The night train to Melbourne, it's long.

If I was sensible then I’d have said my goodbyes at a good hour and got an early one, honouring my intention of getting a seat on the quarter to eight train to Melbourne. I am however, not sensible. Despite setting my alarm, waking up just never really happened for me and my phone was glaring 10.45 at me by the time I began to consider where I was, and where I should have been. So that was that, no rush, the train had left, three hours ago no less. I should have been speeding towards Victoria, staring out at the apparently stunning bush of southern New South Wales. In fact I was speeding my way to the shitter, staring out at the positively not stunning.

As the previous hours began making their way back to me I became a little bit more at ease with the situation. When you accidentally adopt a guy who found (or lost) “inner peace” in India, has infinite cocaine related anecdotes AND harbors a business plan directed at giving pornography in his own words “a sensual and spiritual makeover” inevitably, funny things do happen. The night was ridiculous and therefore perhaps at least partly worthy of its consequence, but I was still by now hundreds of miles from where I was supposed to be.

After considering a cheap flight down to Melbourne, I ended up with a seat on the night train after learning it would come at no extra cost after validation. A few moments later, something struck me. The only reason for catching a train as opposed to flying was to take in an Australian landscape that I hadn’t yet seen. A night train, as in a train that travels at night when it’s dark outside, great. A train fare is one hundred and twenty dollars, and a flight is seventy. A train takes twelve hours, and a flight takes less than two. Who or what catches this train? Me apparently. I figured that the train would be taking people to the towns along the way that were otherwise unreachable, but to see the trip out to Melbourne just seemed ludicrous. The decision was reached that I would be traveling with said town people, those who are afraid of flying and total fruitcakes.

In preparation for my restless journey south I spent the day moaning to others about my predicament and combating the pains in my head. I eventually found my appetite and learned my second lesson of the day - burritos and tacos are not the same thing. A few days beforehand I had the joys of decent Mexican food made known to me, and thought to go back for seconds. I was told to pick up “ten” with the knowledge that there was four of us eating. It wasn’t till I got back with the probably slightly heavy goods that I realised my mass error. Ten tacos was the idea, ten burritos was the outcome. I could barely manage one, but there were more than a couple of meaty friends to take with me on the journey at least.

Struggling with my burrito, I realised I should have been at the station fifteen minutes ago. I’d had all day to reflect on my stupidity in missing the train, and now it was probably going to happen again. With eight minutes to go, I decided to explain the situation to my taxi driver. With first-rate aggression, passion and stupidity the guy transformed himself into what I had come to expect from taxi drivers in Sydney - a complete fucking nut job. (So many of them are pinging their heads off on speed) Screaming at me, himself and most of Sydney, he couldn’t believe I hadn’t told him sooner. “You little fool, now we have a problem!” I was in silence as we cut up the road over and over again. Nearing the station we hit traffic so I paid and thanked what I’m going to say is perhaps the best taxi driver in existence. What followed was a textbook Home Alone. Negotiating the token Chinese tourist expedition, the business types and the by and large in-my-way general public I had caught sight of the train, and “validating” my ticket was never going to happen. The next ten or fifteen seconds is honestly an emotional blur but somehow, I appeared to be on a train. That shouldn’t have happened, but there I was.

As expected the train was more or less empty, I was riding with three others, the first being an Aussie townsman who didn't do a great deal. He just snored, missed his stop, woke up in Melbourne, went a bit mental, and got back on the train. I would have gone a bit mental but then again he shouldn’t have been snoring. The next of my companions was an elderly Hispanic gentleman who was rarely audible, but it didn’t stop him ripping the piss out of me when I told him why I was on the train. He was a non-flyer, so I told him that the joke was on him, as he’d have to keep making these ridiculous journeys if he wanted to get anywhere. To that, he chose not to understand and dropped dead, into a sleep.

The third and final one of my crazy train fellows was surely the best. A living embodiment of that lunatic cat woman from The Simpsons, an actual lunatic cat woman. She had in tow seven cats of assorted colours, sizes and noises, all of whom she assured me, she loved very dearly. “They come everywhere with me, they love these train journeys.” I nodded and asked her why she was taking this horrible train. She muttered something about the “bastard airports” and told me she felt safer with her beloved friends by her side. If you asked the cats the same question I’d find it hard to believe they would give the same answer. With every sentence the woman got madder and madder, and this climaxed when after feeding her children with cat food, she proceeded in feeding her self with the same stuff. Enough was enough and it was time to shut my eyes, I did somehow manage to get a few hours despite the odd confused meow and before I knew I was waking up to Melbourne.