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.