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.