First Class

Sitting on the train from Euston to Lime St, for what feels like the hundredth time, drinking a tall cup of what appears to be labelled “a lovely person.” I’m not sure why they decided to starting liquidating people in place of reliable old coffee but I must say the taste is almost identical. I suppose if they just used regular people, it may come across a little bitter. Still, I can’t help but feel for the poor sod who is now soup in my cup, ground up and watered down to satiate the masses. What is this world coming to?

I didn’t do that mad dash for the last carriage as so many seem to, convinced that they’ve outsmarted the herd clustered around the gate. All sweating, sure that this must be the one time where Virgin have sold more tickets than there are seats. 

Desperately hoping that the rest will honour the mid carriage aisle seat they’ve been allocated, and secretly reassuring themselves they’ll stick their brass neck out and poach a table anyway. 

And so as the flood gates open the stampede surges forward, racing for the end of the platform convinced that no other would dare venture that far. Only to arrive, crestfallen, at coach U to find that every bloody passenger has had the same idea, and as they all cram on the back doors and slowly ooze up through the train, theres cleverdick Cherry Red who bounced in the first door and is now breezing through the roomy aisle of first class toward that red standard sticker on the sliding door.

First class is a bizarre concept. There has been uproar lately because our Jezza Corbyn, candidate for leadership of the Labour Party and Messiah of the masses, stuck his head down from heaven and suggested we bring in women only carriages to try and ensure lone traveller safety. An idea, by the way, that was suggested to him by women.

Oh you can’t do that. That’s sexist, that is. Oh Jeremy, you can’t segregate people based on gender, we are a progressive society. You can’t do that. What you can do though, is segregate on the basis of class. Yeah thats fine. Cos poor people are a bit noisy and smelly anyway aren’t they, its for the best that we keep them away from our shiny shoes and suits, lest their poverty is contagious.

You know what. I am absolutely in favour of first class carriages, and let me tell you why.


The only thing I can see that marks it out from the rest, (aside from the stench of entitlement wafting up the aisle which appears to be, what, an inch wider than standard class), is that these seats have little white bibs velcroed onto them which declare “FIRST CLASS.”

Do you know why that is? I’m almost sure its because if they didn’t label these seats, you wouldnt be able to tell them apart. Some of these priveleged idiots have spent twice the money, for a bib on their seat. I actually stole one on the way past to stick on my own seat, but alas only half the Velcro fastening has put paid to that. If only I’d paid £150 for a £40 journey.
“oh but its quieter.” 

First of all, only the silence of a vacuum could make me contemplate paying that much for a ticket. (science.) Swapping out students chatting shit about their “gap yahh” for toffs chatting shit about their earnings does not equal quiet. And we have a quiet carriage too, all the way down here in the murky depths of standard.

I can honestly say I think this is one of the few times where I feel I’ve got one over on the better-offs and better-thans. It’s still sickening to think that they just have money to waste, but it always makes me laugh that they think they’re getting something special up there.
“oh but we get a drink.”

So do I. From the buffet. It doesn’t cost me £110. I dont have to walk the length of the train to get it after making such an effort to distance myself from the riffraff.

So please, frequent first class passengers, keep doing your thing. Enjoy that bib on your seat. Enjoy the smug satisfaction of thinking you’re better than everyone for approx. three hours. Lord knows we dont want your pampered arses back here anyways.


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