life. To top it off, when the train turned a corner or jerked, the fat man leaned into me, while still necking his girlfriend. So now I was TOUCHING the couple practically having sex. Her chubby fingers didn't even reach around his back! The only way to get away from the whales was to move closer to the chav, which he decided to take as me enjoying his music and proceeded to turn it up and hold the phone closer to me. Only in Cas. Welcome home Bec!
Right, today my sister told me she had a couple of hours to kill inbetween classes at Uni, so I told her I'd meet her at Starbucks in town. Why I still choose to go there while I'm a typical skint student to buy a £9 coffee is beyond me. It must have something to do with the American dream. They lure you in, I swear! You even have to practice what you want before you order, there are that many options! So I go in, my sister is already there having bagged the comfy seats. (It goes without saying, these are the seats you want. You go and buy a cup of tea and then make yourself at home on a sofa... JUST STAY IN!) I go up to the counter to order and I know what's coming. No matter how many times I practice this, I ALWAYS say Thai Chi Latte instead of Chai Tea. I wouldn't really mind. I'm not easily embarrassed. It's an easy mistake to make. However... every single time I have said it wrong, no matter which Starbucks I've been in, or who has served me, the barista suddenly ERUPTS into fits of laughter. Okay, I know you've all been taught to be happy happy like the Americans and treat your customers like they are the only person on the planet, but seriously, spare me the fake laughter. It does my head in. I'm not trying to be funny. I find it hard to say. Get over it.
I finally get my CHAI TEA LATTE and go and sit opposite my sister. The relaxing Starbucks atmosphere evaporates. Next to my sister a partially blind woman sits down with a guide dog that, due to being 'on her break' (How does she know? Does she clock out?) proceeds to act like a nuisance. Then a woman, her friend and her daughter join us. The downfall of the comfy seats is that if you're wanting a private chat, the sofas are almost set in a circle and so Starbucks etiquette means you'll be sharing the space with people you may or may not wish to. The little girl strikes up a conversation with the blind woman about the dog. (The glory of young children being that they will say whatever they think.) I quickly notice she's saved a (very hot) guy in the corner from hearing the woman's life story, while the dog lays at his feet. He carries on doing what he's doing on his laptop, hopelessly trying to avoid the woman's questions, as the dog gets up and tries to eat everything on the table - the women's frappucinos, left over muffins, napkins. I find myself just watching the situation, amused that I'm not smack in the middle of it. Poor guy. As the blind woman keeps apologising to hot guy for the dog, the child keeps asking the blind woman everything about the dog, the childs mum keeps telling her daughter off and the dog carries on eating the leftovers. Thank God I have an overpriced latte to keep me occupied. The madness did, however, give me countless opportunities to catch hot guys eye and smile/laugh/cringe at his situation. I was happy to leave the chaos when it was time for Sarah to go back to Uni. As for hot guy, he waved his phone at me, followed me out, asked for my number and asked me out for a drink the very same night. Result! I LOVE STARBUCKS!
Right, today my sister told me she had a couple of hours to kill inbetween classes at Uni, so I told her I'd meet her at Starbucks in town. Why I still choose to go there while I'm a typical skint student to buy a £9 coffee is beyond me. It must have something to do with the American dream. They lure you in, I swear! You even have to practice what you want before you order, there are that many options! So I go in, my sister is already there having bagged the comfy seats. (It goes without saying, these are the seats you want. You go and buy a cup of tea and then make yourself at home on a sofa... JUST STAY IN!) I go up to the counter to order and I know what's coming. No matter how many times I practice this, I ALWAYS say Thai Chi Latte instead of Chai Tea. I wouldn't really mind. I'm not easily embarrassed. It's an easy mistake to make. However... every single time I have said it wrong, no matter which Starbucks I've been in, or who has served me, the barista suddenly ERUPTS into fits of laughter. Okay, I know you've all been taught to be happy happy like the Americans and treat your customers like they are the only person on the planet, but seriously, spare me the fake laughter. It does my head in. I'm not trying to be funny. I find it hard to say. Get over it.
I finally get my CHAI TEA LATTE and go and sit opposite my sister. The relaxing Starbucks atmosphere evaporates. Next to my sister a partially blind woman sits down with a guide dog that, due to being 'on her break' (How does she know? Does she clock out?) proceeds to act like a nuisance. Then a woman, her friend and her daughter join us. The downfall of the comfy seats is that if you're wanting a private chat, the sofas are almost set in a circle and so Starbucks etiquette means you'll be sharing the space with people you may or may not wish to. The little girl strikes up a conversation with the blind woman about the dog. (The glory of young children being that they will say whatever they think.) I quickly notice she's saved a (very hot) guy in the corner from hearing the woman's life story, while the dog lays at his feet. He carries on doing what he's doing on his laptop, hopelessly trying to avoid the woman's questions, as the dog gets up and tries to eat everything on the table - the women's frappucinos, left over muffins, napkins. I find myself just watching the situation, amused that I'm not smack in the middle of it. Poor guy. As the blind woman keeps apologising to hot guy for the dog, the child keeps asking the blind woman everything about the dog, the childs mum keeps telling her daughter off and the dog carries on eating the leftovers. Thank God I have an overpriced latte to keep me occupied. The madness did, however, give me countless opportunities to catch hot guys eye and smile/laugh/cringe at his situation. I was happy to leave the chaos when it was time for Sarah to go back to Uni. As for hot guy, he waved his phone at me, followed me out, asked for my number and asked me out for a drink the very same night. Result! I LOVE STARBUCKS!
Tuesday 25 January 2011
Allocated seating, part 2 - East Coast Train
This happened to me a while ago now, but was probably one of the main reasons I decided to base my blog around things that drive me crazy. It stuck in my mind (and my best friend Charlotte's) for so long that I think it riled me up more than the hoard of women at the Palace Theatre. I think our trip to Norwich for our best friend's birthday was doomed from the start where transport is concerned. I could have made my journey much simpler, by getting a train directly from where I live in Manchester to Norwich, however what's a 4 hour journey without your best mate? Crap. That's what. So instead, I decided to firstly travel to Leeds, to meet Charl, where we would then get on a train to Peterborough, and once at Peterborough, change to the train to Norwich. The amount of tickets we had for this trip should have shown us something was going to go wrong, along with Charl's track record (she can't get on a train without there being a cow on the track or a fire in a tunnel.) Everything ran smoothly until Peterborough. The train was slowing into the station, we had a connection to make, we were bustling about grabbing our cases, throwing magazines around and shouting at the elderly. Stood at the door trying to get off is where some short, balding little shit on a power trip (who quite frankly looked like he'd found his outfit in the Early Learning Centre) decided not to let us off (he was a conductor, not just a horrible man.) The train set off again and panic set in. I could tell you all about how much we reacted when we realised we were going to have to go to LONDON, but to cut a long story short, the only living, nice conductor on this Earth put us in first class (good looking girls and a young conductor? He couldn't let us down), made sure our tickets were still valid and told us to get a train from King's Cross to Peterborough, which we did, then another to Norwich. We arrived at our destination about two and a half hours late. Instead of dwelling on it we grabbed a shower, donned our cavegirl outfits (that was the theme for the party, it's not how we choose to drown our sorrows) and got drunk. Very drunk.
The night out, thank god, was uncomplicated... and awesome. Apart from Lauren (birthday girl) getting completely wasted, telling us all she loved us 5000 times, throwing up copious amounts and repeatedly trying to call the police when I fell over on the dancefloor... it was great! After all, I'm sure there's a law that allows whoevers birthday it is to get well and truly off their trolley... isn't there?
Fast forward to the journey home. This journey, in terms of getting the correct trains etc, was fine. It was the absolute terrors on the train that made it one of those journeys that you'd sell your soul to the devil just to be over with. It didn't help that I had a hangover of the queasy kind and every time I turned my head I thought I was going to vomit up the panini I'd forced down. Now that WOULD have made it the journey from hell. Especially for the people around me... As we'd booked our tickets, we had our own seats and headed for them straight away, settling down to a nice, quiet, relaxing journey. That lasted all of 2 minutes. On scrambled what can only be described as 65 year old girl guides. What are they? The ones with the matching outfits who go on day trips and wear badges? I'll never know. Anyway, 5 I'd have been able to deal with. Maybe even ten. There were at least 15 or 20 of these guides - cardigans loosely tied around their necks like golfers, comfy loafers from Clarks, reading glasses hanging around their necks on chains. Where do these old aged pensioners get their energy from!? And why are they following me!?
They got on the train with bulging bags for life, and because of how many of them there were, they could have quickly worked out the threshold of the seats they had, which was practically the entire carriage minus two nauseated students with the remains of cavegirl mud smeared down their arms. Just like the debacle at the theatre, despite the sheer number of old women, they decided to get into the correct seats. Think about the limited space in the aisle and add twenty pensioners, complete with shopping and overcoats, scrambling to get into their seats, plus lots of "Where's my glasses, I can't see what seat I'm in... Ohh they're around your neck Mavis! HAHAHAHAHA". You could almost see the smoke coming out of my ears. I felt sick, I had a raging headache, I needed sleep. Yes it was self inflicted, but Mavis sure wasn't helping. She even had the cheek to podge down the aisle and peer at the number on Charlotte's seat, just above her head. Obviously a nineteen and twenty year old such as ourselves could NEVER book tickets of our own, so we must be in theirs! No. We should be out drinking cider from a plastic bottle on the street and hassling shop owners. I've got to admit, she was met with quite a steely glare off Charl. It was enough to reset her pacemaker anyway.
It took almost half the journey from Norwich to Peterborough for them to get into their seats and get settled. Then, to only make matters worse (for me, definately not for them!) they used the other half to not only get out, but swap packed lunches! Cue more wobbling up and down the carriage and the screaming of "Are you peckish Anne? Do you want a sandwich? Do you want a crisp?" ANNE HAD HER OWN CRISPS! I swear I saw someone throw an apple. It's not teenagers that need watching on public transport, it's the over 50's!
The night out, thank god, was uncomplicated... and awesome. Apart from Lauren (birthday girl) getting completely wasted, telling us all she loved us 5000 times, throwing up copious amounts and repeatedly trying to call the police when I fell over on the dancefloor... it was great! After all, I'm sure there's a law that allows whoevers birthday it is to get well and truly off their trolley... isn't there?
Fast forward to the journey home. This journey, in terms of getting the correct trains etc, was fine. It was the absolute terrors on the train that made it one of those journeys that you'd sell your soul to the devil just to be over with. It didn't help that I had a hangover of the queasy kind and every time I turned my head I thought I was going to vomit up the panini I'd forced down. Now that WOULD have made it the journey from hell. Especially for the people around me... As we'd booked our tickets, we had our own seats and headed for them straight away, settling down to a nice, quiet, relaxing journey. That lasted all of 2 minutes. On scrambled what can only be described as 65 year old girl guides. What are they? The ones with the matching outfits who go on day trips and wear badges? I'll never know. Anyway, 5 I'd have been able to deal with. Maybe even ten. There were at least 15 or 20 of these guides - cardigans loosely tied around their necks like golfers, comfy loafers from Clarks, reading glasses hanging around their necks on chains. Where do these old aged pensioners get their energy from!? And why are they following me!?
They got on the train with bulging bags for life, and because of how many of them there were, they could have quickly worked out the threshold of the seats they had, which was practically the entire carriage minus two nauseated students with the remains of cavegirl mud smeared down their arms. Just like the debacle at the theatre, despite the sheer number of old women, they decided to get into the correct seats. Think about the limited space in the aisle and add twenty pensioners, complete with shopping and overcoats, scrambling to get into their seats, plus lots of "Where's my glasses, I can't see what seat I'm in... Ohh they're around your neck Mavis! HAHAHAHAHA". You could almost see the smoke coming out of my ears. I felt sick, I had a raging headache, I needed sleep. Yes it was self inflicted, but Mavis sure wasn't helping. She even had the cheek to podge down the aisle and peer at the number on Charlotte's seat, just above her head. Obviously a nineteen and twenty year old such as ourselves could NEVER book tickets of our own, so we must be in theirs! No. We should be out drinking cider from a plastic bottle on the street and hassling shop owners. I've got to admit, she was met with quite a steely glare off Charl. It was enough to reset her pacemaker anyway.
It took almost half the journey from Norwich to Peterborough for them to get into their seats and get settled. Then, to only make matters worse (for me, definately not for them!) they used the other half to not only get out, but swap packed lunches! Cue more wobbling up and down the carriage and the screaming of "Are you peckish Anne? Do you want a sandwich? Do you want a crisp?" ANNE HAD HER OWN CRISPS! I swear I saw someone throw an apple. It's not teenagers that need watching on public transport, it's the over 50's!
Thursday 20 January 2011
Allocated seating, part 1 - Palace Theatre
When you go see a show or a concert, or anywhere that requires a ticket for a seat, you will most likely be given a seat number. Then, when you get to the event, you go to the section you're sat in and look for the seat number. DON'T YOU!? That's what I thought, until I got to the Palace Theatre on Oxford Road. Now I've been to the Palace before and it's a theatre I absolutely love. I first saw Starlight Express here and later took my Mum to see Chicago - although getting seated was much simpler back then. Okay, back to the night in question. I had bought my sister tickets to see We Will Rock You for her birthday. We first saw the show in London when going to see Les Miserables (Jesus Christ... no not Superstar, although I am aware I'm plugging ALL musicals in this blog) and we loved it so much that when I heard it was touring I had to get tickets. Sarah (the big sis) was overjoyed. When do I ever use words like that in my blog? She was buzzing.
So we get to the show, have a pint (Yorkshire girls) and find our seats. Considering the show starts at around 7.30pm, I should have known that sitting down at 7pm, I'd have to endure half an hour of "WHAT SEAT NUMBER ARE YOU JUDITH!?" and "Oooooh look it's the tall one from Hear'say!" as they read their programmes. We were sat on row D, on the right hand side of the aisle, where there are about ten or twelves seats. In came Peter and Catherine (it's amazing how much you get to know about a person just from listening - Catherine had taken Peter to see Priscilla Queen of the Desert not so long back but oh my days was it smutty!) Peter then insisted on checking the letter of each row by bending over and placing his face an inch away from the side of the seat (and the side of my thigh) as Catherine followed shouting "E! E! E! We're in E!" She definately looked like she was on them. This continued until they realised they were on the wrong side of the theatre. Goodbye Peter and Catherine.
Enter Audrey and the entire bloody cast of Last of the Summer Wine. Now I don't know why We Will Rock You attracts a more... mature audience, maybe it's the fact they assume it to be a 'nice' collection of Queen classics, not a journey with Shagileo Gigolo to the place of living rock. (Audrey and her girl guides did admittedly shit themselves when the music kicked in and the strobe lighting started.) It's a case of simple mathematics. There were 12 women and only 12 seats on the right hand side. They were able to work out that they had the entire row. Problem solved? Not quite. Instead of letting me have an easy life, Audrey and her posse, instead of sitting down in the seats they KNEW they had, proceeded to check each and every ticket, ensuring they were sat in the exact seat in accordance to their own ticket. What can only be described as ten whole minutes of pandemonium broke out. They were in and out of that row more times than a Manchester doler at the job centre. My head was buffeted with more snakeskin handbags and waterproof anoraks than I've seen in Principles. The bedlam died down and I felt safe enough to turn around. There they were, waterproofs folded on laps, plastic cups of wine in hand (although Frances already looked like she'd had enough.) Happy. Subdued. As I turned back to face the front I heard one of the troops pipe up, "But I wanted to sit next to Edith." Commotion.
On a lighter note, the show was one of the best I've seen - better than the original West End cast. Noel Sullivan cast his 'Popstars' label aside (fantastic voice, great acting) in the lead role of Galileo (and damn he's got hot!) and Amanda Coutts as Scaramouche has one of the best voices I've heard in a long while. Leon Lopez played his part extremely well, and it's hard to take your eyes off him when he takes centre stage. (My sister will wholeheartedly agree, although I think his arms play a bigger part in this for her). Amazing show. So amazing we went three times. And God can those OAP's dance.
So we get to the show, have a pint (Yorkshire girls) and find our seats. Considering the show starts at around 7.30pm, I should have known that sitting down at 7pm, I'd have to endure half an hour of "WHAT SEAT NUMBER ARE YOU JUDITH!?" and "Oooooh look it's the tall one from Hear'say!" as they read their programmes. We were sat on row D, on the right hand side of the aisle, where there are about ten or twelves seats. In came Peter and Catherine (it's amazing how much you get to know about a person just from listening - Catherine had taken Peter to see Priscilla Queen of the Desert not so long back but oh my days was it smutty!) Peter then insisted on checking the letter of each row by bending over and placing his face an inch away from the side of the seat (and the side of my thigh) as Catherine followed shouting "E! E! E! We're in E!" She definately looked like she was on them. This continued until they realised they were on the wrong side of the theatre. Goodbye Peter and Catherine.
Enter Audrey and the entire bloody cast of Last of the Summer Wine. Now I don't know why We Will Rock You attracts a more... mature audience, maybe it's the fact they assume it to be a 'nice' collection of Queen classics, not a journey with Shagileo Gigolo to the place of living rock. (Audrey and her girl guides did admittedly shit themselves when the music kicked in and the strobe lighting started.) It's a case of simple mathematics. There were 12 women and only 12 seats on the right hand side. They were able to work out that they had the entire row. Problem solved? Not quite. Instead of letting me have an easy life, Audrey and her posse, instead of sitting down in the seats they KNEW they had, proceeded to check each and every ticket, ensuring they were sat in the exact seat in accordance to their own ticket. What can only be described as ten whole minutes of pandemonium broke out. They were in and out of that row more times than a Manchester doler at the job centre. My head was buffeted with more snakeskin handbags and waterproof anoraks than I've seen in Principles. The bedlam died down and I felt safe enough to turn around. There they were, waterproofs folded on laps, plastic cups of wine in hand (although Frances already looked like she'd had enough.) Happy. Subdued. As I turned back to face the front I heard one of the troops pipe up, "But I wanted to sit next to Edith." Commotion.
On a lighter note, the show was one of the best I've seen - better than the original West End cast. Noel Sullivan cast his 'Popstars' label aside (fantastic voice, great acting) in the lead role of Galileo (and damn he's got hot!) and Amanda Coutts as Scaramouche has one of the best voices I've heard in a long while. Leon Lopez played his part extremely well, and it's hard to take your eyes off him when he takes centre stage. (My sister will wholeheartedly agree, although I think his arms play a bigger part in this for her). Amazing show. So amazing we went three times. And God can those OAP's dance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)