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Fun'n'Games >> Amusing Anecdotes >> A Veritable Tale of Woe (part 1) >> A Veritable Tale of Woe (Page 2)

A Veritable Tale of Woe (Page 2)

I badly needed to supply my aching and well-travelled belly with the nourishment and sustenance it so craved. So I decided to go to the sandwich shop in the station. Miracle upon Miracles! It's Open! But bugger me, it's got no sandwiches. So I thinks "well," I thinks, "'ere's li'l ol' me in Shrewsbury train station wi' nowt to do fer two hours." I bet you didn't know I think in a Yorkshire accent. So off I toddled, out of the station, in search of some form of food-vending retail outlet. But I made one fatal error.

When leaving Shrewsbury station, you can either turn left or right. I turned right.

Having walked along cobbled streets, under damp bridges and across deserted main roads for what seemed an eternity, my eagle eyes eventually spotted a signpost in the distance... and as I got closer it became clearer. "24 Hour Cafe - 100 metres on, first left". Yay, I was thinking, as I pootled off in search of the halcyon cafe at a rate of knots, trying to get there quick before I collapsed of malnutrition.

100 metres and one left turn later, I was confronted with a road, the name of which I forget, containing many beautiful houses, architecturally perfect, each with excellently crafted horticultural features in their spacious garden areas. But no fucking cafe. Ten minutes later, I still hadn't found it. After another ten minutes, I gave up and turn round. Then I turned round again and tried to figure out which way I came from.

With half an hour to go until the train leaves, I still had no idea where the hell I was. I began running. I was very hungry, very tired, wouldn't have minded a wee, and I was running around the streets of a strange town at 8am carrying a big heavy bag.

I eventually found the train station again, just in time for the 8.59 to Chester. Chester, I thought? I could practically walk there from Chester! So I stumbled on to the train, and awaited the next part of my already blemished trek. I found myself on the fullest train in the entire history of the universe, with the possible exception of those trains you see on telly with the passengers hanging on to the side, like in India or Bangladesh or Kidderminster. I was standing, unable to see out of the window, for quite some time. Eventually, I managed to find a seat, and looked out of the window to see a station sign disappearing into the past - Wrecsam Cyffredinol. Hang on a minute... WRECSAM CYFFREDINOL?

I had, without knowing, crossed International Boundary Number Two back into Welsh Wales. This was NOT GOOD. I had under two hours in which to go home, drop off my stuff and get to the Nags Head - and I was in Wrecsam Cyffredinol.


I'd have more of a chance of getting there in time if it was here
Despite having a look on his face like he thought I was some kind of nutter, the conductor reassured me that the train was indeed going back into England. Sure enough, 20 minutes later the train crossed International Boundary Number Three and arrived at Chester, and a weary Dave struggled to summon the energy to get himself and his luggage off the train. After a long wait, at 10.15 the train to Birkenhead arrived and I spend half an hour sitting in disbelief as I am surrounded by women with voices like Su Pollard and the Krankies talking loudly... in Welsh, and laughing suspiciously in that paranoia-inducing way foreigners do. I decided to distance myself by drifting into an hallucinatory trance. I pictured a smooth, succulent, ice cold pint of the finest lager, droplets of water glistening in the bright sun. I pictured a fresh summer breeze on a humid Spanish day, a beautiful sunset over the deep blue ocean, a pint in one hand and another in the other... and before I knew it, I was sitting on the bench outside the Nags Head! And it was only 10.50! Yes! I'd made it! Nuts to you, Dom, I made it! My hair-brained scheme had come to fruition! I was the king of the world!

And we waited. 10.58. 10.59. 11.00!!! LET US IN!!! LET US IN!!!

11.01. 11.02. 11.03. What the f#@%'s going on? OPEN THE BASTARD DOOR!

Ten past eleven and Dom, Ruth, Katie and I decided to move on to the Stanley's Cask, and boycott the Nags Head for evermore. Ruth took a photograph to prove that I did indeed beat the staff to the pub, and we left never to return. No Dipsomania Society member has ever been seen within the grounds of the Nags Head since this photo was taken. On the right you will see a tired, hungry, but most importantly, thirsty, Dave.

We walked disgustedly down the road to the Cask, and there began a day of gradual intoxication and hearty guffawing. The shameful stragglers arrived later and sip shandy, while we real Dipsomaniacs did what we do best - we got monumentally pissed.

I hope this story is a lesson to any Dipsomaniac who is considering not turning up to the next Dipsomania Society Event. If I can cross three international boundaries and make it on time to a closed pub, then you can too.

Thankyou for taking the time to read this, and I hope to see you all soon...

Dave