Guildford
Yesterday brought my first ever trip to Guildford. Beaconsfield last year and now Guildford. I really am starting to happen. The taxi driver who drove me from the train station was stupidly proud of the town. He pointed out some local landmarks, castle, cathedral, the M25. He seemed overly paternal about the river. It’s not even their river, it belongs to lots of other towns. Water that passes Guildford on a Monday shimmies it’s curves down to Portsmouth for the Tuesday. The slippery tart.
I’ve never really understood local pride. It only really comes out when you are not actually in the place you are proud of. I’m not in lots of places, and I only seem to have nice words to say about them. The taxi driver seemed to be most proud of the fact that his local Guildford bar does a £3 roast. £3. That has to be some shit roast. A bar near me also does a shit roast. For £16. Which would probably come as quite a consolation to the good people of Guildford. Their Sunday afternoon despair comes £13 cheaper than mine. Maybe I should pop down to Guildford tomorrow and visit the pub. As they are pushing their equally terrible and affordable food around their plates, I can relay the good news that while clearly disgusting, the slop and gristle under their face is an economic victory for the commuter belt. They’ll be shovelling it into their smug faces as soon as I’m gone.
I was glad to get back to the train station, only to find that I was stranded - no trains for 40 minutes. And after that only the ‘slow train’, which is exactly as depressing as it sounds. I thought about going for a walk around the town. Take in a few of the sights that the taxi driver was so positively giddy about. But from the platform I could already see a nightclub called MAMBOS. Block Caps. So that was about all I needed to know. I can’t imagine what went on there last night, but I’m glad I wasn’t part of it.
So I sat and waited for the train. Then I spotted that the platform vending machine had 75p credit, and everything in there was 80p. Ergo, 5p Mars bar. As I sat on the platform, pushing it rapidly into my face, I spared a thought for whoever got to within 5p of the sugary treat before either running out of money, having to jump on the train or expiring on the spot. Poor man. I wished him well as I polished off what was over 90% his chocolate bar.
