You know it’s going to be a good day when you jump on the train at 11:30 in the morning to find a guy watching East is East on his laptop.
This set a precedent for my mystery shopping trip to Barrow in Furness yesterday, a place I’ve been to twice before and regretted it both times. This time, however, I was determined to make the most of it. So, armed with a wodge of John Donne religious poetry, I set off towards Manchester with a giggling 40-year-old staring at a laptop in the corner of my eye.
The god thing about getting a train around 11 o’clock is that the droll, 9am rush has scuttled away, leaving the freaks and the jobless to man the carriages until 5pm. Today was no different, with a plethora (I HATE that word!) of oddities smattered around me.
The train was clearly full of the popular side of the freak show, however, with a variety of text alerts sounding at regular intervals. My favourite was a Countdown noise from the Channel 4 program spearheaded by the mighty Jeff Sterling. The woman giggled every time it played.
(I have just looked up at the TV and there’s a shot of a man, watching cricket in South Africa, in a paddling pool – absolute genius!)
Along with the Countdown conundrum, a 40-something man with too many tattoos for anyone’s liking insisted on playing half the theme tune of the Godfather before answering his phone, while I heard a noise from down the carriage at one point that sounded like the generic background music of a really old Playstation game. As we pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, an old woman’s phone rang – it was a wolf whistle.
Wandering around Manchester waiting for my next train, I noticed one of the T-Mobile adverts currently doing the rounds that asks the question to a giddy little 15-year-old “What would you do with free texts for life?” This particular one said she would have a mass pillow fight in Manchester. Now luckily for me, O2 has just given me free texts for life (terms and conds. apply) and yet something tells me a Huddersfield-wide mud wrestle won’t be on the horizon. Sadly, I may have free texts but I don’t have the bloody Yellow Pages imprinted in my phone.
Back on another train to Lancaster I was lucky enough to sit down next to some posh schoolboys. They had all the credentials: smart blazer and tie done up, polished shoes, pronounced their ‘t’s. One went a little bit too far however, and brought out of his satchel a flask of coffee… I think I would have been disowned at school if I had done that.
These chums quickly left the train and I was once again alone until an old lady sat opposite me. She looked utterly delighted at being on a train. Her happiness took a slight turn however as the train stopped in a tunnel. The woman nervously looked out of the window: darkness. So what did she do? She looked out of the other window just to make sure. I don’t know what she was expecting to find. Tunnels are generally symmetrical in build.
(It’s just started snowing outside! On a side note – Yahoo! news today ran with the headline ‘Prepare for treacherous weather’. Clearly the guy who wrote it was from London, as the report went on to state how ‘10cm of snow could fall this weekend.’ No way! Ten entire centimetres? Get the snow tyres out Joan.)
Anyway, I got to Roose (just outside Barrow) at a decent time, did my shop, and realised I had two hours to burn. So, I headed off – like I did about three months ago – into Roose town centre. The centre consisted of a Co-op, car wash and Post Office. However, it also had a small independent pharmacy. I can just imagine this is the kind of place someone would go out of their way to, in order to buy condoms or pile cream. Avoid the embarrassment of being recognised by travelling to the corner of the known world – Roose.
My trip back was fairly uneventful. A woman was breast feeding her 4-year-old child, which was a bit disturbing, and a rather fat man boarded the train holding two boxes of 10x double chocolate fudge muffins (he’s gonna have a wild night I thought). That was it really. I got back to Huddersfield at 7:30 to find a drunk man talking to the statue of Harold Wilson. It wasn’t much of a conversation to be honest.
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Monday, 14 December 2009
Needlessly Complicated
Very, very rarely, I manage to bag the car to do a mystery shop. Today was one of those days. I always think it will be less stressful when I drive to a store rather than jog, bike or train it, but thanks to the gorgeous vocal tones of a borrowed sat-nav, I reckon my hair’s cantered through at least 50 different Dulux shades of brown on a crash-course towards woodlouse silver.
The thing with a sat-nav is that it really is a brilliant thing. I wouldn’t have had a clue how to get to the arse end of Adel if it wasn’t for that machine. However, it’s my own human error that stresses me out and pisses me off.
I just can’t understand my own idiocy in misinterpreting simple commands of a computerised voice. ‘Turn left in 200 metres’ usually leads to me gormlessly searching for any sort of turning 500 metres later.
The fact that it gets dark seemingly before it gets light in December didn’t help either, and, coupled with a rain intensity Noah would be proud of, I got lost more times than I would have done than if a passer-by had given me a rough etching of Swindon high street on the back of a fag box and told me to take the nearest space shuttle.
Anyway, apart from me getting lost nothing much really happened today. Oh, although I did successfully manage to achieve ultimate boredom by sitting in a year’s worth of traffic jams listening to either crap radio music or a discussion about the deservedness of the new X-factor winner.
All I have to say it this: No one called Joe has ever made it big.
The thing with a sat-nav is that it really is a brilliant thing. I wouldn’t have had a clue how to get to the arse end of Adel if it wasn’t for that machine. However, it’s my own human error that stresses me out and pisses me off.
I just can’t understand my own idiocy in misinterpreting simple commands of a computerised voice. ‘Turn left in 200 metres’ usually leads to me gormlessly searching for any sort of turning 500 metres later.
The fact that it gets dark seemingly before it gets light in December didn’t help either, and, coupled with a rain intensity Noah would be proud of, I got lost more times than I would have done than if a passer-by had given me a rough etching of Swindon high street on the back of a fag box and told me to take the nearest space shuttle.
Anyway, apart from me getting lost nothing much really happened today. Oh, although I did successfully manage to achieve ultimate boredom by sitting in a year’s worth of traffic jams listening to either crap radio music or a discussion about the deservedness of the new X-factor winner.
All I have to say it this: No one called Joe has ever made it big.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
The Moon and the Tramp
Listening to my ipod as I jogged around south Leeds today in search of two mystery shop visits, I began to wonder if any of the scenes described in songs actually come true.
I bet loads of people have purposefully slipped on blue suede shoes before they jet down into west Tennessee just so they can walk through Memphis with a grin on their face. No doubt thousands of people have hailed a waiting cab in San Francisco, but made sure it was past Pier 39. And I know for a fact someone, somewhere in the world, will have danced in the dark just to make a bloody point.
Last night I had left my bag in the newspaper office, and so set out without a bag on my bag. Pockets were full, so I had to hold my wallet as I cantered on down to my shops via the uni. Wearing a fairly gubby hoody, tramp gloves (the one’s without fingers) and still visibly feeling the influences of the previous night, I must have looked like a desperate crack addict running off with someone else’s wallet.
As I passed the train station in the centre of Leeds, a group of lads walked by me. They looked about my age, and were probably uni students of a kind. As I passed, I heard a brief glimpse of conversation – as you do – which went as follows:
“So what are we doing later?”
“We may as well go and see New Moon. It’s meant to be better than the first.”
“Hmm… yeah I agree.”
Now, I haven’t watched any of the vampire films that are being released seemingly every 14 seconds at the moment, but I’m fairly sure New bloody Moon is not exactly a film seven university lads – who all looked like they play ‘rugger’ – should be going to see. But maybe that’s just me.
Not much really happened today apart from this. I ran past a car that had its number plate stuck on to the bonnet with plasters. I also noted the sick that was present sprawled all over a wheely bin in my last blog was still there – frozen. That was it really.
I bet loads of people have purposefully slipped on blue suede shoes before they jet down into west Tennessee just so they can walk through Memphis with a grin on their face. No doubt thousands of people have hailed a waiting cab in San Francisco, but made sure it was past Pier 39. And I know for a fact someone, somewhere in the world, will have danced in the dark just to make a bloody point.
Last night I had left my bag in the newspaper office, and so set out without a bag on my bag. Pockets were full, so I had to hold my wallet as I cantered on down to my shops via the uni. Wearing a fairly gubby hoody, tramp gloves (the one’s without fingers) and still visibly feeling the influences of the previous night, I must have looked like a desperate crack addict running off with someone else’s wallet.
As I passed the train station in the centre of Leeds, a group of lads walked by me. They looked about my age, and were probably uni students of a kind. As I passed, I heard a brief glimpse of conversation – as you do – which went as follows:
“So what are we doing later?”
“We may as well go and see New Moon. It’s meant to be better than the first.”
“Hmm… yeah I agree.”
Now, I haven’t watched any of the vampire films that are being released seemingly every 14 seconds at the moment, but I’m fairly sure New bloody Moon is not exactly a film seven university lads – who all looked like they play ‘rugger’ – should be going to see. But maybe that’s just me.
Not much really happened today apart from this. I ran past a car that had its number plate stuck on to the bonnet with plasters. I also noted the sick that was present sprawled all over a wheely bin in my last blog was still there – frozen. That was it really.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Dork
Just as I have begun typing my right foot has got cramp. It really hurts.
Anyway, today I’ve been cantering around Manchestooooor, on two mystery shops. The first was about two miles south of the city. The second, of course, was roughly two miles north of the city.
As usual my day started in the morning, just after I had woken up actually, and way before I will inevitably go to bed. I set off for a morning lecture on the delights of religion in the time of the Renaissance in a good mood. I had my running shoes on, a smelly hoody for vague warmth, and jeans that barely covered my ankles. I looked like a right dork.
Walking down to uni, pondering whether or not I should don some gawkish spectacles to round off my image, my attention was averted to a grotesquely enormous clump of sick, sprayed up against a wheely bin.
The poor bastard who had protruded it from his (or her) stomach must have been glad to get it out. He (or she (lest we forget)) had managed to spray about half of it on the side of the bin, and the rest of the glupey porridge-looking clod was nestled nicely on the floor.
I decided not to stick around to study it for too long, and so moseyed on off down towards my lecture. I passed a now-filled hole in the ground that I had complained about exactly a week ago. I was astonished the council had managed to organise road works to be completed in just one week! I mean, to do their job on time and everything…
Just before opening the heavy glass doors into my lecture hall I heard a group of girls talking behind me. One was complaining about the cold weather. Her words – and I quote – of “It’s freezing today. This is just ridiculous!” really got to me. I wanted to turn to the girl and politely remind her that yes, it will be cold now that it is winter, but I decided against it. She’s in one of my seminars and I don’t want to rock the boat.
After my stunning lecture I set off down to the train station – now eagerly becoming my third home behind the library and the newspaper office – and hopped on a train to Manchester. I bagged a table seat – which is grand when I need to do some work – and nestled into a bit of Restoration comedy.
About half way into the journey I looked up from my riveting book to find everyone on my table, and the table next to us, playing, texting or simply just gawping at their mobile phones. I felt so anti-social sat there with an actual book; so draconian; so… not cool.
I quickly whipped my phone out to find no one had texted me. There’s no point conforming.
I made it into Manchester exactly one hour from when I left Leeds. I don’t know why I noted, remembered, or am even now accounting this at all, I just thought it’d be a good segway into a new era in my day.
Walking into the city centre from Piccadilly station, I witnessed a rather cheeky looking chappy get a wee bit of what he deserves. He was walking half way into the road, ducking in between cars and busses, probably just to piss the drivers off rather than actually get anywhere. As he reached the corner of Piccadilly Gardens, a bus swerved quickly (or as quickly as a 14-ton hunk of metal can swerve) and he was forced to leap out the way.
He guffawed rather menacingly as he escaped death; as though he’d managed to out-wit the driver or something, but sadly for him didn’t see the ankle-deep puddle of swirling rain water that he stood in the admire the scene of his miraculous escape. All I can say about this is – what an idiot.
Manchester – of course – was raining. I don’t think there’s ever been a day in the history of the world that it hasn’t rained at least a smidgeon in Manchester. Today was quite a good day to be honest: it was only drizzling.
Anyway, after a cheeky meal with me father, I set off jogging down to my first shop in the twilight. When I accepted to do this visit, I thought I’d be going to a place called Hulme: just outside Manchester but nice enough. What I didn’t realise – and what my dad told and warned me before I left – was that I was about to amble into Moss Side: notorious as one of the worst council estates in Britain.
Well I’m pretty sure a mop-haired geek in short jeans and a terrible pant would attract no attention here. Luckily for me it didn’t – I only got a few looks as I sped in and out of the shop in a matter of seconds.
It is strange when you enter Moss Side though. There’s a road going across the north/south road out of Manchester that almost acts as a divide between the affluent city and the degraded estate; aptly named Moss Side Road. The contrast is quite astounding. OK it’s not like Pennsylvania Avenue and the surrounding suburbs of Washington DC, but it is clear where the regeneration programs in Manchester are focused.
I didn’t stick around in Moss Side long, and had quickly finished my second shop so that I was on the train back home fairly sharpish. The conductor on the train had clearly had a bad shift however. As he passed a girl who had put her bag on the seat next to her, he exploded in a torrent of gesticulations towards the poor sod about being selfish and not freeing up a seat for someone to sit down on.
As he continued down the aisle he called to some people standing up in the carriage “Hey! There’s a free seat, now that people have decided to shift their bags! Yeah that’s right – they’ve finally moved them!” and he glared straight at this girl.
Nice to know customer relations with Northern Rail staff members are held in such high esteem.
Anyway, today I’ve been cantering around Manchestooooor, on two mystery shops. The first was about two miles south of the city. The second, of course, was roughly two miles north of the city.
As usual my day started in the morning, just after I had woken up actually, and way before I will inevitably go to bed. I set off for a morning lecture on the delights of religion in the time of the Renaissance in a good mood. I had my running shoes on, a smelly hoody for vague warmth, and jeans that barely covered my ankles. I looked like a right dork.
Walking down to uni, pondering whether or not I should don some gawkish spectacles to round off my image, my attention was averted to a grotesquely enormous clump of sick, sprayed up against a wheely bin.
The poor bastard who had protruded it from his (or her) stomach must have been glad to get it out. He (or she (lest we forget)) had managed to spray about half of it on the side of the bin, and the rest of the glupey porridge-looking clod was nestled nicely on the floor.
I decided not to stick around to study it for too long, and so moseyed on off down towards my lecture. I passed a now-filled hole in the ground that I had complained about exactly a week ago. I was astonished the council had managed to organise road works to be completed in just one week! I mean, to do their job on time and everything…
Just before opening the heavy glass doors into my lecture hall I heard a group of girls talking behind me. One was complaining about the cold weather. Her words – and I quote – of “It’s freezing today. This is just ridiculous!” really got to me. I wanted to turn to the girl and politely remind her that yes, it will be cold now that it is winter, but I decided against it. She’s in one of my seminars and I don’t want to rock the boat.
After my stunning lecture I set off down to the train station – now eagerly becoming my third home behind the library and the newspaper office – and hopped on a train to Manchester. I bagged a table seat – which is grand when I need to do some work – and nestled into a bit of Restoration comedy.
About half way into the journey I looked up from my riveting book to find everyone on my table, and the table next to us, playing, texting or simply just gawping at their mobile phones. I felt so anti-social sat there with an actual book; so draconian; so… not cool.
I quickly whipped my phone out to find no one had texted me. There’s no point conforming.
I made it into Manchester exactly one hour from when I left Leeds. I don’t know why I noted, remembered, or am even now accounting this at all, I just thought it’d be a good segway into a new era in my day.
Walking into the city centre from Piccadilly station, I witnessed a rather cheeky looking chappy get a wee bit of what he deserves. He was walking half way into the road, ducking in between cars and busses, probably just to piss the drivers off rather than actually get anywhere. As he reached the corner of Piccadilly Gardens, a bus swerved quickly (or as quickly as a 14-ton hunk of metal can swerve) and he was forced to leap out the way.
He guffawed rather menacingly as he escaped death; as though he’d managed to out-wit the driver or something, but sadly for him didn’t see the ankle-deep puddle of swirling rain water that he stood in the admire the scene of his miraculous escape. All I can say about this is – what an idiot.
Manchester – of course – was raining. I don’t think there’s ever been a day in the history of the world that it hasn’t rained at least a smidgeon in Manchester. Today was quite a good day to be honest: it was only drizzling.
Anyway, after a cheeky meal with me father, I set off jogging down to my first shop in the twilight. When I accepted to do this visit, I thought I’d be going to a place called Hulme: just outside Manchester but nice enough. What I didn’t realise – and what my dad told and warned me before I left – was that I was about to amble into Moss Side: notorious as one of the worst council estates in Britain.
Well I’m pretty sure a mop-haired geek in short jeans and a terrible pant would attract no attention here. Luckily for me it didn’t – I only got a few looks as I sped in and out of the shop in a matter of seconds.
It is strange when you enter Moss Side though. There’s a road going across the north/south road out of Manchester that almost acts as a divide between the affluent city and the degraded estate; aptly named Moss Side Road. The contrast is quite astounding. OK it’s not like Pennsylvania Avenue and the surrounding suburbs of Washington DC, but it is clear where the regeneration programs in Manchester are focused.
I didn’t stick around in Moss Side long, and had quickly finished my second shop so that I was on the train back home fairly sharpish. The conductor on the train had clearly had a bad shift however. As he passed a girl who had put her bag on the seat next to her, he exploded in a torrent of gesticulations towards the poor sod about being selfish and not freeing up a seat for someone to sit down on.
As he continued down the aisle he called to some people standing up in the carriage “Hey! There’s a free seat, now that people have decided to shift their bags! Yeah that’s right – they’ve finally moved them!” and he glared straight at this girl.
Nice to know customer relations with Northern Rail staff members are held in such high esteem.
Friday, 20 November 2009
Back to business
It’s been two entire weeks since I did a mystery shop: so long I almost forgot what it felt like to brave the Yorkshire winter weather and set out on another laborious trip across multiple train lines.
Today I’ve been to Barnsley. That’s right, av bin down tarn to get some drink. And you know what? It’s bin grand!
My day began (as it usually does) in the morning as I was walking down to uni for a lecture on the superfluous cunning of Ben Johnson. It doesn’t exactly feel like November at the moment, and so I happily took off my hoody in the baking heat and strolled down in my t-shirt.
On my way, I came across a rather large hole in the ground where evidently some water works had leaked or something (I must admit at this point I am not an expert on the warranty standards of utility systems). I don’t know what it is but when you walk past a hole in the road you always look in it. I suppose it’s the same as when you see a drunken tramp walk past you; you’re intrigued by something utterly alien and unfamiliar, and so you stare.
The scene was a mess. It looked as though two kids had been going at the tarmac road with a pickaxe each for weeks on end. There was rubble sprawled over the rest of the road and the hole was slowly filling up with… leaking water from the exposed pipe. It’s good to know Yorkshire Water can be relied upon to instantly fix a problem.
Anyway, I left the bombsite and headed towards Hyde Park. As I got to the entrance, I was taken aback by a man standing in front of me, waiting to cross the road. He was wearing a cool, trendy pair of jeans with one of those stupid logo prints on the arse (I was NOT staring at his arse!) and tears in the legs. Evidently they were meant to look worn and tatty, which is why some areas were dyed with a bronzey, oxidised finish. Unfortunately, the huge streak of bronze up his arse hadn’t quite worked out (I was NOT staring at his arse!), and it basically looked like he’d just shat himself. Delightful.
I jogged rather clumsily from here until I got down to Millennium Square, in the centre of Leeds, where the Christmas market has just been erected. Of course, with any Christmas market, there are crepe stalls, wine stalls and pointlessly mass-produced souvenir stalls. However, there was also a garlic stall. It was plonked right on the edge of the market – probably because it stank so much – and was in the shape of a clove of garlic.
Now, at what point do you ask your friends “Hey! Does anyone want to go down the Christmas market to pick up some garlic?” I’m pretty sure you can get it in the supermarket all year round for no trouble at all. It’s hardly a festive delicacy you put on your Christmas pudding!
Nothing else really happened in Leeds apart from me passing a man who looked like a cross between the Joker and the Penguin of respective Batman films, so I boarded the train thinking about Renaissance literature rather than the oddities of society.
This was not to last long however as I looked out the window onto the Leeds platform. A man, who looked rather old, was stood next to a locked carriage, pressing the ‘open’ button on the door to try and get on board. His wife was stood next to him telling him clearly that the train was locked, and yet he persisted. I was sat on my train for a good eight minutes, and when I left he was still there, pressing the button, with his wife behind him nattering in his ear.
My first visit to north Barnsley went well, and I soon found myself in Elsecar, south of the tarn, jogging up towards my next shop. I began to feel the burn after about 700 yards, and as stopped, realising I had developed a vigorous stitch under my right lung. Now this is a problem for me; my right lung is still screwed from the acquisition of pneumonia in the summer, and so I almost had to lie down to get my breath back and wait for the pain that felt like intense acupuncture to subside.
As I sat on a wall regaining my life, a bald man walked out of a barbers shop across the road. He did what every other man does after coming out of a barbers; caressing his head as he happily strolled down the street. What got me was that he was completely bald. I wondered if he’d even had a hair cut. I can just imagine the conversation he must have had with the barber:
“So, what d’you want today then sir?”
“Eh ups, give us a shave. I want it all off.”
“Excellent sir. And shall I get the shammy leather out as well?”
“Aye, give it a good polish!”
“I’ll make a bowling ball out of you sir, don’t you worry.”
… Or something like that.
I have never had a completely bald head before. To be honest I’ve grown quite accustomed to my longish mop. I think the only time I was ever allowed a shaven head was back when I was about eight. I remember getting a no. 1 all over! It was great. I was well cool. What I didn’t know, and what I sadly realise looking back now, was that I looked like one of the statues still standing on Easter Island. If you don’t know what they look like, all you need to know is that it ain’t exactly charming.
Jogging back down towards the train station after a bountiful mystery shop, I past a road called Noble Street. However, some little rascals had taken down the ‘l’ and ‘e’ and had left it saying ‘Nob Street’. This amused me greatly, and I appreciatively took a photo.
The rest of my time in Barnsley went without anything at all happening of even vague interest, and I dolefully boarded the tiny train to head back to Leeds. One final thing that struck me on the way back was a baby that was crying just behind me. To be honest it wasn’t really crying, it was bellowing. Imagine a 50-year-old northern darts player with a toned beer belly having a red hot poker shoved up his arse: “weeeeeeeerrrrrhhhhhh!” I believe would be the noise made, like an air raid siren.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
If you go down to Halifax today…
… you’re in for a strange surprise. For it seems the entirety of West Yorkshire takes some sort of hallucinogenic in the second weekend of November. Things are just odd.
So, where did I go for a day of mystery shopping yesterday? Oh yes, Halifax.
The day started off quite well. Kitted out in my running shoes I set off at a canter down to Leeds station. The air was clear and fine, no one was around, which is always a good thing when you’ve done no physical exercise for about three months and you start to feel the burn when you get to the bottom of your own road.
I managed to jog probably about a mile before I had to slow down to a walk. It was very tiring and thirsty work (as I’m sure anyone who has run a marathon can emphasise with this) and so I delved into my bag to get a swig of water. Of course, my water bottle wasn’t there. It was by the sink full of fresh tap water where I had left it to brush my teeth not 20 minutes earlier.
With annoyance I zipped up my bag and swung it back onto my shoulder. As I carried on walking, head down and panting, out in front of me developed a beautiful sight: two condoms slapped next to each other on the pavement.
Now, someone clearly had a wonderful Friday night. Sex on the street just behind Hyde Park Sainsbury’s must so oh so exciting. The fact that there were two condoms suggests either this guy got lucky twice in the same night, enjoyed the location of the first so much that he just had to do it again on the same piece of wall, or that there were two guys, two ladies, shagging at the same time, trying to warm up in the freezing November air.
Of course there is a whole plethora of possibilities as to how those two condoms became entwined on that evening, so I won’t speculate further. Luckily, I was soon distracted from this scene by a man walking on the other side of the road to me. A brisk Saturday morning stroll can be deemed a good thing; a brisk Saturday morning stroll holding a can of Stella cannot. He burped. I turned. I forgot about the condoms.
I began running again as I got into Hyde Park. The main problem with this is that you have to run up hill for the majority, which is hard work. So I stopped half way and walked.
I’m pretty glad I did slow down mind, as about two minutes later someone who was clearly an Olympic marathon runner practically sprinted past me. If I had been running, the overtake would have looked like an F1 car lapping a sweaty snail.
I finally got on the train and headed towards Sowerby Bridge for my first stop. I’ve done the Sowerby Tesco visit four times now, and have loved it every time simply because it’s massive and the choice of beer is endless! Unfortunately, unlike other times I have visited, the trains were cancelled from then on. I had no way to get to Halifax other than to bus it, which was vaguely annoying seeing as I didn’t have a clue where I was or where the busses would be heading, but I eventually found myself in Halifax centre.
Halifax of course is famed for the bank that holds its namesake, and that rampant football team Halifax Town. However, they also have possibly the best museum experience in the world, with Eureka. Dubbed ‘The National Children’s Museum’ (which may act as a magnet for some rather seedy middle-aged individuals), as a child Eureka was up there with going to an ice cream parlour or the Fun Factory. Science really can be fun at this fantasy land, with ‘100s of hands-on exhibits’ on display.
I felt somewhat remorseful walking through the grounds, examining all the new playground apparatus set up to keep the kids happy as the knackered parents had a sit down for the first time in hours. This place was part of a childhood that Time had slowly disintegrated. However, I ate a chocolate bar and everything was better again.
My next stop was Brighouse, a town just above Huddersfield. My journey took me on a train that was absolutely packed. It was crammed thanks to the cancellation of all other trains going through Halifax. So, I had to actually sit next to someone!
This may sound silly, but I have noticed that people are less inclined to sit next to a long-haired youth in running gear, probably not smelling too great, reading Titus Andronicus. However, some poor woman was forced to take probably the last seat on the train, and sat down next to me.
When I say she sat down next to me, what I really mean is she sat on me. She was – how shall I say – a rather portly woman. In order to socialise with her just-as-rotund friend across the aisle, she sat with her back to me, and with her arse on my leg. This was a massive arse. I’m pretty sure my leg had been attracted to its immense gravitational field.
What I didn’t realise was that she was also sitting on the phone in my pocket. About five minutes into the journey, I got a text. It was an innocent text from my chum Tom, something about boxing, but the result of the text was far from innocent. As with most phones now, mine vibrated when the text came through. As quick as a whippet the woman next to me shot up and screamed a little. This scared me a bit, as the potential of this vast hoard sitting on me in retaliation came into my mind. However, as she turned round, I detected a sly smile on her face. She had clearly enjoyed it. Tom is a very naughty boy.
Anyways, I got to Brighouse and was moping around the Tesco store when I was introduced to possibly the most depressingly unfortunate individual in the world. A small child was lost, calling his mother, and looking quite nervous. However, I can imagine he was upset about what his mother was saying. As I went into the next aisle I saw a frantic woman looking very worried, and here’s the bad thing, screaming “Sid! Where are you Sid?” at the top of her voice. Now, if you call your child Sid or Sidney, they’re going to want to run away! Who calls their kid Sidney?
“Wow you’ve had a child! Has he got a name yet?”
“Yes we’ve decided to call him Sid.”
“Oh really? That’s brave of you. Easier than putting him up for adoption I suppose.”
So I eventually found myself on the train home to Leeds. Stood looking out the window I turned to find a guy about my age in front of me, wearing what I can only explain as a blouse. It was a light, frilly shirt and looked utterly ridiculous on him. Poor bastard. He had clearly bought into the notion of poly-gender fashion a bit too easily.
I realise I have now written as many words as a standard length essay, but it is the reason that I have an essay to write which means I have spent almost two sporadic hours writing this in front of the telly. The technique of wasting a day through watching football, typing aimlessly and annoying Paul has been perfected.
So, where did I go for a day of mystery shopping yesterday? Oh yes, Halifax.
The day started off quite well. Kitted out in my running shoes I set off at a canter down to Leeds station. The air was clear and fine, no one was around, which is always a good thing when you’ve done no physical exercise for about three months and you start to feel the burn when you get to the bottom of your own road.
I managed to jog probably about a mile before I had to slow down to a walk. It was very tiring and thirsty work (as I’m sure anyone who has run a marathon can emphasise with this) and so I delved into my bag to get a swig of water. Of course, my water bottle wasn’t there. It was by the sink full of fresh tap water where I had left it to brush my teeth not 20 minutes earlier.
With annoyance I zipped up my bag and swung it back onto my shoulder. As I carried on walking, head down and panting, out in front of me developed a beautiful sight: two condoms slapped next to each other on the pavement.
Now, someone clearly had a wonderful Friday night. Sex on the street just behind Hyde Park Sainsbury’s must so oh so exciting. The fact that there were two condoms suggests either this guy got lucky twice in the same night, enjoyed the location of the first so much that he just had to do it again on the same piece of wall, or that there were two guys, two ladies, shagging at the same time, trying to warm up in the freezing November air.
Of course there is a whole plethora of possibilities as to how those two condoms became entwined on that evening, so I won’t speculate further. Luckily, I was soon distracted from this scene by a man walking on the other side of the road to me. A brisk Saturday morning stroll can be deemed a good thing; a brisk Saturday morning stroll holding a can of Stella cannot. He burped. I turned. I forgot about the condoms.
I began running again as I got into Hyde Park. The main problem with this is that you have to run up hill for the majority, which is hard work. So I stopped half way and walked.
I’m pretty glad I did slow down mind, as about two minutes later someone who was clearly an Olympic marathon runner practically sprinted past me. If I had been running, the overtake would have looked like an F1 car lapping a sweaty snail.
I finally got on the train and headed towards Sowerby Bridge for my first stop. I’ve done the Sowerby Tesco visit four times now, and have loved it every time simply because it’s massive and the choice of beer is endless! Unfortunately, unlike other times I have visited, the trains were cancelled from then on. I had no way to get to Halifax other than to bus it, which was vaguely annoying seeing as I didn’t have a clue where I was or where the busses would be heading, but I eventually found myself in Halifax centre.
Halifax of course is famed for the bank that holds its namesake, and that rampant football team Halifax Town. However, they also have possibly the best museum experience in the world, with Eureka. Dubbed ‘The National Children’s Museum’ (which may act as a magnet for some rather seedy middle-aged individuals), as a child Eureka was up there with going to an ice cream parlour or the Fun Factory. Science really can be fun at this fantasy land, with ‘100s of hands-on exhibits’ on display.
I felt somewhat remorseful walking through the grounds, examining all the new playground apparatus set up to keep the kids happy as the knackered parents had a sit down for the first time in hours. This place was part of a childhood that Time had slowly disintegrated. However, I ate a chocolate bar and everything was better again.
My next stop was Brighouse, a town just above Huddersfield. My journey took me on a train that was absolutely packed. It was crammed thanks to the cancellation of all other trains going through Halifax. So, I had to actually sit next to someone!
This may sound silly, but I have noticed that people are less inclined to sit next to a long-haired youth in running gear, probably not smelling too great, reading Titus Andronicus. However, some poor woman was forced to take probably the last seat on the train, and sat down next to me.
When I say she sat down next to me, what I really mean is she sat on me. She was – how shall I say – a rather portly woman. In order to socialise with her just-as-rotund friend across the aisle, she sat with her back to me, and with her arse on my leg. This was a massive arse. I’m pretty sure my leg had been attracted to its immense gravitational field.
What I didn’t realise was that she was also sitting on the phone in my pocket. About five minutes into the journey, I got a text. It was an innocent text from my chum Tom, something about boxing, but the result of the text was far from innocent. As with most phones now, mine vibrated when the text came through. As quick as a whippet the woman next to me shot up and screamed a little. This scared me a bit, as the potential of this vast hoard sitting on me in retaliation came into my mind. However, as she turned round, I detected a sly smile on her face. She had clearly enjoyed it. Tom is a very naughty boy.
Anyways, I got to Brighouse and was moping around the Tesco store when I was introduced to possibly the most depressingly unfortunate individual in the world. A small child was lost, calling his mother, and looking quite nervous. However, I can imagine he was upset about what his mother was saying. As I went into the next aisle I saw a frantic woman looking very worried, and here’s the bad thing, screaming “Sid! Where are you Sid?” at the top of her voice. Now, if you call your child Sid or Sidney, they’re going to want to run away! Who calls their kid Sidney?
“Wow you’ve had a child! Has he got a name yet?”
“Yes we’ve decided to call him Sid.”
“Oh really? That’s brave of you. Easier than putting him up for adoption I suppose.”
So I eventually found myself on the train home to Leeds. Stood looking out the window I turned to find a guy about my age in front of me, wearing what I can only explain as a blouse. It was a light, frilly shirt and looked utterly ridiculous on him. Poor bastard. He had clearly bought into the notion of poly-gender fashion a bit too easily.
I realise I have now written as many words as a standard length essay, but it is the reason that I have an essay to write which means I have spent almost two sporadic hours writing this in front of the telly. The technique of wasting a day through watching football, typing aimlessly and annoying Paul has been perfected.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Amble in the rain
It rained today. Actually it didn’t just rain, it absolutely lashed it down. Oh that British weather eh?
Why do we moan about the weather so much? This summer will be thought of as a wet, dreary one, due to a month of rain in August. We have forgotten that May, June and July felt like we had shifted a few million miles nearer the Sun.
I say this because today I want to moan about the weather. We’ve had about a month without any serious downpour or storm, and yet I still felt my luck was against me as I walked out the door into a wall of water.
So, today I visited Harrogate and Knaresborough, in the rain. It was quite a reasonable trip to be honest. I hadn’t listened to my ipod in a while so there was a variety of newly loaded stuff on there to get my ear into!
I’ll be honest I didn’t really get to see much of either town, simply because my hood (got to keeps those locks dry) is too big for my head, and so I was walking round with blinkers on the side of my face.
What I did see though is clear evidence of something living in the water of north Leeds, for there were a hell of a lot of runners.
I don’t just mean joggers, but simply normal people cantering around. There was a man walking towards me on the outskirts of Knaresborough, who suddenly set off on a very staggered amble, rather than a jog, that made him look like he was taking his part as an extra for 28 Days Later a bit too seriously.
He ran straight past me and continued the whole way down the street, head bobbing along like a pigeons, but with the stiff, straight arms of a gorilla. I’m pretty sure his mouth would have been frothing and eyes bulging by the time he reached his destination.
There was also a small, rough looking youth who was sprinting after his smaller, rougher, and more youthful looking brother, trying to stop the tyke crossing a dual carriageway.
In the centre of Harrogate I witnessed the delightful scene of a woman running to catch a bus. She missed it by seconds, and so threw up her arms and she came to a halt in that ‘ah shit how could that bastard of a driver set off without me?’
But Leeds has its own share of weirdoes. As I was walking through Hyde Park this morning, I passed the allotments. Stood there in the rain was a man, probably about 50 years old, who obviously loved the Yorkshire’s rainy season. He was in jogging bottoms and a t-shirt: it was freezing! Evidently he was waiting for his plants to grow. Poor codger.
Why do we moan about the weather so much? This summer will be thought of as a wet, dreary one, due to a month of rain in August. We have forgotten that May, June and July felt like we had shifted a few million miles nearer the Sun.
I say this because today I want to moan about the weather. We’ve had about a month without any serious downpour or storm, and yet I still felt my luck was against me as I walked out the door into a wall of water.
So, today I visited Harrogate and Knaresborough, in the rain. It was quite a reasonable trip to be honest. I hadn’t listened to my ipod in a while so there was a variety of newly loaded stuff on there to get my ear into!
I’ll be honest I didn’t really get to see much of either town, simply because my hood (got to keeps those locks dry) is too big for my head, and so I was walking round with blinkers on the side of my face.
What I did see though is clear evidence of something living in the water of north Leeds, for there were a hell of a lot of runners.
I don’t just mean joggers, but simply normal people cantering around. There was a man walking towards me on the outskirts of Knaresborough, who suddenly set off on a very staggered amble, rather than a jog, that made him look like he was taking his part as an extra for 28 Days Later a bit too seriously.
He ran straight past me and continued the whole way down the street, head bobbing along like a pigeons, but with the stiff, straight arms of a gorilla. I’m pretty sure his mouth would have been frothing and eyes bulging by the time he reached his destination.
There was also a small, rough looking youth who was sprinting after his smaller, rougher, and more youthful looking brother, trying to stop the tyke crossing a dual carriageway.
In the centre of Harrogate I witnessed the delightful scene of a woman running to catch a bus. She missed it by seconds, and so threw up her arms and she came to a halt in that ‘ah shit how could that bastard of a driver set off without me?’
But Leeds has its own share of weirdoes. As I was walking through Hyde Park this morning, I passed the allotments. Stood there in the rain was a man, probably about 50 years old, who obviously loved the Yorkshire’s rainy season. He was in jogging bottoms and a t-shirt: it was freezing! Evidently he was waiting for his plants to grow. Poor codger.
Sunday, 11 October 2009
The waiting game
Yep, it happened again! I’ve just experienced one of those days where public transport is not in your favour. Yesterday, on two mystery shop visits, I literally strolled from one train onto the other; such was my luck in the lottery that are timetables.
However, my luck decided to sway the opposite way. I did one visit in South Milford today (which equates to east Leeds) that took three hours of standing around and waiting to accomplish.
The problem is that it’s Sunday. Sunday seems to be the perfect day to do maintenance work on rail lines, which in effect meant that, for me, a journey that should have taken no less than one hour took four. I arrived in Leeds station at 12 noon, only to find out, thanks to maintenance on the lines, that my next train was at 1 pm. I arrived back at the station in South Milford at 1:30 pm, only to find out that the next train back to Leeds was at 3:00 pm.
I had a lot of time to kill, and instead of ruining my eardrums with my ipod or straining my eyes with my book, I instead went for a little jog. Now, this is highly out of character for me – I hate jogging as it is laborious, tiresome and my hair flops down in front of my face which makes me look (and feel) like Mark off Peep Show.
So, with two hours to kill I went for a canter around South Milford, lost in my own thoughts. It was an interesting mind path I went down, which saw me reflecting on some of the things I forgot to write about in yesterdays blog.
For instance, there was a man I passed in Leeds yesterday who looked like he was in training for Mr. Olympia, or whatever they call that bodybuilding championship. He was – as they say – ‘stacked’, and bulged out of his shirt. However, he had seemingly overdone it, as, moving my eyes up from the grotesquely titanic forearms to his face, I noticed that his eyebrow muscles, yes his eyebrow muscles, were bursting out of the skull. Obviously he had surpassed a vigorous training regime of eyebrow thrusts to pump those forehead features. Unfortunately, no matter how ‘ripped’ his head may have looked, it still looked like an arse. I was staring at an original butthead, and couldn’t draw my eyes away until he walked past.
I also saw possibly one of the gawkiest things ever yesterday, on the train towards Bradford. The train was fairly full and so I walked down the aisle of my carriage looking for a seat. I didn’t find one and so stood behind a guy sat down who looked like a nerdy computer geek, with milk bottle bottoms for spectacle lenses, 40-something bald patch, and an iphone. Pretty normal on a public train, but as I peered over his shoulder to see what he was doing on his iphone – he was being very vociferous about something – I saw he was on facebook, ogling at photos of himself.
I was fairly impressed that this guy had facebook, although he looked like one of the people that probably helped program it in the first place. Base social interaction was on his cards. However, all piddling dribbles of respect for this pot-bellied geek went out the window when his phone rang. There’s no greater shock than suddenly hearing “Wow! I feel good! I knew that I wou–” coming from the phone of a geek. The guy was fumbling to answer his phone in a ‘shit I’m so embarrassed by my ring tone it actually makes it more embarrassing’ kind of a way. For surely there’s nothing more embarrassing than someone knowing you’re embarrassed about something.
Anyway, back to today. I had decided to go jogging. I set off on a road out of South Milford (so that less people would see me trying to balance a heavy, slack rucksack on my back whilst on the run) and found myself on a nice quiet road. Unfortunately, due to a complete lack of fitness, I was knackered after about 500 yards and so had to sit down on a park bench, where I pulled a chocolate bar out of my bag, got out my book, and indulged in some serious renaissance literature study, waiting for the train home.
However, my luck decided to sway the opposite way. I did one visit in South Milford today (which equates to east Leeds) that took three hours of standing around and waiting to accomplish.
The problem is that it’s Sunday. Sunday seems to be the perfect day to do maintenance work on rail lines, which in effect meant that, for me, a journey that should have taken no less than one hour took four. I arrived in Leeds station at 12 noon, only to find out, thanks to maintenance on the lines, that my next train was at 1 pm. I arrived back at the station in South Milford at 1:30 pm, only to find out that the next train back to Leeds was at 3:00 pm.
I had a lot of time to kill, and instead of ruining my eardrums with my ipod or straining my eyes with my book, I instead went for a little jog. Now, this is highly out of character for me – I hate jogging as it is laborious, tiresome and my hair flops down in front of my face which makes me look (and feel) like Mark off Peep Show.
So, with two hours to kill I went for a canter around South Milford, lost in my own thoughts. It was an interesting mind path I went down, which saw me reflecting on some of the things I forgot to write about in yesterdays blog.
For instance, there was a man I passed in Leeds yesterday who looked like he was in training for Mr. Olympia, or whatever they call that bodybuilding championship. He was – as they say – ‘stacked’, and bulged out of his shirt. However, he had seemingly overdone it, as, moving my eyes up from the grotesquely titanic forearms to his face, I noticed that his eyebrow muscles, yes his eyebrow muscles, were bursting out of the skull. Obviously he had surpassed a vigorous training regime of eyebrow thrusts to pump those forehead features. Unfortunately, no matter how ‘ripped’ his head may have looked, it still looked like an arse. I was staring at an original butthead, and couldn’t draw my eyes away until he walked past.
I also saw possibly one of the gawkiest things ever yesterday, on the train towards Bradford. The train was fairly full and so I walked down the aisle of my carriage looking for a seat. I didn’t find one and so stood behind a guy sat down who looked like a nerdy computer geek, with milk bottle bottoms for spectacle lenses, 40-something bald patch, and an iphone. Pretty normal on a public train, but as I peered over his shoulder to see what he was doing on his iphone – he was being very vociferous about something – I saw he was on facebook, ogling at photos of himself.
I was fairly impressed that this guy had facebook, although he looked like one of the people that probably helped program it in the first place. Base social interaction was on his cards. However, all piddling dribbles of respect for this pot-bellied geek went out the window when his phone rang. There’s no greater shock than suddenly hearing “Wow! I feel good! I knew that I wou–” coming from the phone of a geek. The guy was fumbling to answer his phone in a ‘shit I’m so embarrassed by my ring tone it actually makes it more embarrassing’ kind of a way. For surely there’s nothing more embarrassing than someone knowing you’re embarrassed about something.
Anyway, back to today. I had decided to go jogging. I set off on a road out of South Milford (so that less people would see me trying to balance a heavy, slack rucksack on my back whilst on the run) and found myself on a nice quiet road. Unfortunately, due to a complete lack of fitness, I was knackered after about 500 yards and so had to sit down on a park bench, where I pulled a chocolate bar out of my bag, got out my book, and indulged in some serious renaissance literature study, waiting for the train home.
Bass
If you think, due to the title of this post, that I’ve been fishing rather than shopping then you’re very much mistaken.
Over the last two days I’ve done five mystery shops. They’ve included walking through possibly the largest council estate in the entirety of Yorkshire (if you don’t include Hull itself) and nearly got run over in the centre of Leeds.
However, I’ll be frank, these two days have been fairly dull. My ipod was still unwilling to negotiate terms by which I could start listening to it again, and so I threw my earphones away. However, upon arrival of a store in Crossgates, (somewhere east of Leeds) I found some for sale.
‘Fantastic’, I thought as I sifted through reams of earphones, differentiated on packaging but barely on product. For this is the odd thing about earphones, or paper, chewing gum or envelopes; it is that the product is basically the same across the board. Simply, the package should just say: “sounds great in your face”, because that’s what earphones are supposed to do. It’s the marketing and packaging on the front of the product that makes you gullibly go “oh I need ultra bass quality balance”. (I haven’t got a clue what I just said there)
So, looking at the earphones section of the store, I was confronted with basic, in-ear, hooked, clip-on, bass balanced, airflow-equal, crystal clear, and dynamic. All different packages selling basically the same product. What astounded me is that the price ranged from basic: £2.47, to ultra bass quality balance: £45.
How can earphones cost £45? And who would buy them? OK so I wouldn’t buy the flimsy £2.47 ones that look more like a cheese wire than an audio aid, but come on, there’s no way you can walk down the street with your £45 earphones and justifiably think ‘yeah, I can see where this extra £40 goes.’ Bass simply isn’t that important.
Anyway I went all-out and bought some £5.60 ones. They stood out from the rest of the field as they had ‘double air flow’. As the package says: ‘Extra bass – acoustic air-flow channelled to twin vents for balanced sound.’
Now, I have never, in all my laborious years of listening to my ipod, at any time thought: ‘oooh, this is a bit unbalanced.’ I have also never needed the help of ‘air-flow controlled vents’ for me to continue listening to those great George Formby tracks.
The reason I bought it was because of the price, and because it had ‘Philips’ on the front. Cheap, good quality, and of course, extra bass.
Over the last two days I’ve done five mystery shops. They’ve included walking through possibly the largest council estate in the entirety of Yorkshire (if you don’t include Hull itself) and nearly got run over in the centre of Leeds.
However, I’ll be frank, these two days have been fairly dull. My ipod was still unwilling to negotiate terms by which I could start listening to it again, and so I threw my earphones away. However, upon arrival of a store in Crossgates, (somewhere east of Leeds) I found some for sale.
‘Fantastic’, I thought as I sifted through reams of earphones, differentiated on packaging but barely on product. For this is the odd thing about earphones, or paper, chewing gum or envelopes; it is that the product is basically the same across the board. Simply, the package should just say: “sounds great in your face”, because that’s what earphones are supposed to do. It’s the marketing and packaging on the front of the product that makes you gullibly go “oh I need ultra bass quality balance”. (I haven’t got a clue what I just said there)
So, looking at the earphones section of the store, I was confronted with basic, in-ear, hooked, clip-on, bass balanced, airflow-equal, crystal clear, and dynamic. All different packages selling basically the same product. What astounded me is that the price ranged from basic: £2.47, to ultra bass quality balance: £45.
How can earphones cost £45? And who would buy them? OK so I wouldn’t buy the flimsy £2.47 ones that look more like a cheese wire than an audio aid, but come on, there’s no way you can walk down the street with your £45 earphones and justifiably think ‘yeah, I can see where this extra £40 goes.’ Bass simply isn’t that important.
Anyway I went all-out and bought some £5.60 ones. They stood out from the rest of the field as they had ‘double air flow’. As the package says: ‘Extra bass – acoustic air-flow channelled to twin vents for balanced sound.’
Now, I have never, in all my laborious years of listening to my ipod, at any time thought: ‘oooh, this is a bit unbalanced.’ I have also never needed the help of ‘air-flow controlled vents’ for me to continue listening to those great George Formby tracks.
The reason I bought it was because of the price, and because it had ‘Philips’ on the front. Cheap, good quality, and of course, extra bass.
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Down South – Day 2
Public transport is a wonderful thing. Today I travelled 230 miles in six moving hours. Unfortunately, a further three hours were added on thanks, of course, to public transport.
Getting up nice and early I left my B&B and strolled on down to the bus stop to get to my train. Next bus: 55 minutes. Now, 55 minutes could be an open window for a vast landscape of opportunity. However, on a cold Sunday morning in a small hamlet with no shops open and a heavy bag lashed to my back, I was pretty much redundant, resolved to sit and try to listen to a waning ipod next to an A-road.
I did manage to walk past a pub, on my single ramble of exploration, which had a sign outside: ‘Beer of the week: Bulmers, £2.90’. This lifted my spirits a meagre ounce or so. How can a ‘Beer of the week’ be a cider? And how can they charge such a price for one of the least ‘special’ drinks in the UK? Imports from Ireland must be rare in Hampshire.
I eventually got to Alton for my train, and delightedly only had to wait half an hour! The train was fairly nippy and I got into Guildford easy enough. This isn’t what I’ll remember it for however. There was a Korean man sat opposite me for most of the journey. As I bent down to sort my bag out at my feet, the man let slip a resounding fart. I don’t think he realised anyone had heard as he had his earphones in, but it was load and obtrusive. He looked very pleased with what he thought was an act of sheer stealth.
So far, I had only had to wait for an hour and a half. I was actually quite pleased with my own efficiency! All good spirit came to an end when I entered Waterloo from another train, and merged into the underground. The thing is with the underground is that it’s actually quite simple. Find your line, find your platform, get your train. My problem was that I couldn’t find a map to find my lie to find etc… The place was rammed! Hoards of burly football shirts clumping around blocking routes, passages and MAPS!
It seemed as though every London-based football team was playing today. West Ham shirts, Arsenal shirts, Chelsea shirts. Surprisingly no Fulham shirts (I can imagine they were all above ground in their limousines).
Every train was full to the point where people’s faces were almost pressed against the windows. I was beginning to suffer the effects of a Beijing-like atmosphere, and was delighted when I finally got on the third train up the Leicester Square, and then the fourth train to Kings Cross (X).
I practically embraced the clean air of the above ground with all the love and warmth possible, which then diluted away by annoyance as I looked at the departures board; Leeds: Departs at 14:10. The time was 13:20.
Great stuff. 50 minutes standing in the ‘QB’ queue in the station and I got on my train, read a book and a wee bit of poetry, and hopped into Leeds with a happy feeling of home.
Nine hours is a long journey. As I’ve often thought: never again.
Getting up nice and early I left my B&B and strolled on down to the bus stop to get to my train. Next bus: 55 minutes. Now, 55 minutes could be an open window for a vast landscape of opportunity. However, on a cold Sunday morning in a small hamlet with no shops open and a heavy bag lashed to my back, I was pretty much redundant, resolved to sit and try to listen to a waning ipod next to an A-road.
I did manage to walk past a pub, on my single ramble of exploration, which had a sign outside: ‘Beer of the week: Bulmers, £2.90’. This lifted my spirits a meagre ounce or so. How can a ‘Beer of the week’ be a cider? And how can they charge such a price for one of the least ‘special’ drinks in the UK? Imports from Ireland must be rare in Hampshire.
I eventually got to Alton for my train, and delightedly only had to wait half an hour! The train was fairly nippy and I got into Guildford easy enough. This isn’t what I’ll remember it for however. There was a Korean man sat opposite me for most of the journey. As I bent down to sort my bag out at my feet, the man let slip a resounding fart. I don’t think he realised anyone had heard as he had his earphones in, but it was load and obtrusive. He looked very pleased with what he thought was an act of sheer stealth.
So far, I had only had to wait for an hour and a half. I was actually quite pleased with my own efficiency! All good spirit came to an end when I entered Waterloo from another train, and merged into the underground. The thing is with the underground is that it’s actually quite simple. Find your line, find your platform, get your train. My problem was that I couldn’t find a map to find my lie to find etc… The place was rammed! Hoards of burly football shirts clumping around blocking routes, passages and MAPS!
It seemed as though every London-based football team was playing today. West Ham shirts, Arsenal shirts, Chelsea shirts. Surprisingly no Fulham shirts (I can imagine they were all above ground in their limousines).
Every train was full to the point where people’s faces were almost pressed against the windows. I was beginning to suffer the effects of a Beijing-like atmosphere, and was delighted when I finally got on the third train up the Leicester Square, and then the fourth train to Kings Cross (X).
I practically embraced the clean air of the above ground with all the love and warmth possible, which then diluted away by annoyance as I looked at the departures board; Leeds: Departs at 14:10. The time was 13:20.
Great stuff. 50 minutes standing in the ‘QB’ queue in the station and I got on my train, read a book and a wee bit of poetry, and hopped into Leeds with a happy feeling of home.
Nine hours is a long journey. As I’ve often thought: never again.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Down South – Day 1
Last Easter I had a lovely 5-day trip to Scotland and the Shetlands doing mystery shops. I stayed overnight at a B&B, ate readily prepared supermarket meals, and became best friends with my ipod.
Today, a semi déjà vu kicked in, as I set off on my way to Hampshire (which is one of those places below London which isn’t Dover or France). I packed my big bag full of poetry, a pork pie, a laptop and a brand spanking new volume of Macbeth, and set off down to Leeds station to catch a speed demon down to London Kings Cross (spelt Kings X on the train timetable, which I took five minutes to realise).
I was heading to a town called Alton. When doing some B&B booking yesterday I googled (definitely a verb) ‘Alton B&Bs’, and clicked on the first link. At the top of this page, even before the list of possible Alton hotels, there was a flashing sign saying ‘THIS IS NOT ALTON TOWERS!’ This made me chuckle.
Anyway, to get to Alton you have to get a train from Waterloo Station. To get to Waterloo Station you have to wander around the labyrinth of the Underground looking for possible lines that aren’t under maintenance work. I thought I did quite well: only got lot twice!
Eventually I ended up at Alton train station, where a steam train was sat puffing away on the opposite platform. Crossing over to have a sneak peek at this noisy machine, I accidentally slipped back through time about 90 years. There I stood, staring at a green steam train, in a perfectly painted, maintained and flower-bedded platform. A hidden platform behind the usual dross concrete sties, this place was a picturesque idyll; the perfect scene for a woman with a handkerchief dabbing her eyes awaiting her hero from the train, with smoke billowing so that he walks out of seemingly nowhere in a terribly romantic scene from the 1940s that makes you wonder if the aisles of theatre halls of that era were fitted with vomit drainage systems.
I left the station, (handkerchief still in pocket) and set off for another town called Alresford. Here I made possibly one of the biggest cock-ups of my illustrious mystery shopping career. Having bought my selected items from my store, I left without picking up my receipt. I realised this 15 minutes after leaving the store, and so returned. I had the struggle of asking for my receipt, making up the excuse that I needed to keep track of my finances without letting loose that I was in fact a mystery shopper, and managed to convince one of the staff members to rummage through a bin of receipts until he found mine.
With that relief I left Alresford and headed to my final stop, a hamlet called Four Marks. Before this though, I was made to sit in a bus shelter next to two neanderthal girls who would have thought salad dressing was funny. They were sat, watching cars go past, saying if they would like the car or not. Not exactly annoying maybe, but when you take into account they were saying it in the ‘I want that one’ and ‘I don’t like it’ voice of Andy the wheelchair man off Little Britain, and giggling each time, it seriously got to me.
The giggling continued until I got on the bus, where my ipod decided that it didn’t want to be my friend anymore. For no reason whatsoever, my earplugs died. I changed plug (I can only use one ear obviously) and it worked, barely. So, sitting in silence on the bus, I turned to see the giggling mongoloids fixed on the road, looking for other cars.
Gladly I got off the bus, and now find myself sat in my room of a B&B looking at the pub menu. I think I need a pint…
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Flat
I think I’m starting to become lazy. I used to write a blog as soon as I got off my bike, before shower or food. However, over the last few weeks, my entries have rather trickled in, instead of the flood of a bursting of a dam.
The visits I am referring to today happened two days ago. The reason I have taken a while to recount them is that I simply haven’t been bothered to click on the ‘W’ icon on my desktop and open up a Word document.
But now I’m here, sat by my computer, with a clear memory of my trip two days ago, and a clear understanding of the old Scouts motto ‘Be Prepared’.
So, two days ago was my first bout of mystery shops for my second year of uni. I hadn’t used my bike in four months, and had had it happily leant against the stable in my garden all summer. It felt strange being back on that bike. The tiny wheels, semi-disintegrated gears and low seat that made me look like a failed student in the artistry of clowns. What a beast!
Something was different though. I couldn’t figure it out as I peddled past Hyde Park. Nor could I understand what the problem was as I flew past the uni. It was only as I sat at traffic lights near the train station that I realised my back tyre was flatter than a gymnast’s stomach (excluding 1970s eastern European gymnasts, obviously).
I then looked at my front tyre; flat as well. Four months in the atrocious British summer had ruined my tyres. I’d like to expostulate on the possibility that the low pressure in the atmosphere was a contributing factor to the loss of pressure in my tyres, but that would be silly.
I decided to take my bike to Huddersfield (where my mystery shops were) anyway. Peddling up New Hey Road towards Marsh is a task with a perfect bike, but with my tyres, the uphill slog was as strenuous as whisking frozen custard. Every peddle was an intense push against the added friction my tyres were subjecting me to. But I finally got there.
After my first visit in Marsh, I began my descent back into Huddersfield and along to Wakefield Road. The majority of this is downhill, but because of my tyres, I still had to peddle most of it! Freewheeling on concrete was like slowly squelching through tar. The tyres would simply not budge.
I eventually got to my other store, and then back onto the train to Leeds. As I got in to Leeds, I decided it was pointless trying to bike any more, and so walked up to the university sports centre, to borrow a bike pump.
I asked for a bike pump. The lady in the sports centre gave me a pump. It was a football pump. I only realised this after I’d hoisted the bike onto a wall and screwed off the tyre cap. Useless.
I handed back the pump, and walked home.
Be Prepared.
The visits I am referring to today happened two days ago. The reason I have taken a while to recount them is that I simply haven’t been bothered to click on the ‘W’ icon on my desktop and open up a Word document.
But now I’m here, sat by my computer, with a clear memory of my trip two days ago, and a clear understanding of the old Scouts motto ‘Be Prepared’.
So, two days ago was my first bout of mystery shops for my second year of uni. I hadn’t used my bike in four months, and had had it happily leant against the stable in my garden all summer. It felt strange being back on that bike. The tiny wheels, semi-disintegrated gears and low seat that made me look like a failed student in the artistry of clowns. What a beast!
Something was different though. I couldn’t figure it out as I peddled past Hyde Park. Nor could I understand what the problem was as I flew past the uni. It was only as I sat at traffic lights near the train station that I realised my back tyre was flatter than a gymnast’s stomach (excluding 1970s eastern European gymnasts, obviously).
I then looked at my front tyre; flat as well. Four months in the atrocious British summer had ruined my tyres. I’d like to expostulate on the possibility that the low pressure in the atmosphere was a contributing factor to the loss of pressure in my tyres, but that would be silly.
I decided to take my bike to Huddersfield (where my mystery shops were) anyway. Peddling up New Hey Road towards Marsh is a task with a perfect bike, but with my tyres, the uphill slog was as strenuous as whisking frozen custard. Every peddle was an intense push against the added friction my tyres were subjecting me to. But I finally got there.
After my first visit in Marsh, I began my descent back into Huddersfield and along to Wakefield Road. The majority of this is downhill, but because of my tyres, I still had to peddle most of it! Freewheeling on concrete was like slowly squelching through tar. The tyres would simply not budge.
I eventually got to my other store, and then back onto the train to Leeds. As I got in to Leeds, I decided it was pointless trying to bike any more, and so walked up to the university sports centre, to borrow a bike pump.
I asked for a bike pump. The lady in the sports centre gave me a pump. It was a football pump. I only realised this after I’d hoisted the bike onto a wall and screwed off the tyre cap. Useless.
I handed back the pump, and walked home.
Be Prepared.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Back up to speed
Well, over the last few days I’ve thankfully been able to get back to some good old shopping for booze. From the stunning shaven-headed streets of Bolton to the pleasant high street of Ilkley, I’ve covered more distance than Paula Radcliff’s pacemaker.
So, my stint began on Tuesday 8th September, last week in fact, with a trip to Manchester. Now I like Manchester. It’s a cool city with lots to do. The only problem is, is that it rains a lot. This has something to do with westerly winds and Pennine hills which shan’t be used as a tool or boredom right now, but basically it rains in Manchester.
So it was to my unexpected delight that, whence arriving in Manchester (and that is the first time I have ever used the word ‘whence’, but feel I should use it more often) that the sun was shining on a particularly muggy Lancastrian day.
My first point of call was Bolton, a town whose name originates from the word ‘bothel’, meaning a dwelling. I wonder how many ‘bothels’ there are in Bolton today… Both supermarket visits went well, even though I thought I had lost one of the stores. Whilst I was cycling along looking for my store, I stopped and asked someone who can only be described as an impersonation of a ‘lady of the night’ where Deane Street was. She said she didn’t know, and had never heard of it. I was about to cycle away when she went blurted “Do you mean Deane Road love? Cos yer on it.” Fantastic, it had taken her about three minutes to make the possible connection that I may not know the local area, and that I may have meant to say ‘road’ rather than ‘street’.
Anyway, two supermarket visits in Bolton were followed by two in Oldham, possibly one of the loveliest and most cultured towns I have visited; apparently I was lucky not to get stabbed on one of the visits. I eventually ended up in Irlam, a place of which I can remember nothing about, so I’ll leave it at that.
The next day I decided to go to Pontefract. I figured that if I went to Pontefract I could come back via Leeds and watch the England match with my chums in the pub. Lovely, so off I went to Pontefract. To get to Pontefract, you have to change at Wakefield Kirkgate, a knackered old station fallen into terrible disrepair. The train stood and waited for ten minutes at Kirkgate, and then finally worked it’s way to Wakefield Westgate. Excellent, I was on my way, unbeknownst that, of course, I had gotten confused and was heading for the wrong station.
My predicament got worse when, on realising that I had made a mistake and needed to get to Kirkgate, the free town bus was a ten minute wait with a load of school children shrieking around, eating sweets. Overall, it took 40 minutes to travel from West to Kirk gates, which would have taken ten minutes to walk, apparently.
On arriving at Kirkgate station, I realised I had 50 minutes to wait for my next train. A journey that should have taken one hour and 15 minutes took exactly two and a half hours, but I finally got to Pontefract. I’ll be honest, I didn’t see much of Pontefract as I ran to the supermarket for my mystery shop, and then ran to another station at the other side of town; my only chance of getting to the pub in time for the England game!
Luckily I got to the pub in time, watched a good match with my chums, and then went home. I got myself a day’s worth of rest, and then set out for a trip of central Yorkshire.
I’ve visited Garforth, Swillington and Rothwell on the same day three times now. For a single train fare and a bit of cardiovascular on the bike, I can earn a tasty amount of crisps, booze and money for trying to stay fit and healthy. And so that’s what I did last Friday, eventually arriving back in Leeds with a bag full of alcohol. A quick sneak up to Ilkley for a more regal shopping experience and I was done, with a hoard of six bottles on my back.
When I finally got around to counting my bounty of booze, I found that I had amounted, mostly from these recent visits, 26 bottles of beer, ale or cider, a bottle of whisky and a bottle of wine. Not bad to say I got them all for free… It’s good to be back!
So, my stint began on Tuesday 8th September, last week in fact, with a trip to Manchester. Now I like Manchester. It’s a cool city with lots to do. The only problem is, is that it rains a lot. This has something to do with westerly winds and Pennine hills which shan’t be used as a tool or boredom right now, but basically it rains in Manchester.
So it was to my unexpected delight that, whence arriving in Manchester (and that is the first time I have ever used the word ‘whence’, but feel I should use it more often) that the sun was shining on a particularly muggy Lancastrian day.
My first point of call was Bolton, a town whose name originates from the word ‘bothel’, meaning a dwelling. I wonder how many ‘bothels’ there are in Bolton today… Both supermarket visits went well, even though I thought I had lost one of the stores. Whilst I was cycling along looking for my store, I stopped and asked someone who can only be described as an impersonation of a ‘lady of the night’ where Deane Street was. She said she didn’t know, and had never heard of it. I was about to cycle away when she went blurted “Do you mean Deane Road love? Cos yer on it.” Fantastic, it had taken her about three minutes to make the possible connection that I may not know the local area, and that I may have meant to say ‘road’ rather than ‘street’.
Anyway, two supermarket visits in Bolton were followed by two in Oldham, possibly one of the loveliest and most cultured towns I have visited; apparently I was lucky not to get stabbed on one of the visits. I eventually ended up in Irlam, a place of which I can remember nothing about, so I’ll leave it at that.
The next day I decided to go to Pontefract. I figured that if I went to Pontefract I could come back via Leeds and watch the England match with my chums in the pub. Lovely, so off I went to Pontefract. To get to Pontefract, you have to change at Wakefield Kirkgate, a knackered old station fallen into terrible disrepair. The train stood and waited for ten minutes at Kirkgate, and then finally worked it’s way to Wakefield Westgate. Excellent, I was on my way, unbeknownst that, of course, I had gotten confused and was heading for the wrong station.
My predicament got worse when, on realising that I had made a mistake and needed to get to Kirkgate, the free town bus was a ten minute wait with a load of school children shrieking around, eating sweets. Overall, it took 40 minutes to travel from West to Kirk gates, which would have taken ten minutes to walk, apparently.
On arriving at Kirkgate station, I realised I had 50 minutes to wait for my next train. A journey that should have taken one hour and 15 minutes took exactly two and a half hours, but I finally got to Pontefract. I’ll be honest, I didn’t see much of Pontefract as I ran to the supermarket for my mystery shop, and then ran to another station at the other side of town; my only chance of getting to the pub in time for the England game!
Luckily I got to the pub in time, watched a good match with my chums, and then went home. I got myself a day’s worth of rest, and then set out for a trip of central Yorkshire.
I’ve visited Garforth, Swillington and Rothwell on the same day three times now. For a single train fare and a bit of cardiovascular on the bike, I can earn a tasty amount of crisps, booze and money for trying to stay fit and healthy. And so that’s what I did last Friday, eventually arriving back in Leeds with a bag full of alcohol. A quick sneak up to Ilkley for a more regal shopping experience and I was done, with a hoard of six bottles on my back.
When I finally got around to counting my bounty of booze, I found that I had amounted, mostly from these recent visits, 26 bottles of beer, ale or cider, a bottle of whisky and a bottle of wine. Not bad to say I got them all for free… It’s good to be back!
Friday, 7 August 2009
It all started here…
Around about once a month, I get an email from the mystery shopping company I work for asking if I can do some ‘urgent visits’ around the country. Last weekend, ten visits covering most of Northern Ireland turned up. I volunteered to do them all, and would have enjoyed a lovely holiday, if it wasn’t for someone else quickly nipping in and stealing them from me.
It took me about four hours to plan an imaginary journey around Northern Ireland. I wasn’t happy. Luckily though, my manager informed me there were some visits down in the midlands. I thought I might as well take them, and so last Sunday I took a trip with the mother and the brother down to Iron Bridge, Telford.
Before we got to Telford we had to stop via Uttoxeter, a town just below Derby. I think we must have spent half the fuel allowance on this visit, wriggling through every back street in the entire town to find the tucked-away store.
Uttoexter doesn’t do itself many favours though. OK it was my fault we got lost for half an hour, but simply the amount of roundabouts in that place is staggering! Roundabouts leading onto other roundabouts leading onto mega roundabouts. We circled a mini one twice we were so lost!
After getting over the dizziness of Uttoxeter, we made it down to Iron Bridge. It’s very rare I go to the midlands, I think there’s a reason they call it ‘the black country’, and so we thought it would be good to see how it all started for Britain, by taking a trip down memory lane, to the iron age…… wait; the industrial revolution.
So, as all well-educated young chaps should know, the industrial production of iron was born in Telford. A mega bridge was built, which seemed to impress people, and so everyone decided that iron production should commence on a mass scale. The bridge is the main attraction today, and the town has built various attractions to support a ‘grand day out’ (rather than people just gorming at a bridge).
One of these attractions was the house that housed the man who built the bridge – I think. It showed some dining rooms and a mock kitchen, etc… but it also had a dressing up room. Now, as you can see from the above picture, I feel I rather suit a Stuarts hat.
Anyway, so we were at the place where the industrial revolution all started. This is why we are one of the most enriched nations today. A good bit of hard labour and intense factory work has propelled us forward into an era of relative affluency and sophistication. China – I suppose – is currently rushing through what we managed over 200 years.
So, there’s a bridge. A huge arm spanning a massive gorge, gouged right into the Shropshire countryside.
The thing that really confuses me with the bridge is that, there’s not really anything on the other side of it. There’s just lots of trees and a toll booth. It’s as though they built a bridge for the fun of it, or for ‘the challenge’. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a wicked feat of engineering, especially when the intellectual sophistication of the average 18th century labourer was equivalent to that of a modern tree stump. However, I do feel that it may have been for nothing. In all the museums and things I went to, there was nothing that said why they built the thing. All I wanted to know was that there was a layer of limestone across the other side, or maybe a road to London, or anything. I reckon they just went mental and smelted too much iron, so had to get rid of the surplus.
The best thing I saw though was a general estimate of costs for the whole project. The iron cost £3,600, the advertising and ‘paintings’ cost £15, and the celebratory beer cost £24! It’s good to know that the manufacturers spent little on advertising what they were doing, to save it for one big piss up at the end of it all!
So that was Iron Bridge. Not the most eventful of trips, but a nice day out of the house with mum and the rodent. I now know how iron is made, and love the word ‘molten slag’!
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Battered West Coast
Finally, finally, after 5 weeks of being locked up in a bedroom smaller than Ravi Bopara’s batting average (miniscule!) I feel recovered enough to begin mystery shopping once again.
This time, instead of a nice local shop to break me back into the undented mould, I grabbed the chance of whisking off to the delightful Cumbrian coast. I’ve been twice before and thought it was a fairly miserable place, but nothing prepared me for the delights of two – how should I say – ‘unfortunate’ towns.
So, my mini adventure would take me to the towns of Workington and Whitehaven. One sounded like the shelter for the mutants formed by Sellafield radiation leaks with the nation’s turds washed up on the shore, whilst the other sounded like an idyllic seaside getaway, where butterflies would populate the brimming flowerbeds of each and every beautifully trimmed front garden.
To be frank, both were closer to the former. I arrived late in Workington after the train to Carlisle had to be stopped for half an hour whilst they figured out why the doors wouldn’t shut. Thankfully the driver told us over the tannoy that the staff had ‘successfully managed to override the safety system’ and the doors were shut. Relieving to know that when the train falls off the tracks at least the doors will be closed.
So, late in Workington, I rushed to my store and completed my visit. Strangely, there was a man behind me in the queue for the till who was clearly a coastal kind of guy. As I stood waiting, he uploaded 8 four-packs of tuna and salmon chunks onto the conveyor belt thingy. Now I like fish, can eat it with anything, but I seriously struggled to figure out what this sea dweller was going to do with 32 cans of fruits de mer. Maybe one massive toastie?
After my visit I began walking back to the station, when I realised I had 50 minutes to wait for my train. I gave up half of this time to sitting on a bench in the platform eating the spoils of my mystery shop, watching a podgy kid chase after a coin his sister was throwing to him; he looked like a pug dog, and not running much faster either.
This entertainment could only enthral me up to a point, whereby I went for a look around the centre of Workington. What I found was not too dissimilar to Market Rasen, a town in Lincolnshire I visited where all the shops were charity shops. This time, there was a newsagents or off license on every other street corner. They were everywhere! Advertising birthday cards, confectionary and tobacco. Most were next to very run-down pubs as well, maybe not surprisingly.
I also walked past a policewoman on my travels. After looking into the eighth DIY shop window in 200 yards, I noticed a young blonde lady in police uniform walking towards me. “Phwar! Get in!” I hear you say. However, this isn’t what I was thinking. She was walking like certain ladies do after just a couple of jugs of straight vodka, and texting vehemently on her phone. This got me thinking: ‘is this town policed by a staggering young lady more interested in the vanity of her social life than preventing crime?’ The non-tabloid part of my brain kicked in and thought: ‘probably not.’
Eventually I got the train down to Whitehaven. This is no ordinary train however. This single carriage golf buggy runs on a track so close to the sea that the sheer drop down to the crashing waves made me feel ill. We must have been going at a steady four miles per hour for at least 20 minutes to get past the cliff face. Luckily we had a safety system in place, so if we had of crashed into the sea, at least the doors would open.
Whitehaven was as similar to Workington as two pieces of white A4 from the same tree. The thing is with these towns on the west coast is that they need to be somewhat protected from the prevailing westerlies. Therefore, the visually evocative thing to do is to pebbledash every square inch of building, and use nothing but the most beautiful shades of grey to cover it up. Whitehaven looked like a large-scale model of a concrete pavement that’s been left alone so long, weeds are starting to grow out from underneath it.
Unfortunately for me the rain didn’t help either. Instead of sitting on a platform waiting for my train, I was forced to walk around to keep warm, ending up on the ‘beach’. I won’t comment on this beach, apart from the fact that I was the only person there and the ground was more dismal in colour than the buildings.
Happily my journey home was normal, and I arrived in Huddersfield station 12 hours and 10 minutes after I had set off. What a delightful way to spend the day.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Medieval 'artists'
The day when you have to pay off your rent is a terrible day. I haven’t even lived in my house for next year yet, and already have had to dish out £909 for it. Yesterday I had to suffer this excruciating loss to my bank account, and so how better to cheer me up than a cheeky mystery shop!
My visit was based in the swanky Clarence Docks area of Leeds. Beautifully renovated for all the posh people to live, shop and socialise. I bought a hefty amount of sushi and ate it lovingly by the canal. I was surprised I finished it due to the fact that I had already eaten an entire BHS breakfast just an hour before. (8 bloody items!!)
So, feeling rather bloated in the Leeds sunshine, I waddled on down to the Royal Armouries museum. Free entry to see a load of guns and weapons and shit? Yes please!
Having nursed my belly through the world wars, oriental imperialism and civil war exhibitions, I finally got to the medieval stuff. I have to say, they wore a hell of a lot of armour. It must have weighed a ton! Helmets, chained tunics, breastplates, shin guards, crotch boxes (maybe not) were all on display.
The medieval weaponry was also fairly cool. Swords and shields built in varying sizes but basic shapes told me that these guys knew how to manufacture stuff that was affective in battle and easy to use.
Unfortunately, the art scene at the time of the medieval period was clearly not up to the same standard. The picture above shows a delightful scene of a French siege, in which the battling forces are protected by what looks like metal tortoise shells. Now, this is either a fantastic representation of how the French used Troy-like customs to disguise themselves as giant souvenir tortoises to gain entry to the city, or medieval artists were simply shite at realism painting.
I reckon it was the latter. The people in the buildings are smiling, and one of the tortoises has his head on the side of his shell. The geezer who painted this really captured the emotional torment and physical struggle or war-torn France.
I left the museum wondering how on earth society had managed to represent itself so beautifully in the Greek and Roman times through art and architecture, only for it to degrade to a level of childish scribblings in the medieval period. What was wrong with those guys?
This question troubled me up until I had to pay my rent. A bigger annoyance (surprisingly worth £909) then took over.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
The bike: the easiest way to the moral high ground
Well it’s been a while but I finally managed to get out on a mystery shop the other day, to the beautiful town of Rochdale.
This was a ‘spur of the moment’ visit that was assigned to me about 40 minutes before I was on my bike and heading into Huddersfield town centre. I was to make minimal profit, buy purely alcohol that I had little intention on drinking, and generally bike myself into a hayfever-filled daze.
So, a delightful June day was in full swing as I peddled along the side of the road towards Huddersfield. And if there is one piece of advice I can give about cycling into town, is that you have to keep aware. Car drivers are mentalists and have absolutely no recognition towards the safety of a cyclist, something that I discovered almost to my detriment as a cool, super groovy sports car sped past me, destabilising me due to the vacuum it left behind, and subsequently had to screech the breaks in order to slow for the speed cameras.
Actually, on speed cameras, I’m fairly sure I did over 30mph as I cruised down into town. I was overtaking cars as we went though the speed traps, so surely that means I was going over 30? I didn’t get flashed though, which was a disappointment.
Eventually I got the train and ended up in Victoria station, Manchester. There, something happened that semi restores faith in our policing system. Two Manchester scallies (not to delve into stereotype at all here) hadn’t paid their train fares, and had no way of doing so (naughty). So, some spectacle-adorned policeman came down with his big hat and fluorescent jacket and closed down the train so he could fine them. We were all stood on the platform looking in, having a right good snigger about it all.
I gladly showed my ticket to the inspector as I boarded the train, and within a few minutes was on a little platform somewhere near Rochdale. At this point I’d like to add that it was Rochdale that I wanted to go to, not Rotherham. Unfortunately, the ticket man at Huddersfield station didn’t realise this until he’d printed out the south Yorkshire tickets. I almost missed my train due to such incompetence!
So, biking around Rochdale. There is really nothing much to comment on. There are roads, and more roads, and massive junctions that connect roads and that are a right pain in the saddle for a cyclist to conquer.
There is something good in Rochdale however, and that’s the accent. A hard, proud accent straight from t’ factories. A real accent that immediately gives you a sense of place in the barren Lancashire Pennines. An accent that is far more understandable than the Kentish crap I had to put up with a week before.
The visit went well. I got lots of alcohol (still not drunk) and two pints of milk (drunk before I even got home). The way back was a bit of an eye opener though. There was an old man, who I’m not sure if he was drunk, mentally challenged, or simply very boisterous, who was talking to the other strangers on the train. He saw my bike, grinned inanely, and began a 20-minute one-way conversation about how youngsters like me should do more cycling and train riding than driving cars. I was a saint apparently, and I of course happily lapped up the morality of it all, agreeing with whatever he said. He addressed the problems of engine pollution on today’s streets, which, as he put is ever so perfectly, ‘Changes someone who is green, like you [he point’s to me], into someone who is black with sot and smog’.
I liked that analogy, shook the old codger’s hand, and quite briskly left the carriage at Victoria.
This was a ‘spur of the moment’ visit that was assigned to me about 40 minutes before I was on my bike and heading into Huddersfield town centre. I was to make minimal profit, buy purely alcohol that I had little intention on drinking, and generally bike myself into a hayfever-filled daze.
So, a delightful June day was in full swing as I peddled along the side of the road towards Huddersfield. And if there is one piece of advice I can give about cycling into town, is that you have to keep aware. Car drivers are mentalists and have absolutely no recognition towards the safety of a cyclist, something that I discovered almost to my detriment as a cool, super groovy sports car sped past me, destabilising me due to the vacuum it left behind, and subsequently had to screech the breaks in order to slow for the speed cameras.
Actually, on speed cameras, I’m fairly sure I did over 30mph as I cruised down into town. I was overtaking cars as we went though the speed traps, so surely that means I was going over 30? I didn’t get flashed though, which was a disappointment.
Eventually I got the train and ended up in Victoria station, Manchester. There, something happened that semi restores faith in our policing system. Two Manchester scallies (not to delve into stereotype at all here) hadn’t paid their train fares, and had no way of doing so (naughty). So, some spectacle-adorned policeman came down with his big hat and fluorescent jacket and closed down the train so he could fine them. We were all stood on the platform looking in, having a right good snigger about it all.
I gladly showed my ticket to the inspector as I boarded the train, and within a few minutes was on a little platform somewhere near Rochdale. At this point I’d like to add that it was Rochdale that I wanted to go to, not Rotherham. Unfortunately, the ticket man at Huddersfield station didn’t realise this until he’d printed out the south Yorkshire tickets. I almost missed my train due to such incompetence!
So, biking around Rochdale. There is really nothing much to comment on. There are roads, and more roads, and massive junctions that connect roads and that are a right pain in the saddle for a cyclist to conquer.
There is something good in Rochdale however, and that’s the accent. A hard, proud accent straight from t’ factories. A real accent that immediately gives you a sense of place in the barren Lancashire Pennines. An accent that is far more understandable than the Kentish crap I had to put up with a week before.
The visit went well. I got lots of alcohol (still not drunk) and two pints of milk (drunk before I even got home). The way back was a bit of an eye opener though. There was an old man, who I’m not sure if he was drunk, mentally challenged, or simply very boisterous, who was talking to the other strangers on the train. He saw my bike, grinned inanely, and began a 20-minute one-way conversation about how youngsters like me should do more cycling and train riding than driving cars. I was a saint apparently, and I of course happily lapped up the morality of it all, agreeing with whatever he said. He addressed the problems of engine pollution on today’s streets, which, as he put is ever so perfectly, ‘Changes someone who is green, like you [he point’s to me], into someone who is black with sot and smog’.
I liked that analogy, shook the old codger’s hand, and quite briskly left the carriage at Victoria.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Repetition
Well sadly it now seems that I’m going full circle when it comes to mystery shops. Yesterday I visited a store for the second time, and today I visited two stores that I have both visited twice before.
It’s got to the stage where I’m starting to recognise changes at each shop. The supermarket in Clarence Docks now has bike-parking facilities, whilst the snacks section of the store by the river has moved to the sidewall. Amazing isn’t it!
I’ve clearly been doing this for too long now. It’s been about eight months since my first ever visit in Huddersfield, and from looking at my map I’ve travelled a fair bit. I suppose it is a little sad when you start noting down the changes of your repeated visits.
It’s got to the stage where I’m starting to recognise changes at each shop. The supermarket in Clarence Docks now has bike-parking facilities, whilst the snacks section of the store by the river has moved to the sidewall. Amazing isn’t it!
I’ve clearly been doing this for too long now. It’s been about eight months since my first ever visit in Huddersfield, and from looking at my map I’ve travelled a fair bit. I suppose it is a little sad when you start noting down the changes of your repeated visits.
Monday, 1 June 2009
Sweltering heat and one young fool
After a week of sitting around doing less than what those who live on the dole do all day; e.g. nothing, a double shop finally came around. Today, it was a trip to a place I’d already been, and a lovely new shop to get my teeth into.
The day started well. I woke at 10, got ready at 11, and finally got my arse out of the flat by 12noon. What a glorious day to be out! Intense heat and little wind do wonders for pollution levels on the roads, and I certainly got a mouthful of that notion as I biked up to Headingley to start my ‘journey’.
The trip eventually took me to place I had visited a few months ago. Back then - oh it seems like only yesterday - there were road signs warning people of overhead cables. Now, however, the signs were gone – hurray! – but the cables weren’t. So, if the signs aren’t there now then it surely was pointless them being there to begin with, as the ‘hazard’ is still there!
Well as my blood curdled with rage and fury I rode on by and completed my first supermarket visit of the day. I was in the middle of Chapel Allerton, a place not exactly reputable for low crime records, so I decided not to hang around for too long – after all my bike is worth around 40p – and scoot to the next shop.
By the time I got to Easterly Road (which is somewhere in Leeds but I haven’t really got a clue) I was roasting. I can imagine between shop visits I lost about 7 lbs in water alone. I had to peel the helmet from my scalp and pant into the store.
To be honest I was feeling a little sorry for myself: out in the middle of nowhere with a bike and ipod for company and very, very moist. Luckily, a young lad made me feel glad to be me (although I do feel old saying that). The young ‘un was stood next to me trying to get served for ‘an alcoholic beverage’ of which I shall not name - free advertising? No chance!
He was wearing huge shades and had a weasely little moustache that made him look like a fruit fly, although clearly he hoped it made him look rugged, weather-beaten and over-age. The man behind the till wasn’t and idiot, and wouldn’t serve him.
I was amazed by the boy’s annoyance at this, as though he thought the disguise of two satellite dishes and a coal smudge slapped to his face was bound to work! He moped out of the shop, and as I biked past him later on, saw him waking away with three other pre-pubescent toddlers, bless.
Well, that was my trip around northeast Leeds. I overheated, almost drowned in my own perspiration, saw the worst attempt ever at getting served, and found that road signs are as useless when there are there as when they aren’t. Lovely.
The day started well. I woke at 10, got ready at 11, and finally got my arse out of the flat by 12noon. What a glorious day to be out! Intense heat and little wind do wonders for pollution levels on the roads, and I certainly got a mouthful of that notion as I biked up to Headingley to start my ‘journey’.
The trip eventually took me to place I had visited a few months ago. Back then - oh it seems like only yesterday - there were road signs warning people of overhead cables. Now, however, the signs were gone – hurray! – but the cables weren’t. So, if the signs aren’t there now then it surely was pointless them being there to begin with, as the ‘hazard’ is still there!
Well as my blood curdled with rage and fury I rode on by and completed my first supermarket visit of the day. I was in the middle of Chapel Allerton, a place not exactly reputable for low crime records, so I decided not to hang around for too long – after all my bike is worth around 40p – and scoot to the next shop.
By the time I got to Easterly Road (which is somewhere in Leeds but I haven’t really got a clue) I was roasting. I can imagine between shop visits I lost about 7 lbs in water alone. I had to peel the helmet from my scalp and pant into the store.
To be honest I was feeling a little sorry for myself: out in the middle of nowhere with a bike and ipod for company and very, very moist. Luckily, a young lad made me feel glad to be me (although I do feel old saying that). The young ‘un was stood next to me trying to get served for ‘an alcoholic beverage’ of which I shall not name - free advertising? No chance!
He was wearing huge shades and had a weasely little moustache that made him look like a fruit fly, although clearly he hoped it made him look rugged, weather-beaten and over-age. The man behind the till wasn’t and idiot, and wouldn’t serve him.
I was amazed by the boy’s annoyance at this, as though he thought the disguise of two satellite dishes and a coal smudge slapped to his face was bound to work! He moped out of the shop, and as I biked past him later on, saw him waking away with three other pre-pubescent toddlers, bless.
Well, that was my trip around northeast Leeds. I overheated, almost drowned in my own perspiration, saw the worst attempt ever at getting served, and found that road signs are as useless when there are there as when they aren’t. Lovely.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Monday, 25 May 2009
Trains: the bane of my life
Last weekend provided me with one of the longest journeys I have yet undergone in search for a supermarket. Barrow, Stornoway and Lerwick were far, but felt like nothing compared to a trip down to Cambridge.
As far as I’m aware, Cambridge is in the middle of the country, and so would just be a quick pop on the train down to that famous educational town. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise until I had booked my visit that it was in fact almost in Ipswich.
So, at 7am I blindly rose from a bloody deep sleep and trotted down to the station. I now have a problem with trains. Before last week I was fine. They were perfect transportation devices to get me around the country. However, the ‘big’ trains such as London Kings Cross and Virgin’s Glasgow rail network feel it is their duty to protect cyclists by booking their bikes onto the train, in order to protect insurance claims.
And how do we book a bike onto a train in order to protect insurance claims? Why, by rummaging through the labyrinth of the National Rail website, at least 24 hours in advance.
How on earth am I meant to get my bike onto a train if I don’t even know what train I’ll be getting until I’m at the station? A question posed to the platform man. So thanks Virgin, who made me walk half the Lake District in Windermere because I wasn’t insured on their network. Thanks GNER, who wouldn’t allow my bike on board, and so I had to wait another hour for the next train and then walk the rest of the day!
Now, some may think I’m lazy by moaning of walking everywhere. But, with a heavy bag and crippled right leg, I was not in the mood to walk the 4km route to Tesco, which wasn’t in Cambridge I later found out, but the neighbouring borough of Cherry Hinton.
The weather was razzling and I was more than a bit moist by the time I got to the store. It took an hour to find it, and six minutes to buy my stuff. To make matters worse, I was dressed in the least desirable clothes I own, the ones that sit in the back of your drawer for a decade, and are only used when nothing else has been washed.
So, I decided to get the bus back. This gave me the opportunity the see probably every suburb in a ten-mile radius of Cambridge: fascinating!
The whole visit cost me about eight hours of my life and a lot of calories, although I did make them up later on in the day. The train back was better though, mainly thanks to the comedic timing of a withered old gentleman in my carriage.
The man was sat, head back, snoring away. He was clearly enjoying his little snooze, and was only gently snoring. However, he ultimately gave one loud, gradually rising snore that came to a crescendo, producing a massive grunt. He woke himself up, looking startled, glanced at his watch, and then the rest of a carriage, who were all sniggering away. It’s bad when your own snores wake you up.
On returning to Leeds, I grabbed my bike from where I left it about seven hours earlier (cheers GNER) and sped back home. A quick shower, and I was ready for a Pizza Express visit in Ilkley.
I’ve done Pizza Express visits before and the food was always crap. However, armed with my friend Jess, the epitome of discretion, we entered the restaurant just outside the Ilkley station.
Luckily, the food, company and ambience were fantastic. Only a poor lack of foresight on my part complicated the evening. After the visit, we saw the train waiting in the station. Jess ran, I walked, and the doors shut in front of our eyes. We were left standing on the cold platform, with an hour to wait for the next train.
So, we went to the pub! Walking through Ilkley on a Saturday night is very strange. It’s pretty much dead. Just a few rough-looking pubs packed with disco lights and karaoke machines.
We found a pub that looked nice enough, but as soon as we entered, my opinion changed. It was clear that this was the pub that the underage gather in, in a hope of getting served, whilst a bunch of mid-30s also claim the bar as their own.
No ale on tap, I paid £2.95 for a Fosters. I cannot believe how such a drink can cost so much. The Ritz would serve it cheaper than that! That’s if they served Fosters, which I doubt.
We got the next train and ended up in a taxi in Leeds, with a taxi driver that seemed more interested in chatting with his mate than driving us. The journey reminded me of a scene I saw earlier in the day, with two street cleaners having a drag race off the line at traffic lights, in the dawn hours, whilst no one else was around. It was an amazing sight!
Luckily the taxi driver was concentrating enough and we didn’t crash, and I left Jess in order to get some much-needed kip. After 15 hours on trains, feet and bike, I basically fell on my bed.
As far as I’m aware, Cambridge is in the middle of the country, and so would just be a quick pop on the train down to that famous educational town. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise until I had booked my visit that it was in fact almost in Ipswich.
So, at 7am I blindly rose from a bloody deep sleep and trotted down to the station. I now have a problem with trains. Before last week I was fine. They were perfect transportation devices to get me around the country. However, the ‘big’ trains such as London Kings Cross and Virgin’s Glasgow rail network feel it is their duty to protect cyclists by booking their bikes onto the train, in order to protect insurance claims.
And how do we book a bike onto a train in order to protect insurance claims? Why, by rummaging through the labyrinth of the National Rail website, at least 24 hours in advance.
How on earth am I meant to get my bike onto a train if I don’t even know what train I’ll be getting until I’m at the station? A question posed to the platform man. So thanks Virgin, who made me walk half the Lake District in Windermere because I wasn’t insured on their network. Thanks GNER, who wouldn’t allow my bike on board, and so I had to wait another hour for the next train and then walk the rest of the day!
Now, some may think I’m lazy by moaning of walking everywhere. But, with a heavy bag and crippled right leg, I was not in the mood to walk the 4km route to Tesco, which wasn’t in Cambridge I later found out, but the neighbouring borough of Cherry Hinton.
The weather was razzling and I was more than a bit moist by the time I got to the store. It took an hour to find it, and six minutes to buy my stuff. To make matters worse, I was dressed in the least desirable clothes I own, the ones that sit in the back of your drawer for a decade, and are only used when nothing else has been washed.
So, I decided to get the bus back. This gave me the opportunity the see probably every suburb in a ten-mile radius of Cambridge: fascinating!
The whole visit cost me about eight hours of my life and a lot of calories, although I did make them up later on in the day. The train back was better though, mainly thanks to the comedic timing of a withered old gentleman in my carriage.
The man was sat, head back, snoring away. He was clearly enjoying his little snooze, and was only gently snoring. However, he ultimately gave one loud, gradually rising snore that came to a crescendo, producing a massive grunt. He woke himself up, looking startled, glanced at his watch, and then the rest of a carriage, who were all sniggering away. It’s bad when your own snores wake you up.
On returning to Leeds, I grabbed my bike from where I left it about seven hours earlier (cheers GNER) and sped back home. A quick shower, and I was ready for a Pizza Express visit in Ilkley.
I’ve done Pizza Express visits before and the food was always crap. However, armed with my friend Jess, the epitome of discretion, we entered the restaurant just outside the Ilkley station.
Luckily, the food, company and ambience were fantastic. Only a poor lack of foresight on my part complicated the evening. After the visit, we saw the train waiting in the station. Jess ran, I walked, and the doors shut in front of our eyes. We were left standing on the cold platform, with an hour to wait for the next train.
So, we went to the pub! Walking through Ilkley on a Saturday night is very strange. It’s pretty much dead. Just a few rough-looking pubs packed with disco lights and karaoke machines.
We found a pub that looked nice enough, but as soon as we entered, my opinion changed. It was clear that this was the pub that the underage gather in, in a hope of getting served, whilst a bunch of mid-30s also claim the bar as their own.
No ale on tap, I paid £2.95 for a Fosters. I cannot believe how such a drink can cost so much. The Ritz would serve it cheaper than that! That’s if they served Fosters, which I doubt.
We got the next train and ended up in a taxi in Leeds, with a taxi driver that seemed more interested in chatting with his mate than driving us. The journey reminded me of a scene I saw earlier in the day, with two street cleaners having a drag race off the line at traffic lights, in the dawn hours, whilst no one else was around. It was an amazing sight!
Luckily the taxi driver was concentrating enough and we didn’t crash, and I left Jess in order to get some much-needed kip. After 15 hours on trains, feet and bike, I basically fell on my bed.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Consistently inconsistent weather
I saw something today on my trip round Halifax that made me chuckle. Well, the thing I saw didn’t (it was a train cargo) but the thing it reminded me of did. I remembered sat on a platform, most probably in the middle of nowhere awaiting my link to another middle in a different nowhere, when a cargo train went past. On the side it simply read ‘WARNING! SHAFT HUMPING POSSIBLE’
Now, a sign like that is going to get my attention. And so, when I saw a cargo come thundering through Brighouse station today, my eyes were peeled for more humping. Unfortunately, there wasn’t even a warning sign. May day was off to a terrible start!
Anyway so I was in Brighouse waiting to go to Sowerby Bridge. For those who don’t know, Sowerby is a town jarred into a steep river valley, just below Halifax. And when I say below, I mean below.
After a cheeky shop round Sowerby, my plan was to bike to Halifax to complete a final mooch around a supermarket. Google maps said it was barely spitting distance from Sowerby, so I decided to bike it there. Unfortunately, what Google maps did NOT tell me was that to reach Halifax, you have to bike the northeast ridge of Everest.
The ascent up to Halifax is a killer, with steep, continual uphill following the path of the river. It must have been a meaty river to gorge such a gash in the earth. To make matters worse, the weather had changed. Oh you have to love the weather of the Pennines. One minute it’s bright sunshine, then the next some wind picks up and Manchester belches a rain cloud in your direction. I entered Sowerby Tesco in the sun; I left in the rain. This decided to continue until I was about 100 yards from my Halifax shop, when of course the Sun broke through the clouds.
‘Well, at least it’ll be sunny when I make my way back’, I thought. Of course I was wrong. The weather had reached new levels of utter dour when I got back on my bike. But I didn’t mind as I was about to free-wheel back down Everest and to the station back in Sowerby.
What I didn’t realise was just how strong the wind had become. I remember about a month ago going on a jolly trip down south to visit my mate Brede, in scenic Grantham, for his birthday. Everyone was there, and I was accidentally misunderstood when I told everyone huddled around the warming barbeque that I had been ‘blown off’ on my bike the previous week. Hilarity ensued, much to my detriment, but eventually I explained that the wind had diverted me into a ditch near Digley reserviour.
Anyway as I was saying, I hadn’t realised how strong the wind had got, and was ALMOST blown off my bike as I descended from the Heavens. Luckily I kept my balance and dignity and sped off towards the station. When I got to the station, the Sun was frolicking once again, which cheered me up. Even though I was soaking wet.
Now, a sign like that is going to get my attention. And so, when I saw a cargo come thundering through Brighouse station today, my eyes were peeled for more humping. Unfortunately, there wasn’t even a warning sign. May day was off to a terrible start!
Anyway so I was in Brighouse waiting to go to Sowerby Bridge. For those who don’t know, Sowerby is a town jarred into a steep river valley, just below Halifax. And when I say below, I mean below.
After a cheeky shop round Sowerby, my plan was to bike to Halifax to complete a final mooch around a supermarket. Google maps said it was barely spitting distance from Sowerby, so I decided to bike it there. Unfortunately, what Google maps did NOT tell me was that to reach Halifax, you have to bike the northeast ridge of Everest.
The ascent up to Halifax is a killer, with steep, continual uphill following the path of the river. It must have been a meaty river to gorge such a gash in the earth. To make matters worse, the weather had changed. Oh you have to love the weather of the Pennines. One minute it’s bright sunshine, then the next some wind picks up and Manchester belches a rain cloud in your direction. I entered Sowerby Tesco in the sun; I left in the rain. This decided to continue until I was about 100 yards from my Halifax shop, when of course the Sun broke through the clouds.
‘Well, at least it’ll be sunny when I make my way back’, I thought. Of course I was wrong. The weather had reached new levels of utter dour when I got back on my bike. But I didn’t mind as I was about to free-wheel back down Everest and to the station back in Sowerby.
What I didn’t realise was just how strong the wind had become. I remember about a month ago going on a jolly trip down south to visit my mate Brede, in scenic Grantham, for his birthday. Everyone was there, and I was accidentally misunderstood when I told everyone huddled around the warming barbeque that I had been ‘blown off’ on my bike the previous week. Hilarity ensued, much to my detriment, but eventually I explained that the wind had diverted me into a ditch near Digley reserviour.
Anyway as I was saying, I hadn’t realised how strong the wind had got, and was ALMOST blown off my bike as I descended from the Heavens. Luckily I kept my balance and dignity and sped off towards the station. When I got to the station, the Sun was frolicking once again, which cheered me up. Even though I was soaking wet.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
It ain’t ‘alf grim up north
Hurray, summer is upon us! Everywhere we look the daffodils are in flower, the birds are tweeting, and the tramps are in their t-shirts. Unfortunately, summer also means exam time for me. So, what a lovely excuse to get away from the pressures of exams and essays by going on a mystery shop, to Colne.
Colne, for those who don’t know, is in the middle of fucking nowhere! Trying to describe it to my mates went like this; “it’s near Burnley? Above Accrington? Other side of Manchester? West of here?” and so on until I got the map out.
I didn’t realise how far it was and so booked the visit willy-nilly (I’ve been craving to put that word in a blog). I then had a right good gander on the Internet and found it was a two and a half hour journey, just to get there. Unfortunately, what I didn’t realise was that there was only one and a quarter hours of actual train travelling. The rest of the time was mooching around station platforms awaiting my transport.
Well seeing as I booked it I had no choice but to go anyway. And so, at 11am on a pleasantly warm Friday morning, I was stuck in Accrington station with nothing to do, apart from watch a guy run almost in slow motion to catch a train that had already set off, as I awaited one myself to Colne.
I’ve begun to enjoy watching people run for trains. I’ve done it twice now myself, so I can justify laughing at others. I think it’s the sense of decreasing hope after every long, languid step, as the inevitable doors shut fast and the train pulls away from the platform, which amuses me most. Or maybe it’s the slow relaxing of the arms, as the weight of the briefcase takes full affect again, during which the realisation that the chase is over slows the runner in their tracks. Actually, it’s the grudging plod back to the timetable boards with a blend of annoyance and anger as they look up to find out the next train isn’t for 50 minutes, which tickles me most.
Anyways so after 45 minutes I get on the train, and finally get to Colne. I must say Colne is an odd place. The shops and buildings are modern, globalised and cool. The streets are properly tarmaced. The town hall is neatly polished.
However, under all this is still a feel that this place has been socially left to its own devices. As my dad put it, ‘It is a place that has missed out on the regeneration which has centred around Manchester’.
And, to be fair, it kind of has. Although buildings and supermarkets look fresh and exciting, the people seem trapped in a different age. Imagine if you will, a population of people from the 1960s all now living in a modern-day town. This is what Colne is like. Everyone knows each other. People hold conversations from across the street. Window cleaning is an important disk in the spine of the local economy. It is as though society has been cut off from the outside world. It’s charming, to an extent.
Unfortunately, there are the problems that occur in every other town in the country. The main one is semi-antisocial behaviour. Think of those guys who drive around with their windows down and their music splurging out of their stereos. They own the road. They take no shit. They can go at whatever speed they like, wherever they like. Now, imagine this, but everyone is doing it.
For this is my lasting impression of Colne. A long, jammed street full of cars with the windows down and music turned up to ten. What amazed me was that people over 30, with actual wrinkle lines and grey hair, were doing this too.
I thought it was a childish, immature effort to gain attention from the opposite sex, one that you grow out of that first time you plough your car into a lamppost. I didn’t realise this kind of thing stuck around with you throughout adulthood.
Anyway, I eventually find myself back on an Accrington platform, waiting 58 minutes for my train back to Leeds. I had enough time to walk round the whole of Accrington if I had wanted, but stuck to the station.
That’s if you could call it a station. Accrington station is two platforms, either side of a double rail track. There is a ticket booth that is shut, and a total of three seats. That is all. People are always sitting on these seats. The floor looks like someone had competed in a ‘spray vomit around as much as possible’ competition, and won. I didn’t sit down.
Instead I stood on the bridge overlooking the rail lines. Above is a picture of the station, and that is basically Accrington. One way in, one way out. Eventually, I happily took the later of these options.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Scotland – Day 5 – Inverness to Home!
Sat on a gradually filling stationary train in Aberdeen station, waiting to get back across the boarder, feeling very annoyed.
The good soul that I am offered to do a final mystery shop on a restaurant in Aberdeen, one that I shall not name. I’m going straight to the point, the food was absolutely dreadful! You wouldn’t feed what I had to your pet’s parasites.
I stomached a poorly prepared burger that tasted as though it had just come out of a microwave, Rustlers style. The cheese wasn’t melted, and I counted 14, just 14 undercooked chips. The bun was white and dry, and had about three fields of flower poured over it. This, plus a lager, came to £7.
I honestly don’t know who would willingly buy what I ate about half an hour ago for such a price. I bought a burger like this in Leeds, with the same disappointed result. I learnt my lesson and will never go back to the Oak for food. However, this was worse, as my hopes were high and I was bloody hungry!
I checked out the toilets as part of my mystery shop, and found one of the two cubicle doors was missing; figures.
Right well sat on this train I’ve begun to wonder what I have learnt on this trip. I suppose the main one is don’t go to Shetland or Isle of Lewis for a city-tour holiday. Don’t get a ferry unless the sea is very calm. And finally, don’t go to Aberdeen for anything, or you will end up with a pie that tastes of the inside of a particularly inflamed bunion staring up at you from the table.
Also, I have leant that public transport actually works, as long as you prepare and book and check and double-check about three weeks in advance. One good thing I have learnt is that you can get stuff for free, as I have been paid for this ‘holiday’. However, I have also been taught, through a long lecture by Henry the Stornoway B&B man, that Scottish pubs are notoriously unruly and should be utterly avoided.
If asked again if I could do a grand tour of Scotland, I’d have to seriously contemplate it. The pros are that I get time to myself to relax where possible and explore a bit. The cons are that there’s the risk it goes tits up, the meticulous planning involved beforehand, and the enormous weight of a backpack attached to you for five days.
As for public transport. I don’t think I fully appreciate it when it’s good. When it’s quiet. When it’s efficient. However, when you have two and a half hours of utterly shite music being played behind you on a crammed train from Edinburgh to Newcastle, sat next to a guy who seemed adamant to drink his way through the entire Magners orchard, who stank of a very heavy smoker.
When public transport works like a charm you barely notice it. It’s when you have to mix with nobheads that the brown stuff hits the whirly thing.
Friday, 17 April 2009
Scotland – Day 4 – Stornoway
This trip is now finally beginning to have a physical effect on me. I’ve now bought three bottles of whisky, adding to a very heavy bag. It feels like I’m of on a Duke of Edinburgh expedition. My shoulders and back are killing me.
Some of this pain was my fault however. Two days ago I was wondering around Lerwick and decided to go to the library (rock on!). The map said it was up Banks Road. So, turning up the road without looking, I began an ascent that was ludicrously steep.
Unfortunately, I had already begun to climb the bloody North Face when I realised how steep it was. I couldn’t turn back, knackered, as others were also walking up it. To make matters worse, a woman with a pram was overtaking me. I have to say an old crone with a pram speeding past a young (maybe not fit or healthy) man in walking gear is fairly embarrassing on the side of the guy. Therefore, I turned on the pistons and power-walked past her, past everyone else, and reached the summit first.
Victory! I shall not be embarrassed today! These were my thoughts as I set off for the library from the top of the hill, when suddenly I realised I was limping. So focussed I had been to avoid embarrassment and respectfully reach the peak first, I was unaware that my left calf had strained beyond the pain barrier.
So, sat on a bench next to the library, I had to endure the pram woman stroll past me again as I nursed my leg.
The pain is still niggling me now. Plus I jarred my right knee getting off the Inverness to Ullapool bus, so now I’m pretty much a walking cripple.
Back to Stornoway. It’s fairly dull to be honest. I managed to waste most of my time waiting for the ferry by taking photos of seagulls and bins. They have palm trees in the park. The Artic Circle is more tropical than this place, why on earth do they have palm trees? Just plant some heather in the park, that’s suitable. (Oh yes, I know my sturdy foliage)
One good thing about Stornoway is the bed and breakfast facilities. The place I stayed in last night was fantastic! The people kind, the bed comfy, and the telly supplied DAVE! Buzzcocks is so much better when watched in the middle of nowhere.
Anyway I’m now sat on the ferry going back to ‘the mainland’, as the locals call it. Some nobhead girl behind me decided to unleash the wit earlier, when the captain on the tannoy system asked for our attention. She replied “Huh, no!” and her three comrades in comedy all laughed. I suppose the irony is, is that by saying ‘no’ she clearly showed that the Captain had got her attention. She’s listening to a pink ipod and eating a Yorkie bar at the moment… classy. However, I think the pink hoodie nails it!
Sat on m bed in a B&B in Inverness now. I’m going to have to have an early night, as some nobhead (this word is the clear epithet of the day) kid sat right next to my head when I was snoozing on the boat. He turned the volume on his Nintendo DS up to some foghorn level, and then started elbowing my head whenever Mario went round a particularly tough corner.
I woke up and just stared at him. Stared and stared until he cocked on and walked off. I wouldn’t have minded if he was a little kid on his own, but he was about 11 and his lard-arsed excuse of a father was sat next to him.
No whisky tonight, just water.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Scotland – Day 3 - Coast to coast
Another night on the bloody sleeper seats left me with a crooked neck and a severely impaired lower back. However, I did sleep! I reckon I got maybe five hours last night. Buzzing.
On the train to Inverness at the moment. The Scottish highlands are far greater, more emphatic and simply more beautiful than anything in England. It walks all over the Lake District. The Pennines are simply a smudge on the Earths face in comparison.
In the train, however, there is nothing. There’s just nothing to look at, contemplate or muse over. There’s usually some freak to watch when on trains, certainly in Lincolnshire anyway, but here there’s nothing. What’s worse is, I can’t believe I’m complaining about the lack of something that usually I get very annoyed and complain about!
Ate my easter egg. It was a Simpsons one. Very tasty. Pity it was crushed beforehand. Although I suppose that saved me a bit of manual labour.
Hungry.
Well I finally got some food from two bonus mystery shops in Inverness. Once again I got sushi as I feel it’s too nice and cheap to pass up! I don’t know why people feel repulsed by sushi. What most don’t realise is, is that that the majority of sushi is actually cooked. The excuse of ‘ergh raw fish’ doesn’t stand up in my eyes. Plus even the raw stuff aint bad for you.
I’ve realised my accent is just not understandable in northern Scotland. I asked for some rice yesterday in the supermarket, and had to repeat myself three times before the woman went “Argh, rrrrrrrice!” rolling her /r/ with as much conviction and patriotic passion as she could. I found the rice, and then buggered off.
So I’m now sat on the ferry, about to embark (or disembark? What’s the difference?) on a voyage to Stornoway, with a bleeding nose. It was my own fault. The laptop got jammed in my bag, and, during the loosening procedure, I wrenched the thing out of my bag and into the bridge of my nose. I now look like an absolute tit typing with one hand whilst my other attempts to hide the tissue stuffed up my left nostril.
There’s an unopened packet of Hula Hoops on the seat near me. It’s been there for an hour now and no one has claimed them. However, there’s a bag right next to it. Maybe it’s been left from the last voyage? Maybe the Hoops (their street term there) are free pickings now? I’ll bide my time and see if anyone claims them.
Shit. Some old bint has moved in and claimed the bag, and the Hula Hoops. I had plans for them as well.
Scotland – Day 2 - Lerwick
I am going to start this post with an urgent, harrowing message. The Shetlands have a population of 21,000 people, with 6,800 living in Lerwick, the main town. It is a billion miles from even an inkling of external civilisation, and the only way to get here is by boat or plane.
How, then, can a disease spread so far north? How can the final remnants of internationalisation and common (but not popular by far) culture reach these historic isles? How the hell have fucking CHAVS managed to wrap their grubby little claws around this remote society?
It’s a sad indictment on the rest of the UK that we have managed to influence a society so far away and remote. Not that everyone is a chav in Lerwick, far from it. However, like every other town or city in this country, the streets are riddled with loitering youths with their tunes and hoodies which are just not appealing in any sense of the word!
Anyway, apart from that, Lerwick is a grand old place. Possibly not in the top 10 of places to visit before you die. Probably not in the top 100. However, if you happen to stumble upon it then it’s definitely worth a look round.
The Shetland museum is interesting and interactive. Fort Charlotte is cool place to chill out. The library is inside a church! Oh yes, it’s mental down Lerwick way.
There are one or two things I have realised though. The Scots, in general, seem very awkward when it comes to any sort of interaction. Even though the guys at the museum and the information centre were very helpful, you do get a sense of ‘the local shop’ when you walk into a newsagents or a pub when everyone looks round.
People on the streets seem awkward too. When you pass someone in the street or on a footpath, I find it polite to say “Hi”, “Morning”, or even “Good morrow to yon self, fine sire of the island realm”. Well, maybe not that last one. Basically, when you do greet someone they look at you as though you have just threatened them. A quick glanced eye contact is accompanied with a short grunt, which coming from a Scot sounds like someone clearing their throat. It’s as though they’re embarrassed to recognise me. (Feel free to add amusing joke about my facial features here)
Great. Just looked outside. As soon as I get onto the boat the Sun comes out. I may go for a stroll on the open deck!
Oh yeah – and I watched the Chelski vs Liverpool game on a poor reception TV last night, and was utterly thrilled at the result. There were seven Pool fans sat next to me. I silently buzzed.
Scotland – Day 1 - Getting to Shetland
Well it's been a few weeks since my last shop, but I'm glad I can finally get my fix!
So, I’m sat now on a boat in the middle of the North Sea heading towards the Shetland Islands. Nine hours ago I was happily tucked up in bed down Yorkshire way. Now I’m sat in a quiet bar, with no wi-fi connection, and Paul O’-bloody-Grady in my ear. I hope they put the footy on tonight, or else I may go and watch that 3D kids film which for the life of me I can’t remember the name of.
The journey up was fairly smooth. I slept on the train from Huddersfield to York. I stood on the train from York to Newcastle. I got kicked out of my seat and slept on the floor on the train from Newcastle to Edinburgh. And I wrote an utterly disgraceful opening of a poetry essay on the train from Edinburgh to Aberdeen.
I got to Aberdeen fairly early and so, having a few hours to kill, I went for a mooch around the town. I have to say it wasn’t too different from any other commercial inner-city street. No snazzy local shops, just Topman, Greggs, and the signature closed-down Zavvi.
I managed a beef and gravy pie from a grotty little indoor market that mirrored Queensgate in Huddersfield. It was quite nice to say it looked like it was made out of asbestos and malaria.
In open sea now, and it’s choppy. Apparently this is a smooth crossing. Well done Joe, remembering all those seasickness tablets… oh wait, no you didn’t did you! Well at least you’ve got some food to keep you occupied… ah! well you haven’t packed any have you!
Well what to do, what to do. Bar? I think so!
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Hail to the weather, for you make me look like a tit!
I shall have to start this post with a word of warning. Always wear glasses when cycling! This was probably the only good choice I made yesterday, preparing for a mystery shop in Selby.
Something that may have come apparent through other posts, I do a lot of cycling to cover my shops. It’s an excuse to feel like I’m getting fit when really I’m freewheeling downhill most of the time. It’s like when you buy a gym membership but never actually go to the gym; yet you feel like it’s working for you anyway.
Unfortunately, being outdoors most of the time leaves me fairly susceptible to the weather. And, seeing as it’s springtime and the sky is more unpredictable than England’s fast-pace bowling attack (sorry I’m watching the cricket at the moment), I encountered a delightful spot of hail whilst biking in my t-shirt.
Hail is pretty cool when you’re inside. You can watch it bounce off the cars and roads and laugh at all the silly pedestrians running for cover, hiding under their laptop cases and lever arch files.
But, what happens when you’re the one on the outside? When you’re the one stuck on a bike in the middle of the road? When you’re hands are burning with ice-cold needle pains? What happens when the holes of your helmet start filling up with hail, brimming over the side? I felt like some shitty bicarbonate of soda volcano for a school science project.
I had to stop off at the uni (still in the hail) to drop some books off at the library. Of course, the bike park with a roof over was full, so I had to park up outside in the storm, which is good for the rust to metal ratio currently accelerating on my bike as it is.
As I got up and began to walk to the library, a strange sensation tickled me. Ice that had been collecting in the gap between my belt and my lower back as I had sat on my bike had just found the space to slip down into my boxers. Delightful. So I was now soaking wet both inside as well as out. You have no idea how uncomfortable it is to try and defrost hailstones down your pants whilst attempting to walk in a vaguely reputable manner.
So, I walk up to the library with my buttocks clenched, drop off my books, and then go look for some others. I find the English section, found the genre I was looking for (poetry if you must know), and delved into the arse pocket of my jeans to find my pen and paper.
Shit.
My paper was a lot more moist than it was when I wrote down the books I wanted. I felt the back of my jeans to realise I had a huge wet streak right up the middle of my trousers. The water must have been sprayed onto my backside from the back wheel of my bike.
Great, so I had looked like a volcano and a waterfall at the same time, pedalling away. Plus the paper was ruined and so I didn’t know which books I needed.
It was still raining when I got out of the library, and so I decided to walk down to the station in order to avoid further wet streak development. Thankfully, the weather had dried up by the time I was on the platform waiting for the Selby train (if I had biked down I would have just made an earlier one). So, devised a little scheme to sort my trousers out, unnoticed.
By standing with my back to the wind on the open platform, I let the weather do its job. There’s a scene on Mr. Bean’s movie, when he spills water on his crotch and so wafts it in front of a hand drier in a public toilets in order to dry himself. I felt like Mr. Bean. Ever so slightly bent forwards, legs wide apart, letting the back of my jeans waft in the wind. To be honest, most of my dignity had gone by that point anyway.
The train arrived and I boarded nice and dry. I was happy. I had food awaiting me in Tesco in Selby, my bum was dry, and the Sun was out. This happiness lasted all through the train journey, all through walking around Selby, all through the mystery shop itself, and all the way back to the station.
I was still happy when the train arrived to take me back to Leeds. I was happy getting up off my seat and packing away my stuff. I was happy slinging my bag over my shoulder. What I was not happy about was the very dark stain, like gritty mud, that was left on my seat. ‘That wasn’t there before’ I thought. Oh dear. Feverishly scrambling and twisting my jeans I saw the remnants of the bike ride in the hailstorm. A great streak of mud, now dried, creeping up my legs. I’m guessing the road water that flecked onto my arse earlier was the source, full of mucky shite from car engines and dogs and post-grads.
I got on the train, threw my bag on the seat beside me, and slumped down on the seat. My happiness had left me somewhat, for I had just walked around a whole town with dark streaks of mud up my trousers, after having dried them out discretely on a station platform, after having walked round the university library with a thawing backside, after having collected the majority of produce from a brief but heavy hailstorm in my bicycle helmet!
I was slightly disheartened. But then again, a Mars Bar easter egg for 99p including two bars? My day was a success after all.
Something that may have come apparent through other posts, I do a lot of cycling to cover my shops. It’s an excuse to feel like I’m getting fit when really I’m freewheeling downhill most of the time. It’s like when you buy a gym membership but never actually go to the gym; yet you feel like it’s working for you anyway.
Unfortunately, being outdoors most of the time leaves me fairly susceptible to the weather. And, seeing as it’s springtime and the sky is more unpredictable than England’s fast-pace bowling attack (sorry I’m watching the cricket at the moment), I encountered a delightful spot of hail whilst biking in my t-shirt.
Hail is pretty cool when you’re inside. You can watch it bounce off the cars and roads and laugh at all the silly pedestrians running for cover, hiding under their laptop cases and lever arch files.
But, what happens when you’re the one on the outside? When you’re the one stuck on a bike in the middle of the road? When you’re hands are burning with ice-cold needle pains? What happens when the holes of your helmet start filling up with hail, brimming over the side? I felt like some shitty bicarbonate of soda volcano for a school science project.
I had to stop off at the uni (still in the hail) to drop some books off at the library. Of course, the bike park with a roof over was full, so I had to park up outside in the storm, which is good for the rust to metal ratio currently accelerating on my bike as it is.
As I got up and began to walk to the library, a strange sensation tickled me. Ice that had been collecting in the gap between my belt and my lower back as I had sat on my bike had just found the space to slip down into my boxers. Delightful. So I was now soaking wet both inside as well as out. You have no idea how uncomfortable it is to try and defrost hailstones down your pants whilst attempting to walk in a vaguely reputable manner.
So, I walk up to the library with my buttocks clenched, drop off my books, and then go look for some others. I find the English section, found the genre I was looking for (poetry if you must know), and delved into the arse pocket of my jeans to find my pen and paper.
Shit.
My paper was a lot more moist than it was when I wrote down the books I wanted. I felt the back of my jeans to realise I had a huge wet streak right up the middle of my trousers. The water must have been sprayed onto my backside from the back wheel of my bike.
Great, so I had looked like a volcano and a waterfall at the same time, pedalling away. Plus the paper was ruined and so I didn’t know which books I needed.
It was still raining when I got out of the library, and so I decided to walk down to the station in order to avoid further wet streak development. Thankfully, the weather had dried up by the time I was on the platform waiting for the Selby train (if I had biked down I would have just made an earlier one). So, devised a little scheme to sort my trousers out, unnoticed.
By standing with my back to the wind on the open platform, I let the weather do its job. There’s a scene on Mr. Bean’s movie, when he spills water on his crotch and so wafts it in front of a hand drier in a public toilets in order to dry himself. I felt like Mr. Bean. Ever so slightly bent forwards, legs wide apart, letting the back of my jeans waft in the wind. To be honest, most of my dignity had gone by that point anyway.
The train arrived and I boarded nice and dry. I was happy. I had food awaiting me in Tesco in Selby, my bum was dry, and the Sun was out. This happiness lasted all through the train journey, all through walking around Selby, all through the mystery shop itself, and all the way back to the station.
I was still happy when the train arrived to take me back to Leeds. I was happy getting up off my seat and packing away my stuff. I was happy slinging my bag over my shoulder. What I was not happy about was the very dark stain, like gritty mud, that was left on my seat. ‘That wasn’t there before’ I thought. Oh dear. Feverishly scrambling and twisting my jeans I saw the remnants of the bike ride in the hailstorm. A great streak of mud, now dried, creeping up my legs. I’m guessing the road water that flecked onto my arse earlier was the source, full of mucky shite from car engines and dogs and post-grads.
I got on the train, threw my bag on the seat beside me, and slumped down on the seat. My happiness had left me somewhat, for I had just walked around a whole town with dark streaks of mud up my trousers, after having dried them out discretely on a station platform, after having walked round the university library with a thawing backside, after having collected the majority of produce from a brief but heavy hailstorm in my bicycle helmet!
I was slightly disheartened. But then again, a Mars Bar easter egg for 99p including two bars? My day was a success after all.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Brighton of the North?
I don’t think I have ever woken up as early as 7:15 am in order to do a mystery shop. Unfortunately, it showed.
Today I went on a ride up to the west coast, behind the Lake District, to Barrow in Furness. If Market Rasen was the middle of nowhere, Barrow is definitely the end of nowhere.
However, it was the train journeys that were the main source of contemplation on this trip. An 8:15 train from Huddersfield to Manchester was greatly appreciated. You’ve got to love it when an unexpected train appears to speed up your journey.
Unfortunately, even though I picked an early train, I didn’t pick the right carriage. I had to sit on a table sharing with four other monged out tired commuters. I felt slightly awkward. But why should I have? The table seats are there so that four people can sit around the table. So why did I feel as though I was intruding, sitting next to three other complete strangers? Socially, why will people walk to the far end of the train simply to get a seat on its own? I was just glad I had a seat.
What made my journey slightly baffling was the dietary habits of a woman sat across the isle from me. She ordered a tea in a disgracefully deep Oldham accent, and asked for three milks and three sugars. Three milks! in one of those teas? There’s more milk than bloody water then! And three sugars? She won’t need to eat for a week after that energy rush.
So with the tea junkie’s thirst unnaturally quenched, I left the train at Piccadilly. The station really is very snazzy. It’s just so vast. In fact, it’s so big you can’t find a bin anywhere in the place, as it’s a ‘terrorist target’. I walked half way into Manchester just to find one.
As I was mooching around Manchester waiting for my train and on a lookout for a bin, I had a gander at the Hilton Hotel. For some reason people don’t seem to like Manchester’s Hilton. Apparently the sticky-out wedge bit is an eyesore, well, most people I know say it is anyway.
The thing is, surely the point of the building was not to look aesthetically amazing, but at least to be an icon of the skyline. Take Madrid’s Puerta de Europa, the two leaning towers. They look fairly abysmal in my opinion, but then again I recognise them and relate them to the city. So they are icons. The Eiffel Tower is just a lump of scaffolding built to be knocked down again a year later. But it is an icon with Paris. So even though the Hilton may not look good at all, it helps to give Manchester its own iconic identity.
I tried to explain this to a passing tramp, but he wasn’t listening.
I then got onto the train for Barrow. A long journey made worse by the fact I was absolutely shattered and my ipod had already died. Luckily, I had an inane business man sat near me. It was clear he had been bought a new phone for his birthday by his wife who feels that a new Blackberry will give him less stress; he didn’t have a clue how to use it. A very smooth Bollywood ringtone kept bluring out into the carriage, and all he did was look at it, as though perplexed at what to do. The ‘hello’ noise he sent down the line was so confused, as though he had never seen a ‘talkie phone’ before. He kept taking his hand away from his ear to look at the screen in mid-speech. It was like he’d been dropped out of the sky from the 19th century. He even ran off the train at one stop and them ran back on again. Poor man.
Eventually we began to snake into the Lake District, most certainly the most beautiful place in England. What was even better was to see that lambing season was in place. Now I know what you’re thinking; aww look at all those lambs springing and prancing and oh so cute. Well, let me tell you I was licking my lips. More lamb for the slaughter mwahahaha! Only kidding, but I was wondering, why are lambs deemed ‘cute’, whilst sheep are disgusting, woolly, grotty, smelly, tangled and shaggy? At what point does a joyous lamb become an ugly sheep?
Anyways, back to the train. We passed a station named Ulverton. The sign read ‘Ulverton, Historic Market Town’. Historic, I deduced, means it’s been there a while, but are we also to assume that to use this term means that whatever is 'historic' is famous for being so? So, is Ulverton famous for being a market town? I’ve never heard of it. And as far as I’m concerned it isn’t something to boast about, with my past experience of market towns consisting of Market bloody Rasen!
I’m glad I didn’t have to stop at Ulverton.
Eventually I got to Barrow in Furness, did my shop, bought a swanky little bottle of high percentage Peroni (which I have just finished and won't be hurrying off to buy another), and strolled out. Barrow itself seemed a nice place, although two things intrigued me.
Is Barrow the Brighton of the North? Walking past a building, there was a huge sign saying ‘Love Barrow’, but in a seriously camp font (see picture above). To intensify the campness of the town, as I was walking towards the station, a 65 year old guy minced past me in very tight white jeans and a flowery open-collared shirt. I can just image him being kicked out of London in the 60s and he reconciled to Barrow to start up a northern gay movement. Not that I have any views in particular for or against gay people, but to see a gay O.A.P strut past a camp ‘Love Barrow’ sign was certainly an eye opener.
Back to the train for the ride home and I was knackered! At this point I’d like to apologise to George Chubb, whom I commented on in my Namibia Diary for sleeping whilst traveling. I did the same. I was so tired. I know how he felt. My head began to droop on the glass window. My eyelids slowly fell. My head cracked on the windowsill and I smashed my eyebrow. Wait… shit that really hurt! Luckily no one saw.
I gladly got back to Huddersfield to find I’d just missed my train. So, I got the bus home. Now this is where I can feel like a right old codger… I remember when it was 50p to get the bus from town to home. It’s now bloody £2.20!!! I could almost get a taxi for cheaper than that!
Money these days, it’s just not what it used to be.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Cheers Brain. That was a stupid thing to do!
About a month ago I applied to do nine mystery shops in two weeks, something I was grateful for at the time as it meant more booze and food for me. Unfortunately, in my mass hysteria of applying for visits, I went a bit too far in the delirium and accepted a shop in Horsforth, just next to Leeds.
‘Excellent’, I thought, imagining unbound riches to be had from Horsforth’s Tesco Express, ‘I’ll do it on Sunday. Hey, I could even bike there!’
So Saturday night came and I had a more detailed look at the map to see just where I was heading. Oh crap. It was nowhere near any station, bus route or airport. It was also a six-mile trip from Leeds centre. I was screwed.
‘No worries’, I again thought (I’ve had a lot of those thought things recently as you can tell) ‘I can just bike it’.
Now, a word of advice for all those who fear physical exercise; don’t do it! (In opposition to Nike’s old slogan there) After a Saturday night out of birthday celebration in Leeds and only four hours sleep, I got out of bed to play a bit of football. Mistake number one; playing football for the first time since Christmas after a hefty night out is not a good idea.
Football went on for too long. Half the players got sunburnt. That’s right, you can get sunburnt in March! I think I escaped the monstrously powerful rays of Apollo, and so was in good spirits when it came to my bike ride. Unfortunately, I had eaten nothing that day, it was getting onto 1 o’clock, and I had six miles to ride until I could eat.
And something else dampened my mood in more ways than one before I left for Horsforth. For some idiotic reason, there was a dog show on in the sports hall down at the uni. I walked past it and it stank! Like wet tarmac on a hot day. It was disgusting. I looked in to see a hoard of dogs all groomed and plucked and walking at their masters’ heels. It was like the regional qualifiers for Crufts. Possibly one of the most disgusting, pretentious things I have ever seen. Dogs with glittering collars, expensively preened coats and even one shitty little Chihuahua sporting a beret.
It was a horrible, smelly sight. The thing is why do you have to treat your pet like the goddess of the house? How can you spend so much money and time and effort on a thing that licks it’s own bollocks? Why do you want to show off the fact that you own an animal that in some diverse, definitely disturbing way is meant to look beautiful and elegant? Have these people seen what dogs do? They slobber about everywhere, panting like a fat London Marathon runner in a Scooby Doo outfit, and lick your face with the same tongue that’s been on its arse!
Dogs, in general, are disgusting creatures. But what makes them worse are the owners. Pampering the beasts with coats and hairstyles, collars and shampoo. Do you ever see a goldfish with a bow tie on? Has anyone ever seen a cat with a permed fur-do? Do you ever see a hamster with Dutch clogs on? NO! Because animals are not humans! They do not think like us. They do not act like us. They don’t look like us, smell like us, taste like us. They are as alien to humans as the apple I’m eating as I type. So why do people treat them like us?!
Anyway back to the journey. It all started badly as I realised I had parked my bike next to the dog show. Luckily none of the hellish creatures had pissed on my bike, but I did see a trickle from the wall across running down under my front tyre. Great, so I have to bike with piss in my face.
Those six miles were the longest I have ever ridden. It took an age. Gravity was the only thing pushing my feet down on the pedals. Cars in traffic jams were going faster than me. Me, with my head and shoulders slumped over the handlebars as though I was asleep. People walking their dogs were going faster than me. Me, gasping for air as though I’d just resurfaced form the bottom of the ocean. A learner driver even overtook me. I was so embarrassed.
Eventually I got to Horsforth, rode past the shop twice before finally finding it, bought myself a pint of milk and a sandwich, and enjoyed the best meal I’d had in a long time, sat in the Yorkshire sunshine.
I was hot and tired, but had a six-mile slog back to Leeds to deal with, and then another trip up to Ilkley on the train. Why the hell did I accept to do these visits on a Sunday?!
Eventually I get back to Leeds, aided by the fact that there’s a lot more downhill on the way back. I parked up in Leeds station in time to catch a departing train, and settled in to read a bit of the old Chaucer.
Having got to Ilkley, I bought myself a cheeky bottle of ale and some red onions amongst other things, and got on the next train home.
By this time I was shattered. I had eaten an entire sandwich all day, my stomach felt bad but not hungry, I was nevertheless energyless, and I couldn’t understand a word of this Chaucer.
What made it worse was the actions of a little old woman. Now, I’ll admit at this stage that no, I shouldn’t have had my feet up on the opposite chairs, but I was so tired and my shoes were clean and I wasn’t hurting anybody. But no, my terrible seating position still led to a wiry eyed old bint marching up to me, tapping me on the legs and proclaiming “Oi. Feet!” pointing at my raised limbs.
I couldn’t be arsed with a witty reply and so just put them down, sarcastically saying “sorry”. She replied with this by telling me I would be, and then walked, head held high, back to her seat. The thing that really annoyed me was that she acted as though she was tackling the youth of today head on. Yeah! go get those horrible miscreants that quietly sit on trains and read English from the 14th Century! Those guys are the scumbags of society. No worries about the twenty or so kids who hang around on street corners all day. Nah, just target that unruly academic instead.
So, with me very pissed off, very tired, stomach hurting and feet on the bloody floor, the train set off. Just to brighten up my day I got a text off my mate Tom, gleefully explaining how England were demolishing France in the 6-Nations. Great, so the best game England have played since the 2003 World Cup Final and I’m missing it.
I got into the station and quickly sprinted home on my bike, hoping to catch the last action. I worked out later that I biked 16 miles that day. When I finally got into the flat France were just scoring a try. No worries though, cos surely England were going to score more.
No. Of course they weren’t. 34 points and I saw none of them. So, with my tired legs, beaten morale and confused insight into Middle English literature, I headed for the shower, only to be dragged out to the park for another hour of football.
An utterly knackering day that I am still recovering from. It’s now Tuesday.
‘Excellent’, I thought, imagining unbound riches to be had from Horsforth’s Tesco Express, ‘I’ll do it on Sunday. Hey, I could even bike there!’
So Saturday night came and I had a more detailed look at the map to see just where I was heading. Oh crap. It was nowhere near any station, bus route or airport. It was also a six-mile trip from Leeds centre. I was screwed.
‘No worries’, I again thought (I’ve had a lot of those thought things recently as you can tell) ‘I can just bike it’.
Now, a word of advice for all those who fear physical exercise; don’t do it! (In opposition to Nike’s old slogan there) After a Saturday night out of birthday celebration in Leeds and only four hours sleep, I got out of bed to play a bit of football. Mistake number one; playing football for the first time since Christmas after a hefty night out is not a good idea.
Football went on for too long. Half the players got sunburnt. That’s right, you can get sunburnt in March! I think I escaped the monstrously powerful rays of Apollo, and so was in good spirits when it came to my bike ride. Unfortunately, I had eaten nothing that day, it was getting onto 1 o’clock, and I had six miles to ride until I could eat.
And something else dampened my mood in more ways than one before I left for Horsforth. For some idiotic reason, there was a dog show on in the sports hall down at the uni. I walked past it and it stank! Like wet tarmac on a hot day. It was disgusting. I looked in to see a hoard of dogs all groomed and plucked and walking at their masters’ heels. It was like the regional qualifiers for Crufts. Possibly one of the most disgusting, pretentious things I have ever seen. Dogs with glittering collars, expensively preened coats and even one shitty little Chihuahua sporting a beret.
It was a horrible, smelly sight. The thing is why do you have to treat your pet like the goddess of the house? How can you spend so much money and time and effort on a thing that licks it’s own bollocks? Why do you want to show off the fact that you own an animal that in some diverse, definitely disturbing way is meant to look beautiful and elegant? Have these people seen what dogs do? They slobber about everywhere, panting like a fat London Marathon runner in a Scooby Doo outfit, and lick your face with the same tongue that’s been on its arse!
Dogs, in general, are disgusting creatures. But what makes them worse are the owners. Pampering the beasts with coats and hairstyles, collars and shampoo. Do you ever see a goldfish with a bow tie on? Has anyone ever seen a cat with a permed fur-do? Do you ever see a hamster with Dutch clogs on? NO! Because animals are not humans! They do not think like us. They do not act like us. They don’t look like us, smell like us, taste like us. They are as alien to humans as the apple I’m eating as I type. So why do people treat them like us?!
Anyway back to the journey. It all started badly as I realised I had parked my bike next to the dog show. Luckily none of the hellish creatures had pissed on my bike, but I did see a trickle from the wall across running down under my front tyre. Great, so I have to bike with piss in my face.
Those six miles were the longest I have ever ridden. It took an age. Gravity was the only thing pushing my feet down on the pedals. Cars in traffic jams were going faster than me. Me, with my head and shoulders slumped over the handlebars as though I was asleep. People walking their dogs were going faster than me. Me, gasping for air as though I’d just resurfaced form the bottom of the ocean. A learner driver even overtook me. I was so embarrassed.
Eventually I got to Horsforth, rode past the shop twice before finally finding it, bought myself a pint of milk and a sandwich, and enjoyed the best meal I’d had in a long time, sat in the Yorkshire sunshine.
I was hot and tired, but had a six-mile slog back to Leeds to deal with, and then another trip up to Ilkley on the train. Why the hell did I accept to do these visits on a Sunday?!
Eventually I get back to Leeds, aided by the fact that there’s a lot more downhill on the way back. I parked up in Leeds station in time to catch a departing train, and settled in to read a bit of the old Chaucer.
Having got to Ilkley, I bought myself a cheeky bottle of ale and some red onions amongst other things, and got on the next train home.
By this time I was shattered. I had eaten an entire sandwich all day, my stomach felt bad but not hungry, I was nevertheless energyless, and I couldn’t understand a word of this Chaucer.
What made it worse was the actions of a little old woman. Now, I’ll admit at this stage that no, I shouldn’t have had my feet up on the opposite chairs, but I was so tired and my shoes were clean and I wasn’t hurting anybody. But no, my terrible seating position still led to a wiry eyed old bint marching up to me, tapping me on the legs and proclaiming “Oi. Feet!” pointing at my raised limbs.
I couldn’t be arsed with a witty reply and so just put them down, sarcastically saying “sorry”. She replied with this by telling me I would be, and then walked, head held high, back to her seat. The thing that really annoyed me was that she acted as though she was tackling the youth of today head on. Yeah! go get those horrible miscreants that quietly sit on trains and read English from the 14th Century! Those guys are the scumbags of society. No worries about the twenty or so kids who hang around on street corners all day. Nah, just target that unruly academic instead.
So, with me very pissed off, very tired, stomach hurting and feet on the bloody floor, the train set off. Just to brighten up my day I got a text off my mate Tom, gleefully explaining how England were demolishing France in the 6-Nations. Great, so the best game England have played since the 2003 World Cup Final and I’m missing it.
I got into the station and quickly sprinted home on my bike, hoping to catch the last action. I worked out later that I biked 16 miles that day. When I finally got into the flat France were just scoring a try. No worries though, cos surely England were going to score more.
No. Of course they weren’t. 34 points and I saw none of them. So, with my tired legs, beaten morale and confused insight into Middle English literature, I headed for the shower, only to be dragged out to the park for another hour of football.
An utterly knackering day that I am still recovering from. It’s now Tuesday.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Pointless Warnings from the Health and Safety People
Today I went on a mega bike ride to do a mystery shop. On this ride I encountered many hazardous obstacles. I was nearly mowed over by a car not indicating on a round-a-bout (twatty BMW driver), I almost choked to death on bus fumes, and an unruly child glared at me from across the road.
Terrifically dangerous I know, but one thing was NOT dangerous but still thankfully brought to my attention thanks to the council. The horror of overhead cables!
(At this point I want to mention that this post is more about ranting that shopping)
Now, as you can see from the picture above, overhead cables are apparently dangerous. Danger, danger, high cables! And so forth.
What I really want to know is why there are signs for things that are A) unavoidable, B) not dangerous, and C) possibly the least of my worries on a road?!
Why are there no signs to tell motorists to fucking indicate? Why aren’t there signs that tell you when busses are going to fart out their toxins into your face? And where are the ‘Danger, unruly children’ warnings???
What am I supposed to do with information about overhead cables? It means absolutely nothing to me! And why is it dangerous? On my bike I am probably about six and a half feet off the ground. These ‘dangerous cables’ were miles in the air in comparison! Not even lorries are that tall. There might as well be a health warning to hay fever sufferers concerning foliage in the vicinity.
Basically what annoys me most about this is that whoever put the sign there did it in case they get sued by some tit being zapped by a cable. Now, it you’re that stupid enough to get electrocuted by a cable 100 feet in the air, then you don’t deserve compensation, but maybe free access to a home.
I’ve got to say though, I do like the little triangle with the picture of the thunder bolt in it. Just in case you can’t read the word ‘DANGER’, we have to make sure that everyone realises the importance of the cables above us, so the picture is necessary.
Outside my house on… Gipsy lane?
Yesterday was a knackering day for mystery shopping, mainly thanks to antics the night before. After staying up till 4 am playing Buckaroo Jonny and wondering why I acquired a Billy Joel record that night and not the ABBA one, I managed to get myself a cheeky 5 hours kip, before grabbing my bike and heading off into Leeds.
It’s strange but Leeds Uni at 10:30 in the morning is dead. Probably because people try to wrangle their timetables around so that they get Friday off, and the ones that do have to get up on Friday morning simply can’t be arsed. Therefore, bugger all people were about.
But no complaints, at least there were less people to avoid.
So, after printing off my Google Maps (TM!!!) and successfully applying to study in Copenhagen (normal procedure on a Friday morning), I began my still-alcohol-fuelled marathon down to Armley for my first visit of the day.
Armley, how can I put this, is just ‘a place’. There is nothing there that would wow you into repetitive visits, but then again, there’s nothing wrong with it. All it is is a part of Leeds. That’s pretty much all I can say, and the mystery shop visit was as simples (as the meerkat says) as it gets.
So, after a bike down Armley I eventually make my way back up to Leeds train station, to board a tin-pot carriage full of, to put it mildly, troglodytes, on their way to Sheffield. The train was packed and I had to sit next to a man who looked like he’d beat me up if I sat anywhere near him, so I perched on the end of my seat.
Thankfully, I got off at the first stop, and strolled into Rothwell.
Now, most rural villages I’ve been to look like they’ve stopped in the 1940s, but not Rothwell. It’s actually a really nice village. It has houses with well-groomed gardens, cars that still have all their hubcaps on, and people who don’t look like they’ve seen the pits of Hades and know what’s coming to them.
The only thing that confused me about Rothwell was one road sign, simply saying ‘Gipsy Lane’. I don’t even know if ‘gipsy’ is a politically correct term any more, “Oh it should be changed to ‘Traveller Lane’”, but even if it is deemed acceptable to white haired, middle aged Conservatives, I would still want to question as to why the council decided that advertising the fact you have gypsies is a good idea?
Why would you want to make the statement that gypsies, who are let’s face it people who are unwelcome into local communities, once stayed here? I can just imagine a tour bus; “And on your left there is Gipsy Lane, where people shit on the floor and intimidate the community. And now on to the Parish Council…” I doubt it bodes well for the tourist industry in Rothwell.
After wondering for some time over the credentials of the road names in Rothwell, I eventually found my Tesco and had a lovely visit. Annoying though, I later found out I had bought a loaf of white bread instead of brown. Pathetically anal for some I know, but I do like brown, or granary, bread. White bread does have a tendency to taste of fluffy plastic, and is the least filling thing ever produced since MacDonald’s started doing Happy Meals (TM!!!).
Eventually I arrived home, still having had nothing to eat, with my beer and white bread, destined for the bed.
It’s strange but Leeds Uni at 10:30 in the morning is dead. Probably because people try to wrangle their timetables around so that they get Friday off, and the ones that do have to get up on Friday morning simply can’t be arsed. Therefore, bugger all people were about.
But no complaints, at least there were less people to avoid.
So, after printing off my Google Maps (TM!!!) and successfully applying to study in Copenhagen (normal procedure on a Friday morning), I began my still-alcohol-fuelled marathon down to Armley for my first visit of the day.
Armley, how can I put this, is just ‘a place’. There is nothing there that would wow you into repetitive visits, but then again, there’s nothing wrong with it. All it is is a part of Leeds. That’s pretty much all I can say, and the mystery shop visit was as simples (as the meerkat says) as it gets.
So, after a bike down Armley I eventually make my way back up to Leeds train station, to board a tin-pot carriage full of, to put it mildly, troglodytes, on their way to Sheffield. The train was packed and I had to sit next to a man who looked like he’d beat me up if I sat anywhere near him, so I perched on the end of my seat.
Thankfully, I got off at the first stop, and strolled into Rothwell.
Now, most rural villages I’ve been to look like they’ve stopped in the 1940s, but not Rothwell. It’s actually a really nice village. It has houses with well-groomed gardens, cars that still have all their hubcaps on, and people who don’t look like they’ve seen the pits of Hades and know what’s coming to them.
The only thing that confused me about Rothwell was one road sign, simply saying ‘Gipsy Lane’. I don’t even know if ‘gipsy’ is a politically correct term any more, “Oh it should be changed to ‘Traveller Lane’”, but even if it is deemed acceptable to white haired, middle aged Conservatives, I would still want to question as to why the council decided that advertising the fact you have gypsies is a good idea?
Why would you want to make the statement that gypsies, who are let’s face it people who are unwelcome into local communities, once stayed here? I can just imagine a tour bus; “And on your left there is Gipsy Lane, where people shit on the floor and intimidate the community. And now on to the Parish Council…” I doubt it bodes well for the tourist industry in Rothwell.
After wondering for some time over the credentials of the road names in Rothwell, I eventually found my Tesco and had a lovely visit. Annoying though, I later found out I had bought a loaf of white bread instead of brown. Pathetically anal for some I know, but I do like brown, or granary, bread. White bread does have a tendency to taste of fluffy plastic, and is the least filling thing ever produced since MacDonald’s started doing Happy Meals (TM!!!).
Eventually I arrived home, still having had nothing to eat, with my beer and white bread, destined for the bed.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
All I want to do is……… Bicycle!
Today I bagged myself a shop in old Leeds town, a safe place that I actually know my way around. I also didn’t have to spend shit loads of cash just to get there, wait half my life on a concrete platform, nor did I have to inflict my bridges to more miles of crippling walking.
Because guess what… I biked today!!!
Oh yeah! It’s so much easier to mozey on round a city when you have a bike, or at least you think it is. The problem is, is that Leeds is just one big fucking one-way system. Because I’ll get my ass sued if I hit someone on the pavement, biking to Clarence Docks, which is a mighty fair way from Headingley, took a lot longer than expected.
The other problem is with Leeds is that the entire road system is clogged with buses. Now, for those of you who don’t know or who are too lazy to ever bike, buses are a cyclist’s worst enemy. They stink, they’re huge, they’re unpredictable, their wing mirrors stick out further than Lee Evans’ ears, and to wrap it all up the bloody drivers seem to have taken up the sport of cyclist mowing!
This is unhealthy for us bikers, who see the two-wheeled method of transport as a green, save-the-planet effort that should be commended, not challenged by Eastern European bussies.
Anyway, back to Leeds. There’s something odd about the people in Leeds. The city is very much divided into social segments. Up the hill is where the students ‘chill’, with our ipods, hair and baggy jeans. Just off the Headrow are the bankers, with their ties, sweaty suits, and balding scalps. They strut along the pavement, briefcase and shiny shoes, and take no notice of any pleb in the region. Then we get down to the proletariat at the bottom of the hill. This is where the open market and the public transport hub lies, and so attracts the lame, the old and the unhinged. This is also where we find the chavs, the slightly older dole-goers, and the even older Jim Royale style beer-bellies, who support the Reebok Classics and Umbro jumpers that are oh so appealing.
It’s noticeable but not unexplainable as to why sets of people mingle in their own areas of the city. A banker would never see himself down the local market, buying food that has been touched by human hands. Chavs very rarely come up to the university part of town, simply ‘cos there’s nothing there for them, and there are so many students they can’t even pick one off singularly to bully and shout abuse at.
But back to the mystery shop itself. I had to go down to Clarence Dock, a very swanky little development PAST the chavs and the proles and over the river, past the Hilton Hotel (oh yes, bring on the affluency) and round to the canal docking-yard.
I’ve got to say, it’s a snazzy piece of development. Lots of shops, flats and offices all looking over the canal, which is actually clean. The shop itself went fine. But I did please myself with sitting by the canal for a while and chomp my ham sandwich (which of course was fairly bland).
I wondered about the people around here. This is clearly where all the bankers live. Down past the chavs and the plebs and out over the river and next to the canal. A little safe-haven from the troubles of lower Leeds that they have to drive past in their air-conditioned Astons every day (well who doesn’t get 6-figure annual bonuses?).
It disappoints me actually that people are either too posh and up their arse to get around in anything but a car, or else they are too fat and lazy to use anything but public transport. In my entire tour of the city today, I saw two bikes, one of which was mine. That ain’t good enough I’m afraid. There should be Amsterdam-style bike parks all over the city. There should be cycle lanes that don’t just follow the one-way-system.
To be honest I’m not exactly on the verge of urging some mass campaign for the bike, but I would like to see more of them around, rather than a billion child-mowers ploughing through the city.
But then again, Theo and Quint do need to get to school on time before daddy earns a mint from RBS, whilst Kerry and Shane need to get into town early to achieve as much pavement spitting as possible.
Because guess what… I biked today!!!
Oh yeah! It’s so much easier to mozey on round a city when you have a bike, or at least you think it is. The problem is, is that Leeds is just one big fucking one-way system. Because I’ll get my ass sued if I hit someone on the pavement, biking to Clarence Docks, which is a mighty fair way from Headingley, took a lot longer than expected.
The other problem is with Leeds is that the entire road system is clogged with buses. Now, for those of you who don’t know or who are too lazy to ever bike, buses are a cyclist’s worst enemy. They stink, they’re huge, they’re unpredictable, their wing mirrors stick out further than Lee Evans’ ears, and to wrap it all up the bloody drivers seem to have taken up the sport of cyclist mowing!
This is unhealthy for us bikers, who see the two-wheeled method of transport as a green, save-the-planet effort that should be commended, not challenged by Eastern European bussies.
Anyway, back to Leeds. There’s something odd about the people in Leeds. The city is very much divided into social segments. Up the hill is where the students ‘chill’, with our ipods, hair and baggy jeans. Just off the Headrow are the bankers, with their ties, sweaty suits, and balding scalps. They strut along the pavement, briefcase and shiny shoes, and take no notice of any pleb in the region. Then we get down to the proletariat at the bottom of the hill. This is where the open market and the public transport hub lies, and so attracts the lame, the old and the unhinged. This is also where we find the chavs, the slightly older dole-goers, and the even older Jim Royale style beer-bellies, who support the Reebok Classics and Umbro jumpers that are oh so appealing.
It’s noticeable but not unexplainable as to why sets of people mingle in their own areas of the city. A banker would never see himself down the local market, buying food that has been touched by human hands. Chavs very rarely come up to the university part of town, simply ‘cos there’s nothing there for them, and there are so many students they can’t even pick one off singularly to bully and shout abuse at.
But back to the mystery shop itself. I had to go down to Clarence Dock, a very swanky little development PAST the chavs and the proles and over the river, past the Hilton Hotel (oh yes, bring on the affluency) and round to the canal docking-yard.
I’ve got to say, it’s a snazzy piece of development. Lots of shops, flats and offices all looking over the canal, which is actually clean. The shop itself went fine. But I did please myself with sitting by the canal for a while and chomp my ham sandwich (which of course was fairly bland).
I wondered about the people around here. This is clearly where all the bankers live. Down past the chavs and the plebs and out over the river and next to the canal. A little safe-haven from the troubles of lower Leeds that they have to drive past in their air-conditioned Astons every day (well who doesn’t get 6-figure annual bonuses?).
It disappoints me actually that people are either too posh and up their arse to get around in anything but a car, or else they are too fat and lazy to use anything but public transport. In my entire tour of the city today, I saw two bikes, one of which was mine. That ain’t good enough I’m afraid. There should be Amsterdam-style bike parks all over the city. There should be cycle lanes that don’t just follow the one-way-system.
To be honest I’m not exactly on the verge of urging some mass campaign for the bike, but I would like to see more of them around, rather than a billion child-mowers ploughing through the city.
But then again, Theo and Quint do need to get to school on time before daddy earns a mint from RBS, whilst Kerry and Shane need to get into town early to achieve as much pavement spitting as possible.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Everyone likes a fluffy muffin
Well, today I went on an exciting adventure to Leeds’ 8th biggest shopping mall, the Merrion Centre, to sample the delights of a coffee and bun at one of those random, makeshift shacks that like to erect themselves overnight in indoor ‘ultimate shopping experience’ circuses up and down the country.
The aim of this visit was to sample the food and make sure it was ‘of acceptable temperature, taste and quality’. And I have to say that my muffin was exceedingly better than anything Mr. Kipling ever whipped up.
There must be an art to muffin making. There’s a whole isle for them in supermarkets nowadays (cos I’m now old enough to say the word ‘nowadays’), but most of them look like shit. Most of them are products of the bastard consumerist companies that have driven this country into the mire it is currently in (or something like that). Smarties. Dairy Milk. Skittles. All colourfully packaged to sell to the demanding child. Smarties. Dairy Milk. Skittles. All pumped with ridiculous crap sweeteners and a lottery of E-numbers. Smarties. Dairy Milk. Skittles. The supermarket isle looks like the dessert section of Peter Kay’s repeating buffet.
How the hell these buns are sold at all is a mystery. Why would you want to buy tiny Smarties buns for over £2 when you can get a fresh, homemade one for £1.50? I just don’t understand how people can be so influenced by packaging that they will buy a product that was probably made in China from recycled newspapers and plastic bags months ago.
Thankfully, it made my muffin taste even sweeter. To know it’s had the care of being hand-mixed, hand-poured and oven baked in a kiln you can see in front of your eyes. I’ve got to say, I do like fresh muffins.
There was something about this muffin which was extra special however. It reminded me of the extravagantly greasy doughnuts you buy at tacky English seaside resorts, where you can almost see through the other side of the thing because of the grease content. It had the frothy, cloud-like texture that is far from the froth you get on a badly poured pint. But it had also been cooked to perfection, where the crust was crispy enough to break off, but didn’t shred the roof of your mouth and leave your tongue disabled for 3 weeks.
The fact that it had layers of texture and taste put it far above the lump of coal you often get in the pre-packaged supermarket. What really confuses me is that a fresh, well-made, nicely presented muffin can cost less than a tasteless, semi-carbonated, often chewy, mound of leather.
But then again, I’m here to judge, not to act!
The aim of this visit was to sample the food and make sure it was ‘of acceptable temperature, taste and quality’. And I have to say that my muffin was exceedingly better than anything Mr. Kipling ever whipped up.
There must be an art to muffin making. There’s a whole isle for them in supermarkets nowadays (cos I’m now old enough to say the word ‘nowadays’), but most of them look like shit. Most of them are products of the bastard consumerist companies that have driven this country into the mire it is currently in (or something like that). Smarties. Dairy Milk. Skittles. All colourfully packaged to sell to the demanding child. Smarties. Dairy Milk. Skittles. All pumped with ridiculous crap sweeteners and a lottery of E-numbers. Smarties. Dairy Milk. Skittles. The supermarket isle looks like the dessert section of Peter Kay’s repeating buffet.
How the hell these buns are sold at all is a mystery. Why would you want to buy tiny Smarties buns for over £2 when you can get a fresh, homemade one for £1.50? I just don’t understand how people can be so influenced by packaging that they will buy a product that was probably made in China from recycled newspapers and plastic bags months ago.
Thankfully, it made my muffin taste even sweeter. To know it’s had the care of being hand-mixed, hand-poured and oven baked in a kiln you can see in front of your eyes. I’ve got to say, I do like fresh muffins.
There was something about this muffin which was extra special however. It reminded me of the extravagantly greasy doughnuts you buy at tacky English seaside resorts, where you can almost see through the other side of the thing because of the grease content. It had the frothy, cloud-like texture that is far from the froth you get on a badly poured pint. But it had also been cooked to perfection, where the crust was crispy enough to break off, but didn’t shred the roof of your mouth and leave your tongue disabled for 3 weeks.
The fact that it had layers of texture and taste put it far above the lump of coal you often get in the pre-packaged supermarket. What really confuses me is that a fresh, well-made, nicely presented muffin can cost less than a tasteless, semi-carbonated, often chewy, mound of leather.
But then again, I’m here to judge, not to act!
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Lincoln and Market Rasen (aka Royston Vasey)
Yesterday marked a new way of looking at the world for me. We are used to watching documentaries of people in high-waist, crème shorts peering through the undergrowth of a Congolese jungle, watching nomads live as they did thousands of years ago.
The way they walk is unique, the way they talk is peculiar, and the way they socialise is far from our own standards of interaction.
Unfortunately, the cost of this privilege in the flesh (quite literally in some cases) is in excess of most people’s budgets, and so we only get to see these fascinating civilisations on screen, unless you know where to look domestically.
I think I may have just about found a culture so diverse and dissimilar to our own, that a documentary on it would fly through BBC commissioning offices.
On a rather gluttonous mystery shopping adventure around Lincolnshire, I arrived on the single-carriage cardboard box train, which are rife in this part of the country, to a place called Market Rasen.
Now, Market Rasen has some interesting facts about it. First, it has a racecourse. And second, the town is named after the close-by River Rase. Well, wasn’t that intriguing. It’s all Wikipedia will tell you anyway. Unfortunately, my outlook on the town was, how shall I say, a little more ‘extensive’.
I arrived in Market Rasen very thankfully, as I saw the supermarket just by the station, and so knew I wouldn’t be around for long. What I had not done was check the train timetables; I was stuck for two hours.
‘Well,’ I thought ‘I might as well look around and see what’s here, since I’ve come so far’. So, I set off back past the train station and into town. The first thing that struck me as odd was a sign by the station; it had two arrows, one for the racecourse, and another for the toilets. ‘Looks like there’s a lot to do in this place’, I thought.
But I gave my prejudices a nudge and told myself I had nothing better to do, so I followed the road and found another sign, simply saying ‘shops’. ‘Ah,’ I thought, ‘a little shopping spree in Lincolnshire surely can’t be turned down’, and so I decided to try and buy some gloves, seeing as it’s getting towards spring and so the obvious thing to do is to buy winter clothing (nice one Joe).
I kicked myself as I walked into the first shop, having not realised it was a charity shop before I’d passed the door. For I did not, in any means, want to buy second hand gloves. But out of respect for the shop, I meaninglessly plodded around the place, blankly looking at utterly pointless figurines of dolphins and gnomes and all that faded, lifeless shit old people put on the mantelpieces.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” Ah shit, they’ve seen me. Thinking on my feet, I said I was looking for gloves, which I shouldn’t have done because the old lady behind the counter picked up a box of them; not paired, but single gloves (lesson to self, don’t think on your feet). I seriously wanted to stop her and ask why the hell would anyone want to buy a single glove, and why would they go to a second hand shop to get them? Who on Earth wants someone else’s mouldy sweat congealed on the inside crevices of their mitts?
Eventually, I managed to sneak a question in on the whereabouts of any clothes shops in the town. I wish I hadn’t. The woman gave me a list of bloody charity shops instead! ‘Help the Aged’ was just round the corner, but if I wanted a good set of gloves I should try ‘The Lincolnshire Cat Trust’ (There are too many things wrong with this last one to even begin trying to understand).
Having slowly backed out of the shop, I turned and headed for the high street, hoping to find a vaguely respectable shop. But I was wrong to even consider it. The town looked as though it was gearing for a mass-evacuation. The buildings that weren’t shut were either knitwear outlets, tearooms or, you guessed it, charity shops. The whole town is run on the bloody things! I looked for a good half hour for a clothes shop suitable for someone under 50, and found nothing. The only clothes you can get are second hand from charity shops, it’s as though the town simply recycle all their stuff again and again.
I eventually stumbled upon the ‘market square’, and this made me laugh. The market consisted of two plant sellers, one of who was sat in the front seat of his car, with a tray of annuals on his bonnet. What is the point in that? That’s not a career, that’s not a living. Selling annuals at 75p a pop on you car bonnet does not consist of aiding the economy! You can’t even tax that!
There was also a solitary burger van, presumably anticipating the hunger of the crowd that must be racing to get to the car bonnet flower man. A sign was stood by the side of the van; ‘Top Chef Touring the Nation’. Now, I am no expert in the catering industry, nor is food-tasting a speciality of mine. However, even the calorie-uneducated proletariats such as myself can see that Derek the hairy, 18 stone meat flipper is not a ‘top chef’!
I decided to leave the market square after seeing a portly family plod towards the burger van, licking their lips are they went, and went back up the road towards the station, having killed bugger-all time at all.
On my way back to the station, I saw two old gimmers sawing some wood outside a run-down theatre hall. It looks like the average age of the workforce in this town was about 60, and being that chavs were rife at 1 o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday, it looked like they were supporting the younger folk, rather than the other way round.
Much alike the Congolese nomads, the people of Market Rasen seemed different in their ways. I mean, I’m not having a go or anything, but every person seemed to have a limp, or massive glasses, or generally just looked knackered. I admit hypocrisy here on the fact that I am physically defunct myself, but still, why are these people out? What are they doing apart from moving from one charity shop to another to see if any new tea cosies have arrived (I say new, in reality anything with under 4 stains on it will do).
Finally I get to Lincoln, and set off on a trek to my next supermarket. Lincoln itself is a very nice city indeed. The cathedral dominates the skyline, the old town is wonderfully scenic, and the chavs shout “suck on it” as you walk past.
I was so tempted to turn to this 11 year old sewer dweller and ask exactly what he had wanted me to suck, and on what should I be performing this act? I also wanted to ask ‘what are you?’ Unfortunately, polysyllabic words and full sentences can be dreadfully challenging for sub-species, and so I left it.
So this is what I came away with from my experience of a day in Lincolnshire. The knowledge of a town run on its own recycling of goods, its charity shops and the resiliently hardworking 60+ year olds, and a hopeful thought for the future; that our children, and their children, and theirs after that, will have to put up with nauseating little shits who swagger the streets, expostulating with such elegant poetry as ‘suck on it’.
Well, looks like the untouched Congolese rainforest communities are relatively more civilised than a hopefully soon-to-be untouched community just outside Lincoln.
Monday, 16 February 2009
Friday the 13th.... oooooooooooo!
Ask most people at my uni what they do if they have a day off, and they would respond with a sneaky smile, and a suggestion of having a ‘big night out’, and use that valuable free day to recover from it.
Not me. Unfortunately, on the doomed day of Friday the 13th, I decided to book two mystery shops to the arse end of nowhere, that being North Lincolnshire.
Usually I book mystery shopping visits to local areas in and around Leeds, ones that I can get to without hours of sifting through ‘easy to read’ bloody timetables for trains that, in reality, don’t actually exist.
But on this day, whilst everyone else on my course who has a beloved 3-day weekend snoozed through the majority of their hangovers, I decided to head off on a mission to Tescos… and with very little idea of how to get there.
My first point of call was the town of Gainsborough, described on Google Maps as ‘a quaint town in between Doncaster and Lincoln’. Well, if you could struggle to equate ‘quaint’ to meaning inaccessible then I’d tend to agree with you.
After a delayed train from Leeds to Doncaster, I finally seat myself upon the Gainsborough, single carriage, only just post steam engined, box. Sat there, with my poetry essay out, an old man peering over my shoulder.
I actually felt a sense of personal pride having this probable Crimean War veteran leering over me, looking at my poetry anthology. He was probably best buddies with old Tennyson himself. I felt I was standing up against the stereotype of youth, sat there analysing a love ballad rather than defacing the carriage windows with my hood up.
Eventually I got to Gainsborough, and set off on a two-kilometre trek to the Tesco, having made the mistake of over confidence by booking a visit nowhere near a train station.
For anyone who doesn’t know, my ‘job’ in these Tescos is primarily to purchase alcohol, and see if they serve me without asking for ID. Unfortunately, this guy didn’t ID me. I have no idea what happens after I write in my report that ‘x was impolite, indifferent and irresponsive of my custom’, but then again, it’s my job to show who isn’t doing their job. (Not quite as bastardry as a lawyer).
After leaving Tesco with what I eventually found out was some rancid Czech lager, I headed off to another train station in Gainsborough; Gainsborough Central. Now, I thought, the Central station is going to be packed with people all brawling to get onto a tumult of trains. But, of course, it wasn’t. It was barely even a station to be honest. In fact, the pre-1940s bridge across the single line and the abundant vegetation pouring from the concrete platform suggested this station was, how can I say, un-fucking-used!
Great, so I was stuck in North Lincolnshire, at 2pm, with no quick means of getting to my next stop, Brigg.
I only accepted to do the Brigg shop because I thought it was close, and quick to get to. Au contraire Joe, you idiot, only two bus journeys later, one providing the delightful vocal range of two infant children and a, how can I put this politely, dreadfully skilled mother, to contend with.
Eventually I get to Brigg, and it seems my luck has changed. I accidentally pressed the stop button and felt obliged to get off, unbeknownst to me that the Tesco I was looking for was right in front of me.
So, one good shop later, and carrying considerably more booze than I did before I entered the store, I turned my sights back on home. (Not literally of course, I would have been heading in the wrong direction from the train station if I had of done).
Eventually I find the train station, even though everyone I asked seemed to know bugger all about it. And to be fair, they had a point. Trains barely ran from there anymore, and not today!
Great, so I was going to have to spend over my mileage budget in order to get home. So, down to the information desk where I find out that, of course, North Lincolnshire buses don’t run after 5 o’clock. Which is excellent news for me, as I’m now stuck in the middle of Brigg(!?) with £10 worth of alcohol on me and a poetry anthology.
I was resigned to the fact that maybe mystery shopping in the Shire was not for me, until a guy overheard my conversation with the information lady, and offered to give me a lift back to Scunthorpe.
Legend! A free lift with Ian, the Under 9s football coach of Appleby Froddingham Saints. On the plus side he was a football nut, on the down side he was a Liverpool fan. But beggars can’t be choosers, especially ones stranded in fucking Middle-Earth, and so I gladly took the ride.
He left me at Scunthorpe train station, which, to its credit looked professional, and to its detriment was rife with chavs. (At this point I’d just like to mention that, ‘chavs’ has just come up as red on my spell checker. MS Word is so not with the times man!)
Gladly, I get a train back to old Donny and then to Leeds station, a place that I’m beginning to know quite well now. It seems that there are good people in the world. Even though the North Lincolnshire public transport system is useless, at least their local hitchhike system is in perfect working order. Big thanks to Ian, the coach of Appleby Foddingham Saints Under 9s.
I’m never going to Brigg again.
Not me. Unfortunately, on the doomed day of Friday the 13th, I decided to book two mystery shops to the arse end of nowhere, that being North Lincolnshire.
Usually I book mystery shopping visits to local areas in and around Leeds, ones that I can get to without hours of sifting through ‘easy to read’ bloody timetables for trains that, in reality, don’t actually exist.
But on this day, whilst everyone else on my course who has a beloved 3-day weekend snoozed through the majority of their hangovers, I decided to head off on a mission to Tescos… and with very little idea of how to get there.
My first point of call was the town of Gainsborough, described on Google Maps as ‘a quaint town in between Doncaster and Lincoln’. Well, if you could struggle to equate ‘quaint’ to meaning inaccessible then I’d tend to agree with you.
After a delayed train from Leeds to Doncaster, I finally seat myself upon the Gainsborough, single carriage, only just post steam engined, box. Sat there, with my poetry essay out, an old man peering over my shoulder.
I actually felt a sense of personal pride having this probable Crimean War veteran leering over me, looking at my poetry anthology. He was probably best buddies with old Tennyson himself. I felt I was standing up against the stereotype of youth, sat there analysing a love ballad rather than defacing the carriage windows with my hood up.
Eventually I got to Gainsborough, and set off on a two-kilometre trek to the Tesco, having made the mistake of over confidence by booking a visit nowhere near a train station.
For anyone who doesn’t know, my ‘job’ in these Tescos is primarily to purchase alcohol, and see if they serve me without asking for ID. Unfortunately, this guy didn’t ID me. I have no idea what happens after I write in my report that ‘x was impolite, indifferent and irresponsive of my custom’, but then again, it’s my job to show who isn’t doing their job. (Not quite as bastardry as a lawyer).
After leaving Tesco with what I eventually found out was some rancid Czech lager, I headed off to another train station in Gainsborough; Gainsborough Central. Now, I thought, the Central station is going to be packed with people all brawling to get onto a tumult of trains. But, of course, it wasn’t. It was barely even a station to be honest. In fact, the pre-1940s bridge across the single line and the abundant vegetation pouring from the concrete platform suggested this station was, how can I say, un-fucking-used!
Great, so I was stuck in North Lincolnshire, at 2pm, with no quick means of getting to my next stop, Brigg.
I only accepted to do the Brigg shop because I thought it was close, and quick to get to. Au contraire Joe, you idiot, only two bus journeys later, one providing the delightful vocal range of two infant children and a, how can I put this politely, dreadfully skilled mother, to contend with.
Eventually I get to Brigg, and it seems my luck has changed. I accidentally pressed the stop button and felt obliged to get off, unbeknownst to me that the Tesco I was looking for was right in front of me.
So, one good shop later, and carrying considerably more booze than I did before I entered the store, I turned my sights back on home. (Not literally of course, I would have been heading in the wrong direction from the train station if I had of done).
Eventually I find the train station, even though everyone I asked seemed to know bugger all about it. And to be fair, they had a point. Trains barely ran from there anymore, and not today!
Great, so I was going to have to spend over my mileage budget in order to get home. So, down to the information desk where I find out that, of course, North Lincolnshire buses don’t run after 5 o’clock. Which is excellent news for me, as I’m now stuck in the middle of Brigg(!?) with £10 worth of alcohol on me and a poetry anthology.
I was resigned to the fact that maybe mystery shopping in the Shire was not for me, until a guy overheard my conversation with the information lady, and offered to give me a lift back to Scunthorpe.
Legend! A free lift with Ian, the Under 9s football coach of Appleby Froddingham Saints. On the plus side he was a football nut, on the down side he was a Liverpool fan. But beggars can’t be choosers, especially ones stranded in fucking Middle-Earth, and so I gladly took the ride.
He left me at Scunthorpe train station, which, to its credit looked professional, and to its detriment was rife with chavs. (At this point I’d just like to mention that, ‘chavs’ has just come up as red on my spell checker. MS Word is so not with the times man!)
Gladly, I get a train back to old Donny and then to Leeds station, a place that I’m beginning to know quite well now. It seems that there are good people in the world. Even though the North Lincolnshire public transport system is useless, at least their local hitchhike system is in perfect working order. Big thanks to Ian, the coach of Appleby Foddingham Saints Under 9s.
I’m never going to Brigg again.
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