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Great Railway Journeys Number 1

North Walsham to Norwich
By guest writer Thom Yorke from Radiohead

I board the train at North Walsham, where it is 5 minutes late. Sitting down I find I am next to a man who is wearing a 'best of British' T-shirt. There is irony in this although that is not his intention.

How many others will be doing this now, heading to a faceless job in a false-friendly office, to fuck one another over for change? To Facelessly dictate faceless letters into a faceless dictaphone, or facelessly type numbers of faceless things into a faceless machine.

As the train pulls out I am struck by the sharp odour of vomit. I put it from my mind and close my eyes to rest. The smell intensifies, an illusion brought about by focusing on one less sense.

At Worstead I stand for a moment to let the T-shirt man get off. The vomit smell disperses and I believe he may have been the source. Another illusion: the smell returns as the air begins to flow through the now moving train. Another human being I have thought ill of for nothing.

Ooh. The pain.

The station for Hoveton and Wroxham escapes my notice. I have somehow entered a restful state. In front of me a man eats mints. Their scent masks that of the puke.

Salhouse. A solitary station remote from the village it is supposed to serve, as barren as my sense of hope.

Arrival. I remain uncertain as to the source of the smell as I disembark and begin a day of misery in Norwich. The chances are I will never know. Another trivial mystery in my life that will remain unsolved.

Next week, Norwich to North Walsham with Mr C from The Shamen.

Mr Yorke requested this page be done in monospaced 12 pixel Courier on a grimy white background, so as to best communicate his tortured artist's soul. We told him to fuck off, and then kicked his shins a bit as he stood looking angst-ridden. Radiohead released their new album Kid A in October.


Copyright 2001-2011 Tom Waters - goriki@hotmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons living or dead, except with satirical intent, is purely coincidental.

Bad Apple is not intended for readers under 18 years of age, the insane, the elderly, the afraid, or the pale and downtrodden. That's just how we roll.