The Bawling Woman

So, there I was, Harry Weekenders on the train – Guzz to Southampton, Friday, minding my own business. Ended up on the sprinter from Brizzol, through Salisbury to the South Coast and, well, there was a problem.
The train was wedged, it was stuffy and some woman was bawling her eyes out. Not snivelling, not quietly blubbing, silent weeping was out – Bawling her eyes out, retching and crying, two year old screaming crying………. Nothing could stop her, no one could calm her, a shuddering draw of air every few minutes and she was off again!
Finally, as the train rolls past where the River Test enters the upper reaches of Southampton Water the woman next to her points out the line into the New Forest and says “See that, that’s Totton, just up there” with a smile and I suppose a hope that bawling woman will calm down…… No chance, efforts are redoubled.
I earwigged the “What’s wrong, why is she so upset?” as she was helped off the train at Southampton. Helpful woman explains;
“She flew in from somewhere in the Far East to Gatport Airwick this morning and has never been away from home before so she was following her friends’ instructions to catch the train from there to Totton.” So she goes to the ticket office and in her very Far Eastern accent asks for a ticket to Totton. Turns out the ticket vendor doesn’t understand so asks her to repeat where she wants to go several times. TO TON……TOT ON….TOT T TON are all tried and finally blokey understands and issues her a ticket and off she goes to catch her train. Anyway, the nice people on the platform put her on her train and the nice guard checks her ticket and eventually she turns up at the destination – the guard even makes a point to tell her she has arrived. Off she pops and phones friend to come collect her. Somewhere after that the penny drops – TAUNTON is not TOTTON. Cue the start of the great Bawl…….. All those nice, helpful people and my bleeding ears.
Taunton may be a very nice place, I cocking hate the place
I heard a dit that Princess Anne once drove all the way to Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire to watch a Chelsea match.

Presumably in a Reliant Scimitar.
On my way home after 7 days down the hole in J2 Northwood. Just managed the last train to Guzz from Kings Cross just after 8pm. Not my day it was Glastenbury and you couldn'tfcuking move in the cheap seats and trying to get to the overflowing shithouse was out of the question, glad I hadn't had a few pints but had grabbed a bottle of the finest cheapest Red in the Tesco Metro a small ciabatta and some humous, posh as fcuk me even added a pot of mixed olives.
5 minutes out of the station the young lady next to me in the cattle truck, quite well dressed and far better spoken than me gets a call on her mobile' obviously the boyfriend but not for much longer fcuk me I'd have been proud of the language c word t word f word each one louder than the last I just knew every fcuker thinks she's with me and the whole carriage was listening I squirmed and I sweated all the fcuking way to Westbury. She must have taken 20 calls, She got off and smiled at me sweetly. Thank fcuk almost everyone else got off and I could take a piss.
Train was late decided to walk to the Torpoint Ferry from the station at 2am on the way got stopped by the police and asked if they could search my bag well embarrassed, all me skidded Knicks with the tea stained piss pocket, spun a few dits policewoman rather divs only a 2 door cop car get to the ferry, stepped out and got my legs trapped in the rear seat belt and fell out the door. Back on watch 3 days later but much wiser
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