On The National Express...There's A Jolly Hostess...Selling Crisps And Tea...

For the record, the Divine Comedy lied. There’s no jolly hostess, just a miserable, power-hungry driver, in a hideous jacket, barking orders to wear seatbelts and refrain from listening to music at an inappropriate level. Add to this mix a selection of the loudest, most in-love-with-the-sound-of-their-own-voice arseholes, that you could ever hope to be sharing a confined space with, and you are all set for a 3 hour coach journey from hell.



As I write this, it appears that I am sat in front of a new line up for The Inbetweeners, only minus the humour. No, I don’t care whether or not you passed your first year of Uni, or whether or not it’s a good idea to ‘get wit’ Rachel, who will probably hate you as much as I do, once she has had to endure your monotonous voice for over an hour. I’m mostly concerned with your ruining my literary enjoyment of Jane and her epic love for Mr Rochester, so eff off. And stop kicking the back of my seat. God, the ‘Yute dem’ of today…aaiiiiiii?!


It is my firm belief that anyone, upon entering into a long distance relationship like mine, that spans miles (or, at least, a great deal of the M1); probably has many a vision of emanating a Marilyn-style traipse along a deserted train platform only to fall into the familiar arms of their distant loved one. In reality, long distance is not for the faint hearted; once you have negotiated the tube to Victoria in epic Paula Radcliffe-inspired timing, after another long day at work, there is barely time or leg room for flat to heel swaps and make-up application. Not to mention the half hour delay, or the lottery of who you might end up sat next to. Suffice to say, I chose National Express for their cheapness, certainly not their efficiency, or the opportunity to sit next to a grimacing man who does nothing but stare at Facebook on his phone for 3 hours.


Cut to a chilly November evening and I am on my way to see Mr Jeffery for a lovely weekend; there is dim lighting and a whole group of the aforementioned arseholes to contend with. Someone’s got hot food (strictly forbidden by the coachy powers that be), someone left the toilet door open (anti-social bastard) and the person sat opposite is sweating like Conrad Murray signing a prescription form (just not necessary, really). So much for my dreams of travelling the M1 in something akin to a coach version of the Orient Express. Not that I would wish to disappoint in the ‘arriving looking impossibly stunning’ stakes; using the poise of a contortionist, I have learnt to negotiate the contents of my make-up bag and shuffle my iPod, with little to no room for elbow movement. Win. Face on, heels on, passenger next to me may have slight bruise on arm for several days.


Still…almost 10.30pm and Broadmarsh Shopping Centre is in sight, plus the silhouette of a man, carrying a guitar and the promise of another fun-filled weekend in Rockin’ Notts, a city that draws me closer to it by the day.

A word of warning to the car-less dreamers of the world who, like me and Mr Jeffery, have fallen into the trapping of a long distance love; for God’s sake move and save yourself the agony of National Express journeys.

10.25pm Jesus…even System of a Down can’t drown him out…

10.30pm Aaahhh, there stands the very reason I make these journeys at all. The world, at once, makes sense again!


Mwah