Standard class, first class and Osborne class
WITH all the precision of a badly outsourced Swiss clock, I stand at the end of each working day staring at an empty pair of railway tracks wondering what shit excuse they’re going to come up with this time.
It is 6.37pm, and as the train isn’t here when it’s supposed to be, it means I am going to miss my connection to God’s own country and not be anywhere near my scratcher before 8.30pm.
When it does, eventually, arrive, the hugely over-crowded two-carriage East Midlands chugger hauling the hordes from Manchester to Liverpool resembles some kind of sub-continental charabanc.
The only thing missing is kids in rags playing f***ing hopscotch on the f***ing roof.
But for now the train will have to do. Because petrol – and the car you have to pour it into – are more expensive even than a teenage sodding step-daughter.
Which is why I looked on with interest as our inheritance millionaire Chancellor, one Gideon Osborne, balked at the idea of having to pay for a first class ticket from Wilmslow to London – even though the fish-faced cretin could claim the fare back on expenses.
Mr Osborne “cannot possibly” sit in anything less than first
George Osborne F***ing c**t!
class because, y’know, he’s important, his aide claimed.
So important and busy was he that, while I was probably still waiting at Platform 14 staring at months old shit on the lines, he was watching a movie with his aide in a comfy seat that he was, for a while at least, refusing to pay for.
That there are c***s in this world is of course beyond doubt. But then there’s Gideon Osborne.
And you’d be hard pressed to find a bigger c*** than that.