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Friday 4th November 2005
 
So yeah . . . Thursday night we drove over from Leeds to Lancaster. Back that way . . . again. It was a bit of an awful journey, on account of the rain, the wind, the lorries (we were on the motorway) and the constant battle with the condensation on the inside of the windscreen. Still . . . made it back in one piece. Erm . . . well, we did, but the car didn't. More like two pieces. One of the wing mirrors hit one of the bollards of the impossibly narrow bridge in Halton.
This meant a bit of plastic fell off . . . nothing major. Anyway, never mind that. Friday I had a job interview at this place in Preston. A housing association, somewhere off Port Way. Perhaps down a little road called 'The Pavilions'. The interview ended at about 14:55 and so I walked back into the centre of Preston, bought some toffee (for tomorrow evening) and a newspaper and found myself a pub down a street off Fishergate. I can't remember what it was called, but it said 'cask ales' outside, so that sounded good. On my way past the train station, I should have really thought, "Hmmmm, a large crowd of people waiting outside the train station . . .
I wonder what that could mean?" but I didn't. The beer was good, and I was sat in this dodgy pub, completely overdressed (I was wearing my suit), reading an article about Lemmy helping out some Conservative MP with their anti-drugs stance ("So, Lemmy, what about this heroin stuff?" "There is only one answer," Lemmy said, "legalise it."). You might wanna read it here. Or not. Whatever. So, erm . . . .where was I? Preston. Yes, Preston. I have not the time to convey why I dislike Preston so much, but I think the feeling is mutual. Preston knows how to get to me, and that's by keeping me here. Thus, trains will mysteriously de-rail or just be cancelled, taxis will be prohibitively expensive, huge traffic jams will form, that kind of thing.
  
This kind of thing happened last time I was in Preston, and will happen again and again, so long as I continue to set foot in Preston. After my gorgeous pint of some bitter, I went back to the station. Crowd still there. Hmmmm. Trains derailed. Coaches being provided. Each coach can only carry 49 people. Queue is very, very long (150+), so I take evasive action: ring Simon (M****'s brother), see if he's left Fulwood yet. Fulwood is about a mile and a half from the town centre. Get taxi. Fare comes to £8.20. Gosh, that's reasonable. So I then get a lift home with Simon and David, whose car it is. Lo and behold, there's a huge traffic jam coming out of Preston. So yes . . . I don't like Preston. These pictures were taken at various times tonight. That's travel Mastermind, which me and Simon were playing.
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