Midnight on the Murder Mile

It has been several weeks since my last post, and as all of mankind has been clamouring for another (or, more accurately, no one at all) I will do one now. I am currently in Bellshill, sat at a friend's computer with a Jacques in one hand and a Jacques in the other, after a harrowing night. The time, 11pm; the place, London Victoria Coach Station. The temperature, about 2 degrees above freezing. The coach station is packed, I'm sitting, trying not to freeze to death and simultaneously trying not to soil myself whilst sweating like a plague victim, as a stomach bug thought it would be a perfect time to just go nuts, creating a sensation not unlike firing ninja stars from a shotgun every 20 minutes. A millimeter beneath the surface of my skin I was a furnace so I shone with fever sweat, however anything above and below that was an iceberg. The minutes crawled by. The world ended, a blinding flash of brilliant white a million years in the future reduces all consciousness to nothing. The Big Bang happens, and planets are formed; a floating mass of superheated rock finds an orbit with a huge ball of fire and the earth heaves with the effort of creation. Single cells form, the basis for all life and they lay, inert for millennia. These life forms begin to shape, and as ages slip by a slimy amphibian heaves it's way gasping into the acrid air of young earth. Over generations, it changes shape, and becomes bipedal. Society forms, we learn about tools, and fire, and wheel. The concept of religion is conceived and we move into a civilised age. First our feet, then carts, then the motor vehicle were born, followed swiftly by the coach. Neon lights and LCD plasma screens all thrown into a huge glass horse-shoe of a building with no heating and no closed doors is placed in the busiest part of London. And I appear there again, sweating and praying to a merciful Lord that my colon has what it takes as 23:30 clonks into place. The coach appears and everyone rushes to the gate, despite not being able to board for another quarter of an hour. One of my fellow passengers had a thought process which ran a little like this: "Right, I need to get to Glasgow from London. I also need to bring my two children, who are 6 months and 1 year and 10 months old. The best thing for all of us is to keep them awake all damn night waiting whilst they become increasingly disgruntled. So what will be best for them, myself and my fellow passengers is to place said tired, hungry, griping kids into a over-hot and overcrowded metal tube on my lap for eight hours. I mean, sure it's the middle of the night and everyone needs to sleep at some point, but I'm sure they won't mind if my eldest emits a keening, high-pitched wail every 15 minutes or so for the whole journey, jerking them awake, just as sleep would finally start to take them. No siree. And when he does, I'll just do nothing to sooth my distressed child." Lookin' at you, guy sat two rows behind me. At 8am the next morning we pulled into Glasgow, and I managed to escape the damn coach with my neck feeling like a broken accordion, and a walk not dissimilar to that of the people from the 'Around the World' by Daft Punk music video. I sit here now delirious with fatigue. I add the above man's name to my Book of Grudges. On the plus side, I have two days of being on holiday in Scotland, with a trip to the Edinburgh Christmas Market tomorrow and a visit to the Kelvingrove Museum the next day. Smashing.