Stan­dard class, first class and Os­borne class

Midweek Sport - - NEWS -

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.

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