Big Train That Does Not Involve The Actor Kevin Eldon

I came rather close to having a sudden startling revelation at the weekend. But it was then disproved, which was lucky, as there's nothing I like less on a Sunday evening than having to re-evaluate my entire world view; it just takes so long, and Sunday evenings are reserved for bouts of quiet desperation that another week has swirled down the plughole of the universe without getting caught on any hairclogs of opportunity. And also roast potatoes, to make the quiet desperation taste like crunchy duck fat.

Anyway, plenty of time for all that, for trains is what my brain was a-ponderin' - specifically, how unbearably cool I believed them to be for a period of about a day, thus causing me to consider that maybe cars do not in fact rule all, before all the horror and hellishness that I assume typifies most train journeys fell gently upon me like greasy, sweat-riddled rain. The train journey up to Rochdale (Ah, Rochdale! You bestowed upon me a free train ticket courtesy of a random generous stranger, and a wedding reception in the middle of a deserted industrial estate where the buffet was pie and mushy peas. My conclusion: you rock) was exactly what those old adverts were banging on about. I was comfy, I had room, the sheep-stuffed countryside swished past at a pleasing rate, the tilting train actually tilted which was possibly the most exciting thing I have ever experienced, and there were handsome young men reading the Guardian that I could concoct narritively startling but spiritually unfulfilling romantic fantasies about. Ah, but once in Rochdale, one must leave Rochdale, no matter how much one's heart is rended by the thought, and there is where the whole train mirage exploded into thousands of shiny fragments.

My God! Was the journey back down a frigging nightmare. First there was the reservation system going poof! Which meant that when I took my seat in a more desirable location than the one which I had been allocated (ie, so I could gaze out of a window, not stare furiously at some graffitti scratched into grimy perspex for four hours) I was gripped by a paralysing, buttock-clenching paranoia whenever anyone vaguely came near me, in mortal fear that they would launch into a furious diatribe on the subject of my seat-stealage and related moral weakness, and then hurl my whimpering form out of the nearest fire exit, fuelled by righteous and indignant rage. And the train was bloody busy as well, so bang went my space and freedom to play AM180 by Grandaddy at an indignant volume. And then, about 45 mins out of London, in the middle of nowhere-land, the train just stopped.

And stayed.

And stayed.

At this point, I finally got what all the fuss was about re: phones and trains, as a woman started calling everyone in her phone book to complain loudly about her horrific situation which she seemed to think was only affecting her, not the 20,000 other poor bastards stuffed into the carriage with her. Her voice somehow reached into the most irritable part of my brain and carressed it with the tender touch of a kitten in mink mittens, kneading, fondling, working it into a veritable frenzy of anger until I let out a gutteral roar and beat her to death with her own forearms. Or sighed in a pointed manner. I can't quite remember which. Oh, and she was accompanied with a child and a mechanical cat, the former of which found the latter infinitely hilarious, but that may just be too much for one post.

Yeah so anyway trains suck all the available balls and I now understand why, and I'm never not driving anywhere again, even though my car is now without radio and half a headlight beepy-you've-left-the-lights-on-warning and seemingly is holding itself together through some kind of sheer Japanese warrior uber-strength of will. Woo!

Hi, I'm Justresting, And You're Reading A Blog Post

The Christmas decorations came down this weekend, and my attempts to smoke out the melancholic mood that had settled on the tired tinsel as it was unceremoniously stuffed into Tesco carrier bags by blasting Led Zeppelin II through the house completely and utterly failed to work. So I was left to fight off the fog of new year malaise by other means, up to and including wine, wii-ing, and terrible, terrible chocolate.

So now begins the grim and tiresome task of trying to differentiate 2008 from all previous years in my life of impossible dreariness. Blissfully, I have already achieved great things this year, by managing to alienate an old acquaintance who looked me up on Facebook (Facebook! Oh, the humanity) in one simple message. Note to self: The proper response to "We should have a beer sometime" is "Yes, that would be nice," not "Yeah, cos last time we met I was a total fuck-up and probably got just the tiniest bit rapey. Oh, you'd blocked that out of your memory? HA HA HA HA!! No, it's fine, I'm really dull now. One extreme t'other, eh? But hey! Let's party!" followed by a plaintive look at the cloud of internet dust where there had been, until recently, quite a pleasant person who I wouldn't have minded meeting up with. Fear not! A copy of this tale is winging its way to the Oxford English Dictionary in an envelope marked "flying start redefined".

Where can 2008 possibly go from here? Well, I have one resolution and one resolution only, seeing as I'm so ahead of the game that I quit smoking five months ago (and those pointing out this could equally be "so behind the game I quit smoking eight months after making the last resolution" will be taken out back and culled like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's chickens - wet with bitter, bitter tears of rage). Although I don't think I will achieve it, somehow. Because it is to take part in some sort of DVD commentary before the end of the year. Come on! Who has more fun than people on DVD commentaries? These people just sit in rooms with microphones and laugh, and laugh, and laugh. In my job, I am often in small rooms with microphones, and I have never uttered so much as a snigger, let alone graduated to tittering or, heaven forfend, a full-on guffaw. Now, there are two very, very minor flaws in this plan. One: to be on a DVD commentary, you have to have had some kind of involvement in the making of a DVD, which in my opinion is a ridiculous rule. Two: I have no discernible talent in acting, directing, or writing. On that last point, direct your eyes to the skies, and note the bi-plane roaring across the horizon pulling a banner reading "No Shit Sherlock".

Actually, I've been watching so many commentaries recently (oh, wow. Does THAT explain a lot!) that I occasionally wonder why I can't hear a disembodied voice relating amusing anecdotes over all TV programmes, the news, and when I'm just walking around. "Oh, this was fun to do, this walk down to the bus stop sequence. As you can see, I had an iPod on, but it wasn't just a prop, I was actually listening to music! It was Lindsay Cooper's soundtrack to the seminal Sally Cooper film, Rags/Goldiggers, I seem to remember. Or was it Mcfly? I don't... Oh, there, just in the background, that's Bill, great friend of mine. Hi, Bill, if you're listening, you old cocksucker! Ha ha, no, that's a private joke. Oh, now, this crossing of Shepherd's Bush Green bit, this really took it out of me. I mean, just emotionally..." (fades into distance)