It was with some humiliation that I took the 07:57 on 22 September from Newcastle to York. I had splashed out on your first-class service having been attracted by the offer on your website.
I have travelled these services before and realised that there were certain caveats, for example, if you were making a journey that lasted longer no longer than 60 minutes, or on a Saturday , I have learned that there is an impoverished menu offer at the weekends. But I had done my research so I was confident. There would be no mistake. This was no weekend.
I was encouraged as the menus arrived and I wondered whether or not I would have the full English breakfast or perhaps just the bacon roll as a lighter option. With a busy day ahead the smell of bacon filling the first-class compartment was reassuring. There were not going to be any slipups this time.
I started to salivate as savoury filled the cabin and I prepared my tray for prompt service.
A cup of tea arrived. Looking good.
The person in front of me chose the bacon roll.
What to have myself? I thought I might get the full English this morning. It was going to be a busy day or ...maybe the bacon roll as well.
In camaraderie.
"Where are you travelling to?"
"York".
"Oh, I'm sorry sir" a look of horror locked onto the attendant's face, "I'll be back in a moment with the toast"
The menu you see was a trap.
The 60 minute limitation now read as 70 with a Virgin Policy that can only function as anti-northern segregation strategy.
It was clear that the first principle of customer service on the East Coast line was to prevent a decent first-class offer, (one comparable to the person sitting next to you) from anybody travelling within the North of England.
How could this "apartheid" make good sense?
I pointed this out to the attendant.
"I know... we get a lot of complaints" he said.
"I'm not surprised" I replied. "It makes us feel like third class customers".
I wondered what the price of a piece of bacon was .... 20 pence perhaps. Not so different from the little mini bottle of diabetes that I was about to be threatened with.
This was an anti-Geordie policy.
As all the other travellers in the compartment looked forward to their English breakfasts and bacon rolls, the man returned on a special journey back to me alone and offered me a cold, bendy piece of toast with a sugar syrup passed off as English breakfast marmalade.
I wondered what it took to be treated like a first-class citizen in a first-class compartment but now here I was stuck. Humiliated. In Compartment 101.
This had never happened in second-class where everybody is treated the same way. Humanely.
It was clear to me that I was definitely a lower standard of customer than the person immediately sitting in front of me.
I was forced to smell his breakfast as he chomped into his bacon roll and I don't think I imagined the cursory laugh escaping from his pork-filled chops.
"Smell that", Northerner, he oozed bloatedly, hoggy disdain wafting over his seat at me.
"Enjoying your cold slice of toast where the butter doesn't even melt", he snorted. Pig eating pig. "Oh... you mean to say you were expecting a first-class service like the rest of us in first-class, you pathetic loser?"
We don't want your type here.
"I'm sorry sir", came the guard, "the man with the bacon roll is correct, we don't really want your type here. Why have you come? We have second-class as well for you and people like you?
"Bbb...but...I thought I would treat myself. I....I'm going to work" I stuttered, sounding like the loser they were making me out to be.
I removed the menu from my own table. It was testifying to my predicament. I decided to use it as a bookmark. They couldn't stop me reading. Could they?
If I looked away, they would not seen the bruises inside.
It wouldn't be long before I'll be able to escape. And never return.
Virgin Trains.
We hate Geordies.
Don't come back.
And if you do, why on earth would you think you're worth first-class treatment from us, you pathetic, pathetic loser.
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