Cretin's Day Out

Planning has never been one of my finer points, but when faced with the modern day train fare system it's a necessity.

The idea is simple. Assuming you book a ticket 6 months before you're actually born, you can expect a reasonable price. Have the sheer gall to even consider booking with less than 2 weeks to departure and you're presented with inflation levels that make Zimbabwe look like an economic superpower.

Having booked my tickets somewhere around the last Ice Age, I was fine. All I had to do was be at Euston for the 08:38 to Manchester on Saturday morning. Simple.

Things start to go slightly astray though when you factor in the effect of a Pigeon Detectives gig the night before. The musical equivalent of a kebab, it's frankly impossible to watch them without your brain being repeatedly bludgeoned with an alcohol soiled anvil. But in a good way, as they're actually pretty corking live. Top stuff.

Post-gig beers were followed by the general consensus that popping open 2 litres of duty-free vodka for a 3am karaoke session was a 'good idea'. This conclusion was rapidly re-assesed when I woke at 8am, giving me just 38 minutes to catch my train. F**k.

"Not to worry" I thought. I was still wearing the same clothes from last night, which I'd slept in. I smelt like a decomposing badger marinaded in coffee breath, but at least I saved time on a shower. I rapidly slung whatever I could into a rucksack and ran for the tube. Well, I say 'ran' - the pathetic stagger of a crab with meths injected into its eye-sockets and legs tied together is possibly more accurate.

I somehow arrived in Euston at 8:34, my train waiting at the platform - result. This was the train I absolutely had to get on. The train my non-transferrable ticket was booked for. The train I thought I had no hope of catching. So, in a flash of dunce-level genius, I queued for food and missed it.

An Ostrich with it's brains swapped for custard would know food was an idiotic proposition at that moment, but its a comfort to know the bounds of stupidity can always be broken. I missed my train by a minute for a ham sandwich.

Dejected, I went to the ticket office queue to ponder what this cretinous action was going to cost me. Fifty, sixty, a hundred sovs? Body parts? After the horror stories I've heard about replacement train tickets I was expecting to have to fellate the cashier.

It turns out I didn't even need to get half-way through my pitiful excuse when the guy simply stamped my ticket and told me to board the next train. I was stunned.

So, a word of thanks to a very special person in my life right now - I love you, Cashier Number Twelve. xxx

Prediction: Preston 1, Charlton 1