End of the Brighton line
Every other week, when the memory of my most recent drive between London Bridge and Brighton is still haunting me like the recurring nightmare of a recently deflowered socially train wrecked teenage at the hands of a toothless, scabies ridden embittered grandmother streetwalker, I decide that maybe the train would be less hassle.
It’s also not nearly as expensive.
Brighton – London circa 50 miles
Diesel = approx 10 GBP
Congestion charge (outward) = 8 GBP (if I manage to remember to do it)
Congestion charge (return) = 8 GBP (ditto)
Parking (with vouchers) = 3 GBP per day
Total cost = Stacks, like can be over thirty quid sometimes, not to mention if I manage to get clamped, which i have 3 TIMES this year, at 120 GBP a pop.
Obviously the cost can be reduced if I drive at night/ early in the morning, but seriously, who can be arsed.
Travel time = anywhere between 1.30hrs and 4hrs – honestly, when you set out on that journey it’s anyone’s guess. The only guarentee is if you set out in either direction at 11pm, in which case it can be done in 1hr 15mins.
For some reason I always walk to the station.
Return ticket (within one month and on any network) 25 GBP
Travel time = 30 mins walk to station
1hr on the train
15 mins walk from station
Wow, seems like a much better idea getting the train, right?
Invariably, the train is old, dirty, stinky, very noisy and clattering about. The line between Brighton and London is dreadful, probably the result of way too many fat Londoners weekend day trips.
The train ALWAYS has some drunk on it, I think this is a policy. It will also have a number of yoofs. I’m not keen on yoofs for no other reason than they are the black hearted children of Satan.
Last time I got the train a family of about 6 fat, smelly, sweaty, drunken, sun burnt, football shirt wearing, tattooed up, almost to thick to string a coherent sentence together, bulldog puppy worrying, SARF Londoners sat right next to me. They proceeded to SHOUT EVERYTHING SINGLE FING THAT CAME INTO THEIR BLACKHOLE OF A MIND, and let their tick-infested mutt snuffle around unrestrained.
Between Clapham Junction and London Bridge they decided to have an argument about something, I think maybe they were trying to remember if they were related by blood or by Fosters lager. It quickly got heated and one of them stood up and walked to the other end of the carriage continuing to hurl abuse at the rest. Lovely.
I am English, so therefore I pretended nothing was happening; I had my gort nano on loud and a copy of Edge magazine (surprisingly quality videogame monthly rag).
Suffice to say, don’t like it.
Avoid both London and Brighton.
However, if you do need to travel, like I do to see the lovely Lou Lou (not a euphemism MJ), well, it may be a cunt in the car (it is if I’m driving) but at least you don’t have to share it with anyone else and you can listen to Radio 4 without someone calling you a tosser to your face.
Christ, I hope all my travel posts from the far east aren’t as misanthropic as my UK ones.