Rodney Edwards | Sunday Life Column | 25th January 2009 - Week 16
Rodney Edwards | Sunday Life Column | 25th January 2009 - Week 16
e-mail: rodney@rodneyedwards.co.uk
OUR PUBLIC TRANSPORT IS A REAL BUS-TED FLUSH
IT’S MORE COMFY, AND QUICKER, TO GET AROUND ON A DEAD DONKEY
The most momentous moment of our generation and I spent it looking at the back of somebody’s head.
I missed Barack Obama’s historic inauguration on Tuesday because I was imprisoned on a sizzling, overcrowded bus somewhere between Enniskillen and Belfast, courtesy of Translink – the most unpleasant and costly means of transportation since the black cab.
The donkey ride at my local fete last summer was not only more satisfying but speedier – and he was dead. In the two and half hours it took to do the 88-odd mile trip, I was sick in my mouth at least four times. Not because the driver insisted on furiously taking each corner with such haste that I repeatedly head butted the passenger next to me, but because each and every chair aboard the bus was coated in a stomach-churning multi-coloured fabric of swirly shapes, amid the odd profanity dubbed in permanent marker. With all the money pumped into Translink, who are to public transport, what Shane MacGowan is to orthodontists, surely they can afford a few pastel throwovers to improve ambience?
Apart from the seating looking like something the cat threw up on, the employees have the manners of a sedated elephant being woken up and then kicked in the trunk. I’ve been frequently wrongly informed of a time a bus was to leave the Europa Bus Centre by a moron at the desk. I’ve been screamed at for not having the right change (must remember to pay in pennies the next time) and I’ve played adjudicator when two bus drivers decided to have an argy-bargee in the Dungannon station.
A work colleague also bared the brunt of Translink’s woeful service recently when he tried to board a bus to a village in rural Co. Antrim. He turned up at Europa Bus Centre for 4.26pm and was there at the designated stand (as checked on Translink website) for the 4.30pm bus. Although, there was no sign of the actual bus which you’ll agree, is the fundamental part of the station’s prerequisite, as it appeared to have left early.
The next bus was at 5pm, and so this chap and a couple of school kids and a mum with shopping were waiting when at 5.02pm, they saw a bus leave from a stand several spaces away from where it was supposed to stop. Everyone missed the bus because it took off from the wrong platform.
At 5.10pm, the next bus pulled up as my mate and the other customers enquired about the disappearance of the last bus. It waited for literally 30 seconds, didn’t open its doors and then as quickly as it arrived, drove off, leaving everyone who had missed the previous bus stranded again. The next bus was not until 5.45 (which would have been almost an hour and 20 minutes after my chum arrived at Europa Bus Centre) so in despair, he walked out and ended up having to fork out £20 for a taxi. To make it all worse it was his birthday and he was hours late for a round of the bumps.
The transport system in and out of Belfast is shambolic. I mean, it costs £15.00 to get from Belfast to Enniskillen on a return ticket. A ticket that MUST be used on the same day or it’ll be £10 either way. In this recession, my pen pal Wan Pablo could feed his entire family walnuts for a month on that.
I thought public transport was about being economical? It’s also supposed to be effortless and wonderful for the environment but my bus journeys take so long with Translink and are that unbearable that I’ve never craved the leg of a polar bear more.
Next time, I’m driving.
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EUR’ EITHER WITH ME OR AGAINST ME
Me and the lads were sitting about sharing a tin of sprite (it’s the credit crunch, you see) discussing ways we can minimise the expenditure. Wee Paul who recently lost his job delivering leaflets had a cold sore, which of course, contaminated the can, he was adamant we held a séance to ask deceased rich folk their views on the cash flow problem. If Paul doesn’t find employment soon, his jaunt to Rossnowlagh in search of a Mrs Paul on Valentine’s Day won’t get past Cavan. One-eyed Joe, dog barber-turned-historian, refused my plea that Britain should convert to the euro – despite me arguing that it would effectively sort out the credit crunch, provide security and in turn, use up the cup of foreign currency that’s been on my desk for three years.
One-eyed Joe is a traditionalist, the sort of boy who’d feel out of place at a rave. Wee Paul didn’t have an opinion on the issue; he was in the next room talking to Elvis Presley about a two year capital bond. I on the other hand, feel ditching the sterling in favour of the euro would be a good idea.
But what do you think?
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ONE HATES TO WINE, BUT I GOT INTO THE SPIRIT
The Flybe / Sunday Life Spirit of Northern Ireland awards the other night was an awe-inspiring occasion as the province’s unsung heroes were rewarded for their valour in helping others.
Winners and guests all looked very dapper, apart from featureless warbler Brian Kennedy who let the whole place down by wearing a black polo shirt. Come on Danny boy, even I bought a new suit for the occasion.
Ruth Lorenzo was unrivalled, Signature’s performance was flawless and UTV should give Julian Simmon’s his own chat show – if Pamela Ballantine can co-host.
But I have a confession to make to the gentleman that sat to the left of me at table eight.
I didn’t have the heart to explain to you that my wine glass actually had water in it – so I didn’t bother stopping you continually “topping up” my glass of water with white wine.
“Refill?”, “Certainly,” says I, as I sat there, getting more and more inebriated on watery wine that I had to be physically restrained each time I wanted to talk jingles with Cool FM’s Pete Snodden.
On swapping the glass with an empty one, I half-filled it with water and took a sip. I then turned to speak to my girlfriend Natalie, when a kind fellow to her right, leaned over and “refilled” my unblemished glass of water with… wine. Again.
What a situation to be in, I’d tell you what happened next but I’m trying to work out how I woke up in the Isle of Man with a traffic cone on my head.
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QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:
“I read your column every week – and I fu**ing hate it.” (Said one disgruntled, drunken but dedicated reader).
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Zoe Salmon is doing well on that Dancing on Ice thing.
Last Sunday she rose gracefully during her stint in the rink, spinning and gliding, before extending one slender leg behind her with a satisfied grin upon her face.
A bit like the springer spaniel that piddled against my back tyre yesterday.