A paperboy by trade, if he wasn’t
spreading the news he was lurking in the depths of railway stations from Lands
End to John O’Groats. Camera poised, eagerly awaiting the arrival of those not-yet
spotted locomotives, he would pounce at the final moment to snap what he
referred to as the "money shots."
Yet it was unlikely anyone would ever
pay cash for David's bog standard photographs of bog standard trains.
With a thinning comb-over, nostril
hair moustache, trousers abruptly stopping just short of half mast, bottle-bottom
spectacles and jacket better suited to someone with much shorter arms, David
was a looker.
The thirty-two-and-a-half-year-old
(David insisted the half was very
important) lived in a house filled from top to toe with railway memorabilia.
Spotting books, calendars, toys and photo albums bursting with snapshots of
trains which all looked the same (but David insisted were very different).
Partially deaf, surgeons had fitted
him with a supersonic hearing implant, which had given him a less muffled
awareness of his surroundings and the confidence to approach women via internet
chat rooms.
Six months later David finally met
who he described as his “perfect match,” Sylvia, who was partially sighted and
loved buses.
The future Mrs. Bumblebridge had a
particular penchant for London double-deckers. She liked the way the vivid red stood
out against the hazy world she had long since grown accustomed to.
Within a fortnight smitten David
popped the question, presenting his intended bride-to-be with a sparkly red
ring to which she reacted with a squeak of delighted acceptance.
David found the fact a catch like
five-foot Sylvia, who could carry off a tangerine lipstick, floral print and
pin-stripe combo with all the elegance of a supermodel, could fall for someone
like him unfathomable. He was the luckiest man alive.
Full of joy and blinded by love
David announced the engagement to all his family and friends, inviting them to
his local watering hole, the Stinking Turnip, to celebrate immediately.
Later that evening he returned from
the bar with a round for the party; a pint of lager for his father and school
friend Malcolm, half a shandy for himself and a bowl of water for Malcolm's pet
whippet, Rover, all balanced precariously on a small tray.
But David, who didn't usually drink
was drunk. He had already had three halves of bitter shandy and, declaring
"I can't take it anymore", he toppled like a felled tree, the tray of
drinks smashing all around.
On a rainy summer's day the couple
wed, spending their honeymoon on a train journey to Bognor Regis where they
stayed in a B&B before travelling back the next day by bus. It was "all
about compromise” they exclaimed, when proudly showing their holiday snaps to anyone
who happened to knock at their door.
To everyone's disbelief the couple
copulated at least twice. With the birth of each of their sons, the couple had
argued over whether they would share David's love of trains or Sylvia’s passion
for buses.
Sadly neither showed a fascination for
either. First born Freddie was obsessed with his mother's make-up collection
while sibling, Tony, had no interest in anything at all. Instead he sat banging
his head against the floor, drooling and wailing inconsolably until someone fed
him. Two doting but inept parents meant Tony grew very fat.
Despite the blow of two transport
non-enthusiast offspring, David claimed he was still "living the dream"
and sought out ways to satiate his solitary love affair with
trains.
Attending everything from locomotive
namings to special rail events and steam train trips, nothing quite cut the
mustard. Until one day he was reading about a very interesting record on the
world-wide-web where a girl had collected every single nail clipping she had
ever clipped, illustrated with a photograph of the treasures falling like
snowflakes over her head.
At that precise moment David
Bumblebridge had a light-bulb pingingly brilliant idea.
"A first of its kind train
world record!" he cried, awaking Sylvia from a dream about riding a London
open top bus with none other than Her Royal Highness, Her Majesty the Queen of
England.
Initially disgruntled at having been
woken in such an untimely fashion, she soon weakened as David divulged his stellar
plan as it unfolded in his mind and flopped straight out of his mouth right
then and there.
Determined to make his mark on the
world, David had come up with a foolproof record attempt, which would be lapped
up by the nation, even if he did say so himself.
And so he did.
“It’s a foolproof record plan, which will be
lapped up by the nation, even I do say so myself,” he said to Sylvia, who had
already fallen back to sleep so didn’t hear him.
Next morning Sylvia was supportive,
despite suggesting that replacing trains with buses would make for a far better
story.
The plan was to cover the most rail
track, UK wide, in three days precisely. Chugging off at 9am on Monday
morning, which was, according to David, “the best time to start anything,” he
would travel solidly, plotting out his route to achieve maximum coverage until
precisely 9am on Thursday.
He rang around the local media,
pitching his idea to all who would listen long enough, which wasn’t all that
many people at all. However it was a particularly slow news day at weekly
publication, The Horrabridge Herald. So when editor
Devin Dickens, who was a comical yet callous man, received an excited call from
David Bumblebridge, his voice lit up with glee.
As David delightedly explained to
Devin, there was an “added catch,” which would make the challenge “even more
exciting.” He wasn’t allowed to cover even an inch of the same track twice
during the three day period.
Pencilling David’s record attempt into
the events diary, he bade his farewell, promising to be in touch shortly.
Hanging up, David realised that he really
should have mentioned he was a paperboy by trade, a fact he was sure would have
impressed someone as important as Devin Dickens while simultaneously adding
great weight to his story. He could see the headline now:
“PAPERBOY RAIL ENTHUSIAST DELIVERS
HIS OWN RECORD TO RESIDENTS.”
A punchy headline if he did say so
himself. Although this time there was no one around to listen, so he just
thought it instead.
When junior reporter, Liz
Littlefare, arrived at work the next morning, she discovered a note to call
David Bumblebridge “urgently” stuck to her computer screen.
Despite her protests Devin insisted
it was a scoop, making promises she would get her first front page
story.
Less that a week later Liz, armed
with an extra strong coffee, set off to meet David Bumblebridge at Dungy Head
train station, where she was to accompany him on his challenge.
From that moment Liz’s life was
never the same.
“I didn’t know Dungy Head even had a
train station,” Liz exclaimed upon meeting David, embracing him in a customary
handshake.
“Well this is an education for you. Not many people do,” declared David with a
knowledgeable nod.
“There’s a reason for that,”
muttered Liz, scanning the lack of view.
Sat on the train, David got a little
over excited as the engine kicked into motion. He jumped up and down in his
seat, blinking emphatically and sticking his tongue out as far as it would go.
“I always get like this,” he
explained.
It was going to be a long three
days.
Excited David had brought along a stack
of books and photographs that he just knew would interest Liz. When the picture
of his wife was produced, Liz masked her disbelief.
“Oh, how long have you been
married?” she asked a little too enthusiastically.
When the images of his children came
out, Liz choked a little on her coffee.
"Do your children like
trains?" she asked as David proudly presented a studio shot of dress
wearing Freddie and big fat Tony.
"Of course, they have me as a
father," said David, lying.
As the drinks trolley rumbled past,
David ordered a malted milk.
“We don’t sell it,” muttered the
spotty trolley boy.
“It’s a very good drink Dom,” retorted
David, eyeing Dom's name-badge; “you should go and tell your train manager to
stock up on it. People like malted milk very much.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” said Dom,
trundling off.
Arriving into their first
destination David’s ears pricked up and, leaving Liz, he disappeared along the
platform after a non-stop service as it whizzed past at great speed.
"That was the first train I
ever spotted," shouted David.
"Wow! How do you know?"
asked unenthusiastic Liz, enthusiastically.
"Practice," he announced,
nodding proudly.
The next train they boarded was a
sleeper service all the way up to the Scottish Highlands, at which point David
got all jittery. Sticking his tongue out, he licked his lips all round before
smacking them tight shut and strutting his neck forward like a chicken.
“Just wait until you see our room,”
he squealed.
Liz looked shocked.
“I’m sorry they didn’t tell you we
were sharing,” said David as they crossed over the threshold into a bunk-bed room
a few minutes later; "you can borrow my spare pyjamas if you like. Sylvia
packed them in case I spill anything down my front, but it doesn't matter,” he
added, pulling them from his knapsack along with a huge biscuit tin.
“I'll be fine thanks," assured
Liz, hesitating as she looked for a way to change the subject before pointing
at the newly produced biscuit tin; "what’s in there?”
“A midnight feast. We’re going to
have so much fun,” he said, opening it to reveal a stash of malted milk
sachets, fig rolls and lemon puffs.
“Oooh how exciting,” she squeaked sarcastically,
clapping her hands like a seal.
“It gets better,” he squealed,
slowly producing a Great Train Journey DVD from the depths of his bag, “it’s my
favourite film.”
Before long David was in his
all-in-one train pyjamas and eating fig rolls on the top bunk, which they’d
rock paper scissored for and he had won “fair and square.”
Squeezed down below Liz tried very
hard to ignore David, a mission impossible as he tirelessly offered her
biscuits and mugs of malt.
It didn’t help that the volume on
the DVD was turned up to full whack and they’d already had two complaints from the
residents of neighbouring cabins.
By 10.30pm David Bumblebridge was
snoring to the soothing sounds of his prized film.
“So much for a midnight feast,” sighed
Liz, switching off the television.
The next two days were spent
travelling through the Great British countryside with David pointing out famous
railway bridges, particularly green hedgerows, aeroplanes flying a fraction
lower than the norm, track-side puddles, leaves, cows, pretty much everything
of no interest to long-suffering Liz.
Taking the opportunity to make
suggestions for ways to improve the service to every rail employee that passed
them by, he had ideas for everything from rose-tinted windows to separate
sections for dog owners, blind or not. Dog phobic David had denied wife Sylvia of
a Labrador guide on account of his fear, which had stemmed from an incident
with a poodle when he was six. Instead she relied on instinct and the kindness
of strangers.
Occasionally he would remember about
his record attempt, shouting something along the lines of, "I get so
excited about the trains that I keep forgetting that I'm going to be a world
record holder. It's a bit like the World Cup isn't it?" to Liz, who agreed
through forced smiles although failed to make the connection.
By Wednesday evening Liz had had
enough. Gouging nail marks into her shins, tugging at bunches of her hair, she
had tried everything to alleviate the pain but David Bumblebridge had destroyed
a notable chunk of her soul. Much to her delight the challenge was drawing to a
close.
But unbeknown to Liz worse was yet
to come. Disaster struck as the last train made its approach into their final
station, Kings Cross, and with it David's record achieving enthusiasm faltered
fast.
Studying his phone intently, David
discovered that two of the rarest of the rare not-yet-spotted locomotives were
due to arrive into and depart from Kings Cross at exactly the same time. This
would have been wonderful news for any spotter, especially someone of David’s
caliber. But there was a catch. The trains were scheduled at opposite ends of
the station.
“Noooooooooooooo,” wailed David,
awakening lobotomised Liz from her day-coma, which is a bit like a day-dream but
much more serious.
“What?” she asked.
Explaining his predicament Liz
responded with what, to most people, would seem like a foolproof plan.
“Well, why don’t I go and snap one
of the trains for you?” she asked.
But David Bumblebridge wasn't most
people and so thought about this for a very long time.
“Well it’s not ideal. It doesn’t
really count if I don’t see them myself, but it’s better than nothing,” he
said, ungratefully.
Arriving into the station David ran
for platform 14, ordering Liz to platform 3.
As he arrived he heard over the
tannoy: “We are sorry to announce the train from platform 14 is running five
minutes late.”
For the first time in his spotting
career David was thankful that the British rail system had let the nation down.
He could make it!
There was still time!
Running over to Liz he shouted,
"I can photograph it myself," camera held to his eye.
“You'll be hard pressed. It's just
left, look,” said Liz, pointing after the long sought after locomotive, which
was now nothing more than a blob on the horizon.
“Don’t look so disheartened, I got
you a picture.”
David spent so long examining Liz's
“shoddy photography” that he forgot entirely about his other much desired
train.
When Liz managed to calm him down
long enough to remind him, he ran as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast
at all, reaching the platform in time to witness the last of its fumes
disappearing into the distance.
Crumbling to the floor, David put
his head in his hands and cried. All these years he'd been waiting to
spot that particular train. The country's inability to run anything to time,
that he had for once rejoiced in, had cost him not one but two money shots.
Strolling into view, Liz offered him
a supportive pat on the back.
“There there, there’ll be other
chances,” she said, soothingly.
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING
ABOUT!!!” David screamed, uncharacteristically, rising to his feet.
Crowds gathered to observe as
inconsolable David span round and round in circles so much so that he strayed
to the platform's edge, lost his footing and toppled onto the track and
straight into the path of a non-stop high speed train as a "please keep
behind the yellow line" announcement blared throughout the station.
Liz Littlefare looked on in shocked
relief. She could not muster any sorrow for poor dead David. Instead she
felt a rising excitement. This would definitely make the front page. It was
doubtful anyone would offer the obligatory "he was such a wonderful family
man who kept himself to himself," quote.
“No bother,” she thought, “I can
make one up."
And so it came to pass that David
Bumblebridge was killed by the very thing he loved the most. And Liz Littlefare
finally got her first front page.
