The Journey
Rather than crying like that wet wipe of a baby OR A UNGRATEFUL GRAPEFRUIT
Introduction
What’s the worst part of a holiday? For most people, it’s the journey to the destination. The plane, the train, or the fucking coach.
There are many ways to get places, and some are better than others. I’ve learnt that if you want to enjoy the holiday, it’s best to just forget about the nightmare you are about to embark on and just say fuck it. Enjoy that plane ride. Clap when it lands, or when the plane has to do a flyover because it was too windy. You pop those hands up and think you’re on a rollercoaster. Obviously, you might be in a bit of peril, but at least you will go out having fun rather than crying like that wet wipe of a baby.
Or, if you are on a 15-hour train journey, rather than sit there on your phone and take in the scenery, why not have some fun? It’s not like you are going to see these people again unless you’re going on an all-inclusive holiday with the people from the train. If so, don’t do any of this shit, as that would be quite unfortunate. If not, then cracking.
On a train, why not have a race? A relay down the carriage. This is much easier if it’s on a Thameslink train or the Lizzie Line, as then you don’t have to constantly open and close doors.
Or train surf. Now, I’m not suggesting jumping on the roof of the train and giving that a whirl, as that would be a pleasant sight, but it wouldn’t last long. I’m more suggesting standing in the aisle and waiting for the train to slow down or speed up, and the fewer times you fall over, the more you win.
Why not close the doors when people are getting on, or act in an odd way towards each person? Become a servant for one person, and then change your entire personality for an elderly couple. Pretend you have an imaginary friend, or if you genuinely do, maybe you need to speak to someone, as that’s not normal at this age. My preferred demographic is everyone except children and people going through a midlife crisis. I don’t want to be the reason you got a minivan and wear a bum bag. That’s my limited knowledge of a midlife crisis. I’m guessing it’s also picking up a new hobby like crochet or base jumping, two ends of the spectrum, but I think they are a perfect combination during this midlife crisis.
Trains
But back to the train. There are many ways to spruce up the journey, food fight, paintball fight, muppet show, or just a good old game of footie in the aisle.
Now it comes to the type of commute to a holiday I hate the most, A FUCKING COACH. Who decided it was a good idea? It makes a lot of sense. It’s like a ferry for the land or a plane that represents a chicken. In the sense that chickens don’t fly, but I guess if it was going fast enough over a jump you would get some quality airtime. Not relevant, I know. My question is more, where’s the sense of luxury?
Nothing makes it more economy than a wingless plane with no legroom mixed with the essence of vomit and suffering. As a tall being, legroom is key to my survival. It’s a priority. I don’t want to be mangling my body into experimental yoga. It’s like hot yoga but more risky, like goat yoga but without the goat and instead it’s a bastard in a reclining chair.
If I don’t have legroom, I cannot relax, I cannot focus, and I become an ungrateful grapefruit. No one wants to eat a grapefruit, as it tastes rank, so when someone does it should be celebrated. I become an ungrateful grapefruit, and it will not be fun.