Going first class

I have happy memories of first class travel.

My previous such journey was enjoyed between London and Edinburgh. Because of a delightful quirk of the train operator’s usually enraging computer, a first class ticket northwards was remarkably cheap.

Upon seating myself in my sofa, my attractive hostess offered me some food.

“No thanks” said I

“It’s free” said she.

“Pile it on” said I.

Later on, she returned from her angelic duties to offer me a drink.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Er…”

“It’s free.”

“Mine’s a gin and tonic.”

Occasionally, her increasingly heavenly form would return to endow me with top-ups, or chocolates, or whatever it was my fluttering heart desired.

By the time I reached Scotland, walking was a serious problem, but the cloud of joy and contentment that I floated upon was ungroundable.

So, when the Deutsche Bahn suffered the same electronic blip, my expectations soared. German trains are the masters of Europe, far superior to any clapped out old chugger the British can produce. First class travel in Germany will be like travelling with Louis XVI.

Oh my brothers, how wrong I was.

Invited on to a 1970s, flea-bitten carriage, I surveyed the grey and red stripped seats with some trepidation. A five hour journey spanned before me, was this décor tolerable for such a length of time? Could any man be expected to survive these conditions?

Never mind, thought I, I would deploy the patented Flying Scotsman technique, and a cheery myopia of delirium tremens would mask the ugliness about me. However, being English, I decided that, given the hour, a tea was an immediate necessity.

A women, led-footed and led by her rolling shoulders, hobbled towards me.

“Yes?” Said she, not the jolly greeting that I expected, but presentation has never been Germany’s strongpoint.

“A tea, please!”

“Yes.” The creature hobbled away to some lair to concoct a brew.

I peered out the window. I was strangely cold. Surely…surely I cannot be feeling a draft. A draft? In Germany? Yes, my brothers, a draft indeed: on the German transport system. My reliable English scarf was recalled from its slumbers, and brought back into duty.

Egor returned with the refreshing, warming potion not a moment too soon. Well, she probably could have returned a little sooner, had her legs been the same length.

“Here. Tea.”

“Why thank you kindly, my dear…woman.”

“That’ll be €3.50.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite hear you. Something ridiculous drowned out your previous remark.”

But it was true. A stingy, lukewarm, rubbishy German tea sat before me, slopping over the rim such was the ancient locomotive’s gait, as my innards numbed themselves, leaving only an ill-prepared shell of skin and shock to absorb the full horror the situation.

No. There was to be no free tea. No free hours of boozing. No leisurely journey. Not only was first class only distinguishable from the other compartments through its rancid livery, but it also inflicted upon its prisoners the most expensive cuppa west of Tokyo.

Alone, frozen, hungry and disturbingly sober, the appalling truth of the next hours discomfort and boredom began to sink in like the cold tea stains into my thin English trousers. Never go anyway in Germany again.