Shaz and James

The day has come, my first blog entry. For many a month I have contemplated what the topic of my blogs should be? I play and enjoy watching rugby, but sport blogs limit you to what happens on the field of play and the players’ lives. Music? I feel pretentious and obnoxious when I criticise music because I know I can’t do much better myself. Fashion? Again, a no. I like nice clothes but don’t have a clue about what’s in season and what’s not, I also have no clue what they mean when the say ‘season’ in fashion. Are the shirts fitted differently? Do you tie your tie with a different knot?
I realised what my blog should be about when I was waiting for a train from Newark to London. Standing alone next to a bench, I found myself questioning where people are going. Why they’re going there. Making stories for them based on their appearance and the way they’re acting. What happens at the end of their journey. So this a blog but is also a story. The world produces the characters, I dictate the events they experience.
So here’s blog entry number one:
Newark North Gate train station, platform 3.
I’m stood next to a bench. A shiny silvery one. I feel like I should sit down because my feet are aching after being stood up on platform 4a of the Lincoln train station for 20 minutes, but something stops me. I think it’s the mildly attractive blonde girl sat on it. She’d been eyeing me up since Lincoln, but there’s something about her. She’s clearly over 16 years old, arguably slightly over made up but smiley and friendly looking, but the childish silver, glittery adidas shoes and the extreme case of VPL makes me want to run for the hills. Blonde VPL girl is not the subject of this story then. She is struck from the list. Who else is eye catching? Snobbish looking, polo belt and chino sporting chap who has been looking down his nose at me since I stepped off the train? No. You are not worthy because you have been sneering at my lucozade energy bottle as though it were an ankle tag.
More and more candidates come down the stairs from the bridge over the track from platform 1. Their feet appear first as more of their body is revealed with every step down the stairs they take. Ah! This one looks interesting. Banana print rubber flip flops… Oldish feet… Estimated age: 45. Her dress is matching my age prediction. An ill fitted, floral, bright red dress that swings down to her ankles. It screams Matalan. She’s in the company of a man who looks around the same age, though he looks like he wishes he were younger. I don’t think this boy grew up. Black and white chequered vans with slim fit dark blue jeans, fraying at the bottom because they’re too long. Oh wow, he’s wearing a black t-shirt with Sheldon Cooper saying “Bazinga” printed onto it. Everyone knows that wearing a t-shirt over the age of 30 years old, particularly when its obviously counterfeit and doesn’t actually fit, is an absolute crime. Of course. He’s vaping. His look is topped with a navy blue beanie with ‘DOPE’ stitched onto the front of it. Is the hat really necessary? It’s 20 degrees outside. I feel they’re the sort of couple where if they went to bar, he’d order the White wine spritzer and she’d get the pint of lager. Then they’d get pissed off when the waiter puts them down the wrong way round.
Now it’s time to name them! With an “I’d like to speak to the manager” hair cut, she’s definitely a Shaz. He could be anything: Tom, Harry, James. I think we’ll go with James… Jimbo when he’s with the lads.
As they step off the train I can hear that they have broad northern accents and seem extraordinarily out of place in the bustling hive of life that is London. Sting’s ‘Englishman in New York’ springs to mind, in this case though it’s a ‘Northener in London’. The opening line ‘I don’t drink coffee I take tea my dear’ being ‘not bacon roll it’s bacon bap my dear’. Shaz was getting thoroughly stuck into ‘Fifty Shades of gray’ on her kindle on her way down. Based on her reading choice, I’d say this is a romantic getaway. A ‘minibreak’ as they’d probably call it.
A long, ugly and extremely public kiss confirmed this as they stepped off the train and latched faces in front of a stream of people. They took the tube from King’s Cross to Piccadilly Circus. From there they went straight to their hotel, a premier inn. Hearing they were 2 hours early to check in, Jimbo had a temper tantrum where he furiously removed his ‘DOPE’ hat, revealing hair that looked just as angry as he was. It was wet looking, overloaded with grease and spiked up like he were a member of Busted. Shaz was left in reception making unrealistic demands, mixed in with frequent, unneeded obscenities, asked to speak to the manager. Who politely requested they waited in reception.
They ended up falling asleep on the sofas in the lobby and woke up 5 hours later, 3 hours after check in time. Left alone in their room, they engaged in what they set out to do, the first time this year. Jimbo had been working until late this year so there was little time in the day for them to have some ‘them time’. In the hotel room however, it was not going as either of them had hoped it would. The magic that was once there when they were both young had seemingly gone. The arguments between the two of them resonated down the corridor until half the fourth floor were stood in their doorways asking one another if they had any idea what was going on.
A happy ending would be for the two of them to breakdown, give in with the arguments and share sweet, but also at the same time hideous, love. That would be boring and also, I down want to bring up the full English I had this morning onto the train seats and more importantly my laptop. So no. That won’t be happening. Instead James leaves the hotel, slamming every door he storms through. He heads straight for the train station and buys himself a ticket. A ticket all the way home to nowhere. He becomes a nobody. Loses his job as an IT technician. James ends up sleeping on the streets and living a life centred around drugs.

Shaz ends up in another abusive relationship. Poor Shaz.
Good ending right?
Night.