Another Network Rail Debacle.

‘Babe, I think we should just book train tickets. It’ll make things easier.’

Famous last fucking words, Stephen.

Over the weekend, to coincide with my girlfriend’s birthday, we traveled to Britain’s alleged second city Birmingham. We were there to see Black Sabbath’s final ever gig, in their home town. My girl had originally wanted to drive down and back. I talked her out of that, thinking (in my usual rush to be chivalrous) that it wasn’t fair on her to have to drive there and back. I’m not insured to drive her car and I had mine repossessed last May. So, at my gentle urging, Sarah booked return rail fares. After all, we couldn’t possibly have a repeat of the debacle we suffered coming home from London (See Blog: Shitter Was Full) last August, could we?

Wrong again, Stephen.

Travelling South on Saturday morning was fine. No problems there. Made the 08:35 train (barely, due to not dragging our arses out of bed quick enough, after a late Friday night). That was partially my fault, I’ll admit. Too many Brooklyn Lagers. It was typically busy at Newcastle Central Station. Reservations always help with that. I’d never get on a train in this country without a reservation. British train travel is just too fucking unreliable otherwise, and as my last two trips by rail have now proven  – even with a reserved seat your journey is by no means guaranteed to pass without hitch or incident. For now, my days of first class rail travel are over. Unemployed as yet unpublished writers don’t make the same money I used to back when I did no writing and was a slave to the wage.

I want to stress at this stage – I love trains and traveling by rail. When it all works like it’s supposed to.

Sat at a table (preferable if you wish to work or have a remote chance of stretching out) opposite two kindly older ladies – I surmised a Mother/Daughter combo, who alighted at York. They smiled at my jokes about Sarah’s sister (whom I despise) and were pleasant enough company. I ordered from the portly chap with the beverage/snack trolley, between York and Doncaster, and paid almost seven pounds ($8.66) for two (barely drinkable) coffees, a Kit Kat and some fucking Jaffa Cakes. After the two ladies departed we were joined by a fellow Sabbath fan en-route to the show. He was also older and less pleasant or amiable. He elbowed the guy next to him repeatedly, stunk of some cheap cologne and spread his homemade lunch all across the table between us, with no concern for his fellow passengers. As it turns out I was writing using my smartphone, not the laptop, so I wasn’t as irritated by him as I’d usually be. I’m not renowned for my patience.

So, the journey was pleasant enough – headed South. We arrived refreshed in Birmingham, ready to check the place out. It’s been years since I was there. It’s changed a lot since 1999. We wandered the shopping mall, awed at the selection of stores (at least Sarah was) before settling on lunch. We ate at the Handmade Burger Company. My digestion was somewhat marred by the woman at the adjoining table broadcasting her wedding plans in a stage whisper. Having had two generous hunks of cow served up we moved on to our hotel. We tend to favor Novotels, and for good reason. They’re reasonable 4 star accommodation, usually in good central locations, with decent bars and restaurants. The Novotel Birmingham Airport was no exception. I judge a hotel by two criteria – the lack of ‘give’ in the bed (wink, wink) and the water pressure. Accor group hotels have not let me down in either regard, so far. The gig was great. Sabbath played a blinder. I was very impressed with the show and their support band Rival Sons. The Birthday Girl seemed to have a great night, which after all was why we were there.

As I write this I’m fighting off a particularly nasty cold, that was coming on last Friday. It progressed over the weekend coming to a head on Sunday (departure day). We had good night and a great breakfast at the hotel, despite my coughing and general decraptitude. Check out was at midday. Our Northbound train wasn’t until 17:03. Another trip to the famous Bullring shopping mall (to kill time) ensued after we checked out. The sub zero weather wasn’t doing my cold any favors, but then it’s February (so shut the fuck up Stephen). We wasted a few hours wandering about, after a trip to Boots Chemist for some nice drugs for Sickboy here. Further first aid was acquired at Costa. A bedpan of Gingerbread Latte with an extra shot usually does the trick. By this time I was in considerable physical discomfort – all sinus and joint pain. We had lunch/dinner at a Vietnamese Street Food place named ‘Pho’ (pronounced fhu). I was surprised Sarah opted for this restaurant, actually, as she’s usually highly picky about food and not typically open to new culinary experiences. That said, there’s only so much burger or pizza you can eat… My stomach tends to favor Far Eastern cuisine as it sits better with me after the meal than a lot of indigenous flavors.

We boarded the train for home. It left on time. Again we had reserved table seats, this time opposite a young couple in their early/mid thirties. I’m guessing they were from Leeds, judging from the accents. He was already engrossed in his law text book when Sarah and I sat down. His wife was sat before a thirty pound stack of glossy magazines, nonchalantly flicking. We made ourselves comfortable as the train accelerated away from Birmingham. Sarah was reading her book on biker gangs and I shuffled though internet articles on my smartphone, listening to my iPod.

At Sheffield the wait on the platform seemed overly long. Other than that I had no clue something was wrong. With my Beats By Dr. Dre on I can’t hear a thing other than my music. So it wasn’t until I noticed the married couple opposite suddenly fretting and looking annoyed that I removed my headphones. The Conductor came over the intercom and informed us that a signal had developed a fault on the line up ahead and there’d be a ‘short delay’ while they rectified the problem.

Three hours later the same conductor came back over the intercom and informed us all, very apologetically, that our service had now ‘been terminated’ due to catastrophic signal failure on the line. During these hours sat idle on the platform, three other trains had rolled into Sheffield and had their angry passengers dumped on the station, in the freezing cold. By the time Sarah and I, and several hundred other pissed off travelers, were asked to leave our train, I conservatively estimate there were over 700 people in Sheffield Station. As is unfortunately the usual case with Network Rail, there was no contingency in place for such an event. The driver was stood at the head of the train with the conductor and two of the train staff. The conductor told me they were working on the problem by chartering coaches to ferry displaced passengers to Leeds, Doncaster, Newcastle and Edinburgh, but that this was going to ‘take some time’. I politely informed him  I was supposed to be at home by that time in the evening, not stranded 133 miles South in sub zero degree bloody Sheffield. We were vaguely directed to the bus interchange. When I say vaguely what I mean is they rail staff pointed out of the station and muttered that the coaches, when they showed up would be ‘over there’ somewhere…

The interchange was a collection of perspex and steel huts on a concrete island, perhaps built to house a couple of hundred people comfortably… You can well imagine the scene? To me, and I did joke, it resembled a medieval siege, from an old black and white film. I was almost expecting things to be set alight, for pitchforks to miraculously appear in the frustrated (and in many cases drunken) angry mitts of many a passenger. Arguments were breaking out, as a result of the usual selfish ignorant behavior humans exhibit, when under stress. We seemed to wait a long time, before anyone from Network Rail showed up to marshal the jostling masses. Coaches did arrive in their own time. The rail staff must’ve waited until the signal failure was a half hour old before chartering, or so it seemed. A typical coach, or trip bus as my old dead Granny used to call them, seats about 75 persons by my estimation. There were three…  For around 700 increasingly angry noisy uncooperative passengers. I was beginning to fear for my and my lady’s life.

During this time of building unrest we had gotten talking to three young lads who’d been to a comic-con in Birmingham. One of them was bedecked in clothes from the fictitious Umbrella Corporation – it was a dead give-away. Sarah, luckily, had the bright idea of sharing a cab with these pleasant talkative chaps. We were fortunate that a black hackney cab pulled into the Sheffield Interchange, just as the crowds were getting especially nasty with one particularly snotty Network Rail marshal. It truly felt like narrowly getting out of Dodge City… The five of us shared a cab to Doncaster, where a Virgin train North to home (and warm safety) was imminent, according to Sarah’s iPhone Trainline app. The cabbie was a chirpy Asian fellow who obligingly hauled ass up the motorway, upon hearing of our woes.  We made Doncaster Station with literally 5 minutes to spare. Sprinting through the platforms over the bridge to the far side, I have never been more grateful I chose to travel light. We even beat 695 of the other displaced travelers to the connection North.

The disgusting part of the whole adventure was that, yet again, the chaotic rail network of this country is not only extortionate in terms of price, but equally as broken down and disorganized. In the last six months I’ve taken two trips South by rail, only to have the return journey marred by exceedingly poor infrastructure and quality of service. If Sarah had not had the bright idea of escaping Sheffield by cab (before the remaining hundreds rioted and burned the place down) I fear I may still be out there, somewhere, with no Kleenex left…

Arriving two and half hours later back at Newcastle Central Station, on a very subdued Virgin train, we finally made it home. I fell into bed, exhausted and hungry and worse for wear. This is the second day this flu type cold shit has had me effectively housebound. It’s taken me all day to account for it all, with what you’re reading. My apologies in advance. I hope I haven’t bored you, too much?