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.

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.

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.

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.

Places I've Visited

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.