Author Topic: Desperate To Get Home  (Read 887 times)

Desperate To Get Home
« on: February 07, 2004, 07:11:48 PM »
I'm not desperate to get home at the moment, thankfully; I'm sitting in my  cozy little flat in Prestwich, Man(or woman, let's be PC here)chester.

However, there have been numerous times when I've been so desperate to get home that I curse Jeff Goldbum for turning into a fly and not getting his teleportation invention out onto the market that would have enabled me, in certain situations, to instantly arrive home and avoid the frightful things that take place in The Real World(TM).

I spent a couple of University vacations staying with a mate in Northern Ireland. We omce went to a bar in Portrush but afterwards my mates traitorously decided to go into a club afterwards, knowing how much I hate clubbing. I declared I was going home - to Coleraine - and stomped off to find a taxi. Alas, there were none, they were all booked up. So, I decided to walk home, the few beers in me having magically shrunk the mental image I had of just how fucking far it was home.  I can't remember the distance, only that it took me about an hour-and-a-half or thereabouts, along a dark country road. It wasn't dark like an English country road - farms and villages dotted here and there - but pitch black with no sign of life whatsoever, just the occasional car sweeping past. I'd only been in Northern Ireland for a couple of weeks and, like a typical niave/bigoted Englishman, I was - despite it being during the ceasefires - pappering my pants at the idea of balaclava-clad loonies opening fire on me. Some bloke did rush past on a bike and turned to shriek "You fucking cunt!" at me for no reason, although I'm sure that's probably more characteristic of bike-riders than Northern Irelanders. Oh, and a horse whinnied at me menacingly from over a hedge. I informed him I wanted "no trouble," my display of meekness dampening his equine assertion of alpha-maleness.

There was also the tiny fact that I didn't really know the way home, I just followed the signs to Coleraine and, by blind luck, stumbled upon the flat. I almost wept with joy, rushed in...and was annoyed to find that my mates were already home, having left their club 20-minutes ago and been swiftly driven back by taxi, presumably having past me in the process.

Recently I was in the even more dangerous environs of Manchester City Centre. Normally I walk home after a night down Oxford Road because, at 2AM, there's no-one about and being very drunk means the 4-mile walk seems to flick by in an instant - good 'ol beer-teleporter. However, after a night out with some people from work, I was going home at 11PM only half-drunk. I saw two fights down Deansgate alone (one wasn't really a fight, just a guy laying on his back whilst another jumped on his head, presumably without the consent of the one lying down) and promptly decided getting a taxi would be a great idea. I had to wait forty minutes at a taxi-rank, during which I saw another couple of fights, a screaming match between some slapper and a scally, and a taxi-driver threaten to kill another taxi-driver for some reason unknown to a humble person such as myself, unwise to the mystical cult of the taxi-driver and it's accompanying rules. I finally got in a taxi, was whisked home at an extortionate price by a guy who was very cheerful but didn't speak English, and once again was so delighted to be home that I almost wept.

So, when have you been so delighted to get back to your place of residence that you almost swore you'd never leave it again? Or am I the only one in the first stages of agoraphobia?

Desperate To Get Home
« Reply #1 on: February 07, 2004, 07:30:04 PM »
Something very similar happened to me in Liverpool a few years ago.  I went up there with a mate for a gig and we were staying in a Travel Inn in Aintree, a fair distance outside the city centre.  We went to a few bars afterwards and bumped into a few mates from Brum who were there visiting someone at Liverpool Uni.  Anyway, the rest of them decided to go to some shit club but I decided to head back to hotel and get some sleep.

Four fucking hours I spent walking round the place, looking for a taxi.  I must have walked past Lime Street Station about thirty times, hoping to find a cab.  I even considered sleeping in a bush by the coach station, I was that desperate.  At one point, I asked a bunch of young scallies outside the station if they knew where I could find a taxi rank, only to be asked "Is dat a Baaairmingham accent?  I 'ate Baaairmingham accent, it's da waairst accent in da waairld."  Yeah, thanks for your help, bunch of wankers.  I finally got back to hotel at about 6am, with my mate wondering what the fuck happened to me!

Desperate To Get Home
« Reply #2 on: February 07, 2004, 09:40:32 PM »
I'd been out at that Rock World, in town (Manchester) and I'd done an E, for the first time, half at first, and another half after nothing happened. Now Rock World wasn't the best place for E, as the music is far from 'happy' so you'd not really feel 'loved up'.

Anyway, a mate who'd also taken one, got really paranoid and had left (this would be around 11:30pm!), leaving his jacket with another mate who was with us, who'd had nothing, and was keeping check that I wasn't about to pass out or owt, handing me bottles of water...

12ish pm, I didn't want to stay there, I just felt tired, and wasted to head home, so I told the mate who was still there, as he was waiting for someone else to show up, and I left, heading in the direction of the 192 bus stop (just before the approach to Piccadilly train station)

There wasn't much distance between Rock World and the bus stop, but it was really cold, and I (stupidly) didn't have a jacket, so I'm wandering round freezing, feeling paranoid to fuck, thinking everyone I saw wanted to kill me!!

At one point I spied a hotel and checked my pocket for my credit card, thinking "ahhh I'll just crash at a hotel, rather than go home" and was really shocked, more shocked than I have ever been that I didn't have my card on me, only around £20 in cash.

A horrible ride home on the 192, followed by another freaky moment waiting for a taxi to get me the last bit home, I was so chuffed to get home that I remember talking splattermac's ears off for about half an hour.

Worse for my mate who'd left earlier, as he'd got home and had to call out a locksmith to get him into his car, so he could get his spare set of house keys to get into the house! - expensive night out for him, think it was about £110 for the locksmith :-/

I'm gonna take drugs at home in future, that way I'll be already home :)

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Desperate To Get Home
« Reply #3 on: February 07, 2004, 10:19:57 PM »
Time is the biggest and most irritating funkunkey ever to have been invented. not only is our entire existence ruled by it, it rarely gives us any sense of satisfaction. We are either standing around like dismembered cockheads wondering how to waste that 5-6 minutes where we cant start anything of substance, or cursing our luck just because we missed the latest copy of Viz to a 5 year old on stilts.

In the "What would you do..?" thread on the old forum, the vast majority of people warmed to the idea of being able to stop time, mainly because there are countless countless reasons why that would be useful.

And when that's finished? You've got timing. I missed out on an almost certain date by making a decision to not phone my work colleague after failing to turn up to a party to which I was invited. I chose to ask her on the next Saturday, only for her to have already made arrangements. The time has most certainly passed over that episode. In a fortnight, there will be a virtual re-run of events, and this time I'm just going to phone her. It will be very interesting to see how it turns out.
 Even when timing isn't about personal matters, it's still about important matters. Phoning up a store only to find that they're on their lunch break between 10AM and 3PM, or cocking up the timing in your latest essay, so you've written 2 hours worth on Othello, but only 20 minutes on Villette, even though you know both equally well.

So yeah. It's a fucker, and it's never ever going to change.

Desperate To Get Home
« Reply #4 on: February 07, 2004, 10:56:24 PM »
I lived in Blackpool for a couple of months some time ago. I hadn't really got my bearings after the first couple of days when I went to a party. This was a really big booze up and I got quite 'tired' and decided it was time to leave and hit the sack.

Could I remember where I lived??? Could I fuck!!! I walked for bloody miles...I eventually realised that I was on the way to Lytham and had to turn back. I was getting quite distraught and occasionally shouting "Where do I fucking live?!?" but eventually saw the rollercoaster looming above me and knew that I was close to the South Pier where my digs were.

I think I got back at four in the morning. I slept well though!!!

Desperate To Get Home
« Reply #5 on: February 07, 2004, 11:10:59 PM »
Couldn't wait to get home tonight.  itr was a friend's daughter's 18th Birthday party.  Wedding DJ and children everywhere.  Including a baby wearing a bib with 'If you smoke, i smoke' written on it.  Don't get me wrong, i like children.  And, although I smoke, i don't smoke in people's houses unless specifically invited, don't smoke around babies at all.

BUT: Apart from the fact that the kid's wearing a £40 dress that they've covered with a fucking bib (Why? Why do people do that? I can understand it when they're feeding them pasties in their pushchairs, but why when they've taken it on  a 'night out'?), if I am in a club, I would like to quietly, unobtrusivelt, sit at a table away from babies and with other people who smoke, and just smoke goddammit.  Even if i didn't smoke, i would resent the ostentatious self-righteousness.

So.  I stayed till they cut the cake and did the toast and fucked off home.