I simply hate public transport. It’s personal. It’s deep. It hurts. Ok, I admit, I’m a petrol head and I would rather drive somewhere than trust myself to the whims of some unknown employee from a grey and mystical ministry of transport. If I can, I’ll take the wheel. Thank you very much.
There are of course exceptions. Though I am fully mentally prepared to go through the pains of getting a pilot license, being ridiculously heavy colorblind prevents me from it. And my accountant claims I cannot afford an airplane yet. So I give my money to airliners that threat me like cattle, give me bad service, Lilliputian overcooked food and make me miss my connections.
A bad knee prevents me to cross the North Sea swimming, and even if I could, last time I checked my cherished electronic gadgetry did not like moisture very much. So I have to train. Well, trust me. Trains hate me. They do not run on time. They never go where I want to be. Their staff speaks a multitude of languages, none of which I master. And very simple requests like “can I sit down together with my wife” or “could I get another Coke” is met with an ice-cold “none is possible”. I know. I’m nagging. But I paid 525 Euro Business Premier hoping to get some service. Which I did not. 🙁
Ever tried the London metro travelling with suitcases? These endless corridors? Automatic ticket control machines that smash your luggage? These steep stairs that force you to backbreaking escalades? All that for 5 euro for three stops?
Excuse me, but Jeremy Clarkson is right. I cannot be bothered. Where are my keys?
