I have previously noted on this blog how I have recently turned 33, and I have frequently written of my ill-formed habit of travelling on early morning trains with the previous night’s alcohol soaked activities weighing heavily on my body. Those two variables aligned can very quickly lead to an outcome similar to that of a retired train – ie. it goes off the rails.
The official journey time on the 8.57 Oban to Glasgow is a little over three hours, but it feels a whole lot longer when you’ve been in Aulay’s until closing time the night before. I feel I owe a multitude of my next day woes to that bar. That’s generally alright, though, with 8.57 typically being considered by reasonable human beings to not be an appropriate time to start drinking beer, so there’s little option but to sleep off that hangover.
Train sleeping is a very difficult act to pull off for any decent amount of time, however. It is not an environment that is conducive to rest and relaxation; the rattling and rolling is not something I am used to in my own bed. And the need to contort your body into all manner of shapes and positions to get some semblance of comfort in that garishly patterned seat is rarely worthwhile when you are invariably jolted from your slumber by something you will never be able to identify and you awaken without even the vaguest awareness of where you might be.
So my journey into Glasgow was punctuated with brief dalliances with sleep and I arrived feeling no better or worse than I had when I started out however many hours earlier, which I feel has to go down as a victory.
The Auctioneers was the highest bidder in my search to find a bar near to Queen Street station to watch the Celtic game and whilst I can’t state it with any scientific distinction, it seems true to me that the best cure for a hangover is a beer. Or watching a dramatic 4-3 Celtic win in a pub rammed full with Rangers fans. Both had a dramatic effect on my spirits and I was ready to tackle the significantly less daunting train ride to Edinburgh.
I thought eating some soup and a sandwich on the way would help with my situation. Maybe it did. Perhaps it was the remarkable warmth on the train – which is unusual for ScotRail – that did it. But from around Falkirk High onwards I was overwhelmed with a sudden onslaught of fatigue. I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I was enjoying some fantastically lucid dreaming. Before I knew it I could see Murrayfield Stadium and I knew we were approaching Haymarket; this journey had been effortless. In little more than two minutes we would be in Edinburgh Waverley and I could begin pre-gig drinking. Then I fell asleep. Into so deep a slumber that it required a conscientious passenger to tap me on the shoulder as the train filled with passengers on the next service. Who knows where I might have ended up if I hadn’t woken and disembarked before the train left.
I was fucked. There’s no other way of saying it. My eyes were heavy, my head was fuzzy and my body had all the willingness of a woman on the receiving end of one of my chat-up lines. All I wanted to do was check into my hostel and go to bed, but that seemed about as socially acceptable at 3.45pm as drinking beer on the train at 8.57am would have been. So I ventured out into the cold, breathless streets of Edinburgh in search of a bar to watch the scores come in and where I could tear up the coupon I had placed on in Glasgow. But the capital is very much a rugby city, and of nigh upon a dozen bars I tried from the Cowgate to the Grassmarket each and every one of them was showing England vs Australia rather than Soccer Saturday. Defeated and tired I retreated to the safe Solitude of Brewdog and struggled to keep myself awake over a pint of Santa Paws.
Ordinarily I adore the gothic magnificence of Edinburgh, but it’s fair to say that it wore thin on this visit. The Scott Monument was cloaked by giant flashing ferris wheels and Princes Street was slower than my speed of thought, which was severley lacking at this point. Walking out to Usher Hall on Lothian Road felt like an achingly arduous funeral procession under the haze of a million Christmas lights, only made worse by my foolish decision to buy a hot cider at the Christmas market. This wasn’t how my Saturday was meant to be.
Shakespeare’s set the world a little closer to its natural axis, even if my amusement was largely gained from watching the growing frustration of one particular punter who wasn’t getting served at the very end of the bar, The misfortune of others really shouldn’t bring a person any kind of joy, but when you’re sitting comfortably on your bar stool with a near-full pint in hand observing the puffing of cheeks and the petted lip it is difficult not to feel a glow of satisfaction radiate within. At this point I felt vaguely human.
If there’s one gig that could enliven a person it is Frank Turner. He embodies positive energy and his shows always produce a happy, sing along environment – even if these days it seems slightly more forced than it used to. It is near impossible to leave a Frank Turner show and not feel better than you did two hours previously, but boy I gave it a darn good try. I could barely raise my arms to clap on command or dance that terrible dance I dance. I was tired, and as much as I wanted to hear the next song all I could think of was the gig being over and me getting some actual sleep in a proper bed. It’s no way to live, but it was the only way to live.
Of course, as I write this on the train home – six hours earlier than intended – I’m wide awake and feel like I could probably drink until closing time again.
Diaries of a single man 