So there I was on the 12.35am train home, fairly sozzled after a few large reds with my mate Chris at a restaurant in London following pre-beers at a theatre preview, and I'd royally fucked up by forgetting I had to change at Stevenage to catch the last train onwards two stops to my current hometown.
The penny clanged when the scenery changed dramatically from what I'm used to on my usual train straight home, and it grimly dawned that I was on the final Peterborough service with no more going back the other way.
I get off at the next stop, Arlesey, a Bedfordshire village in the middle of nowhere, no nearby high street nor taxi rank, just fields and a few houses. Next train anywhere is 4.30am, nearest cab office miles away in wrong direction says Google - rang em anyway and was quoted £60 "at least" - and mrs funnily enough not answering at 1.30am, not that she'd've come to get me at that time anyway.
Close to contemplating hanging out til 4.30 I spot a man outside the station entrance, swaying on his feet, head bowed, pained expression - I knew instantly that he'd made the same fuck-up. As I switch off my phone to conserve the remaining battery he spots a public phonebox, staggers up to it, sticks in some coins then starts swearing loudly when it inevitably cuts him off and eats the last of his money. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!".
After I tentatively approach to offer some help, he turns out to be a softly-spoken Scot once the bellowing subsides, dressed in a dapper summer suit and boater hat like he's just stepped out of the Henley Regatta. Turns out he's just returned from the Henley Regatta. And after the long rail mission back from Oxon to - then through - London, he passed out just before his Stevenage stop on the same last train from Kings Cross. His mobile dead, phonebox ate his last two quid, wife gonna kill him, has to be back at work in 6 hours - if only he could remember the number of his local cab firm he has a business account with.
The penny clanged when the scenery changed dramatically from what I'm used to on my usual train straight home, and it grimly dawned that I was on the final Peterborough service with no more going back the other way.
I get off at the next stop, Arlesey, a Bedfordshire village in the middle of nowhere, no nearby high street nor taxi rank, just fields and a few houses. Next train anywhere is 4.30am, nearest cab office miles away in wrong direction says Google - rang em anyway and was quoted £60 "at least" - and mrs funnily enough not answering at 1.30am, not that she'd've come to get me at that time anyway.
Close to contemplating hanging out til 4.30 I spot a man outside the station entrance, swaying on his feet, head bowed, pained expression - I knew instantly that he'd made the same fuck-up. As I switch off my phone to conserve the remaining battery he spots a public phonebox, staggers up to it, sticks in some coins then starts swearing loudly when it inevitably cuts him off and eats the last of his money. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!".
After I tentatively approach to offer some help, he turns out to be a softly-spoken Scot once the bellowing subsides, dressed in a dapper summer suit and boater hat like he's just stepped out of the Henley Regatta. Turns out he's just returned from the Henley Regatta. And after the long rail mission back from Oxon to - then through - London, he passed out just before his Stevenage stop on the same last train from Kings Cross. His mobile dead, phonebox ate his last two quid, wife gonna kill him, has to be back at work in 6 hours - if only he could remember the number of his local cab firm he has a business account with.
the man at the station
Aha, well a quick Google later with my last bar of battery and he's relievedly speaking to that very firm on my phone, then orders two cabs: one to Stevenage and one back to mine. Mine's at least £50 I explain. That's ok, he replies, it's on the account so don't worry about it.
Ten minutes later, following a fag and discussion of the Scottish referendum, he gives me his business card as the cabs arrive and I'm suddenly flying back to my doorstep in a luxury car driven full pelt by a Muslim man on his last call who needs to get home before his Ramadan fast begins. That drive felt like this:
Ten minutes later, following a fag and discussion of the Scottish referendum, he gives me his business card as the cabs arrive and I'm suddenly flying back to my doorstep in a luxury car driven full pelt by a Muslim man on his last call who needs to get home before his Ramadan fast begins. That drive felt like this:
riding a cow next to Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh
So thanks Forbes McKenzie of McKenzie Intelligence, looks like we sorted each other out in what was a pretty bleak predicament. And if ever I have to write an article on "satellite imagery & analysis" I'll know exactly who to hit up first.
Moral: always offer assistance to drunk Scots shouting at phoneboxes.
Liked this? Read this: Reversal of Fortune
Moral: always offer assistance to drunk Scots shouting at phoneboxes.
Liked this? Read this: Reversal of Fortune
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