2006-12-08 - 7:27 p.m.

I was on a train from London to Newcastle last weekend. I paid the extra for first class, since I was going to claim it back anyway. That's right. An extra fifteen quid. I'm kicking some taxman ass. Like Lester Piggott, Ken Dodd and someone Americans have heard of who's similarly famous for ripping off the Inland Revenue all rolled into one.

Anyway, it wasn't one of the new style of first class carriages, it was a slightly old-fashioned one with the old seat fabrics and little lamps on ev- Wesley Snipes! Yes. He'll do. Like Lester Piggott, Ken Dodd and Wesley Snipes all rolled into one. Anyway, oh yeah, little lamps on every table. It was kind of like a Primark Orient Express but still an improvement on travelling Dachau Class on a Sunday afternoon.

Impinging on the sub-aristocratic tranquility, however, was a baby. A right fucking screecher. But the worst of it was, the bePampered banshee wasn't even in our carriage. Not even a First Class Rugrat. The train was evidently so full that mum, dad and the flesh siren were camped in the vestibule between carriages. Now, it's got to be hard, carting the little one on and off a train in an unwieldy buggy, having to perch uncomfortably between carriages for the duration of the journey, being constantly buffeted by passengers making their way to the, er, buffet car. But frankly, fuck 'em. Especially since the buggy was positioned just on the pressure pad that caused the door seperating the first class carriage from the vestibule to keep opening. After a few seconds it would shut, and then, since the buggy was still in position, immediately reopen. In the name of all the Gyllenhaals, if the crying wasn't bad enough, the constant schliff...schloom of the door would be enough to drive a man to complimentary tea and individually-wrapped shortbread.

And it's not like they didn't know they were doing it. They were right next to the door. Surely if it was annoying me at the far end of the carriage, it must be driving them spare. But perhaps a few weeks enduring The Song of the Hellbaby had numbed them to anything that might act as an irritant to those of us not charged with the full-time care of Lucifer's own foundling.

People were getting annoyed. They looked down the aisle at the eternally sliding door, the back of the buggy and the seemingly oblivious parents beyond it. Then they looked at each other. Then they looked down the aisle again. Then they grimaced. I sensed an unspoken consensus was developing amongst the passengers. Something must be done.

Then it struck me.

My God. This was our United 93.

A man got up and walked down to the door. He had a word. He came back. He muttered something to his travelling companions. The baby kept crying. The door kept sliding. Another man went to the door. He had a word. He came back. Eventually a guard sauntered through the carriage. One of the men had a word. The guard went to the door. He had a word. I read a book. I looked up again and the family had vacated the vestibule. We had just pulled into a station, so maybe they got off. Or perhaps they were moved to another vestibule. In any event, the problem had been solved - or moved - thanks to quiet diplomacy and despite almost crippling British reserve.

Now, I don't want to get any backs up, but all I'm saying is if the folks on that 'plane in '01 had opted for a quiet word with the terrorists, perhaps pointing out that unilaterally deciding to cast everyone's fate on the mercy of Allah was going to impinge on passengers' ability to finish the crossword or enjoy the recently-commenced Rush Hour 2, rather than going all gung-ho about it, things might've turned out a little more cheerily for everyone.

Please don't shop me to the taxman.

Profilage - Previosity - Nextitude