Boston railway station at 6am isn't pretty. The platform was strewn with unused condoms and empty bottles of Lambreeeni (assume Chav voice), which spoke only of another inductee into the STD club. Skateboarding scroats roamed around with mock menace, although for some reason they remained polite enough to exit the public areas when cadging cigarettes.
Not that the 6.14 was a great deal better. Through my own six o'clock eyes, the conductor bore an uncanny resemblance to Jozef Fritzel. You heard it here first: he's not behind Austrian prison bars, he works on British Rail. Fritzel spent the entire journey telling anyone within earshot of his Draconian theories on ticket inspection.
I love the smell of Grantham in the morning. Actually, i don't, it's fucking vile. The place that gave the world Margaret Thatcher is where country bumpkin meets slick city commuter, where tweed and Barbour meet Burton suit. Both were in evidence in the crush for the 7.17 (delayed, naturally). Thankfully, once the Mothercounty had been traversed, a normal day ensued.
The Guardian's new place, within a coal-shovelers range of King's Cross and in a picturesque canal-side location, is pretty swish. The inside is spacious and airy, the production areas sit vibrant, at the cutting edge. The Insight into Journalism day was immensely beneficial despite being loaded with propaganda for the liberal rag. I just succeeded in pretending I actually bought the Guardian: truth be told, as a Times reader, and an obsessive one at that, I've never once bought it. Oh well.
Apparently, they use a format called the Berliner. My warped mind just couldn't dispel the image of the stereotypical fat-but-not-in-a-threatening-way German commuter hopelessly trying to juggle his breakfast Wurst, dessert pretzel and multi-section newspaper on the U-Bahn. "Ach, nein! Mein Sportsection ist verloren!"
Lunchtime was a networking session over cucumber sandwiches, spring rolls and weird-looking vol-au-vents. I was sidetracked by a fabulous lady who writes the obituraries (they have a big database of people who look close to kicking the bucket, you know). These York alumni can smell you a mile off and I was required to fill her in on all on-campus developments in the general 1994-2009 time frame. Which really didn't take long as she stayed in Langwith which, to the best of my knowledge, remains a grim concrete jungle.
In the afternoon, the hotch-potch of undergrads, postgrads and last-chance career changers were shepherded into a computer workshop apparently used mainly by primary schools. It was slightly emasculating to discover the quality of front page design by the year four classes, especially as we, average age 25, were set the same assignment. My agreeable partner Fraser and I scooped the top prize (which I await with great excitement to be dispatched through the post, bet it' a Guardian biro). Thank God Nouse have taught me how to lay-up a fit page, comes in so handy.
I managed to arrive back in Boston without killing a single train, thank God. If I have a vice, it's murdering trains. I just can't help myself, they simply break down whenever I'm within 100 yards. The first was returning from the England test at Trent Bridge last year, when the brakes decided to fail, a situation exacerbated by my stomach performing double somersaults with pike after a dodgy Worthingtons in the morning session. After much delay (and stopping) we were re-routed via the entirety of the North on a train which looked like it had been borrowed from Communist-era Russia.
There was then the mainline service deciding to break down sufficiently short of Doncaster on the hottest day of last summer (it reached fully 20 degrees). British Rail appeased those on board by handing out bottles of warm sparkling water and turning down the air conditioning. Then, returning from Wembley for the England match last week, the train died agonisingly short of Grantham. It was a short delay, just enough to ensure I missed my connection, but a short delay. Allegedly, a Hull Train had caught fire. Excitement swept the carriage. I know it's morbid, but after being so bloody inconvenienced, I was wanting a bloody rail inferno. Something that would appear on Look North. I was bitterly disappointed, there sat the train in question in Grantham station, perfectly still without the slightest trace of smoke. Damn it.
It leaves you fretting until Boston station was back in view and, yes, it looked just as pleasant in the evening gloom as it had 14 hours earlier.
Not that the 6.14 was a great deal better. Through my own six o'clock eyes, the conductor bore an uncanny resemblance to Jozef Fritzel. You heard it here first: he's not behind Austrian prison bars, he works on British Rail. Fritzel spent the entire journey telling anyone within earshot of his Draconian theories on ticket inspection.
I love the smell of Grantham in the morning. Actually, i don't, it's fucking vile. The place that gave the world Margaret Thatcher is where country bumpkin meets slick city commuter, where tweed and Barbour meet Burton suit. Both were in evidence in the crush for the 7.17 (delayed, naturally). Thankfully, once the Mothercounty had been traversed, a normal day ensued.
The Guardian's new place, within a coal-shovelers range of King's Cross and in a picturesque canal-side location, is pretty swish. The inside is spacious and airy, the production areas sit vibrant, at the cutting edge. The Insight into Journalism day was immensely beneficial despite being loaded with propaganda for the liberal rag. I just succeeded in pretending I actually bought the Guardian: truth be told, as a Times reader, and an obsessive one at that, I've never once bought it. Oh well.
Apparently, they use a format called the Berliner. My warped mind just couldn't dispel the image of the stereotypical fat-but-not-in-a-threatening-way German commuter hopelessly trying to juggle his breakfast Wurst, dessert pretzel and multi-section newspaper on the U-Bahn. "Ach, nein! Mein Sportsection ist verloren!"
Lunchtime was a networking session over cucumber sandwiches, spring rolls and weird-looking vol-au-vents. I was sidetracked by a fabulous lady who writes the obituraries (they have a big database of people who look close to kicking the bucket, you know). These York alumni can smell you a mile off and I was required to fill her in on all on-campus developments in the general 1994-2009 time frame. Which really didn't take long as she stayed in Langwith which, to the best of my knowledge, remains a grim concrete jungle.
In the afternoon, the hotch-potch of undergrads, postgrads and last-chance career changers were shepherded into a computer workshop apparently used mainly by primary schools. It was slightly emasculating to discover the quality of front page design by the year four classes, especially as we, average age 25, were set the same assignment. My agreeable partner Fraser and I scooped the top prize (which I await with great excitement to be dispatched through the post, bet it' a Guardian biro). Thank God Nouse have taught me how to lay-up a fit page, comes in so handy.
I managed to arrive back in Boston without killing a single train, thank God. If I have a vice, it's murdering trains. I just can't help myself, they simply break down whenever I'm within 100 yards. The first was returning from the England test at Trent Bridge last year, when the brakes decided to fail, a situation exacerbated by my stomach performing double somersaults with pike after a dodgy Worthingtons in the morning session. After much delay (and stopping) we were re-routed via the entirety of the North on a train which looked like it had been borrowed from Communist-era Russia.
There was then the mainline service deciding to break down sufficiently short of Doncaster on the hottest day of last summer (it reached fully 20 degrees). British Rail appeased those on board by handing out bottles of warm sparkling water and turning down the air conditioning. Then, returning from Wembley for the England match last week, the train died agonisingly short of Grantham. It was a short delay, just enough to ensure I missed my connection, but a short delay. Allegedly, a Hull Train had caught fire. Excitement swept the carriage. I know it's morbid, but after being so bloody inconvenienced, I was wanting a bloody rail inferno. Something that would appear on Look North. I was bitterly disappointed, there sat the train in question in Grantham station, perfectly still without the slightest trace of smoke. Damn it.
It leaves you fretting until Boston station was back in view and, yes, it looked just as pleasant in the evening gloom as it had 14 hours earlier.
Playlist:
M.I.A. - Paper Planes
Pet Shop Boys - You were always on my mind
Stone Roses - This is the One
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