Don't Jump

Hokay.
Back to the fragrant joys of long distance commuting.

Some of you may remember the statistic (absolutely true - I have meticulous records going back many years) that my rail company has to date provided me with more trains that have burst into flames than trains that have deposited me at my destination exactly on time.

And I may have related the 'delightful' feeling of screaming horror when my two alarm clocks - at opposite ends of the bedroom - go apeshit at four-forty every morning and propel me out of my lovely bed to stagger blindly down the landing toward the shower.

And my minimum seven hours a day travelling to get to work and back (thank God I love my job).

And my amiable feelings toward my fellow travellers (anyone who has not read the advice contained in this link should do so now. I mean it).

And the odd things that I have to put up with on the train, such as being invited to fornicate with cultists, the erotic yet weird thumb-sucking girl and the happy time I spent with the one-armed man …

Well today, for the edification of non-commuters I am going to talk about jumpers.
By jumpers I mean the selfish, fucked-up worthless pieces of shit who jump in front of trains.

Apparently not everybody shares my deep sense of joy at Mondays. Over the past five Mondays we have had three jumpers. And that's only because there were no trains to jump under on the other two Mondays; one was a bank holiday and so the line was closed for engineering works, and on the other the overhead lines fell down so no trains could run anyway …
There may well have been jumpers on those days too, but the most they could have hoped for was a twisted ankle from landing awkwardly.

We do get an awful lot of these useless fuckwits on my line. And though it is by no means exclusive, Monday seems to be the most popular day to piss Dive off by making my journey home a couple of hours longer than the three and a half hour pit of misery that it already is if everything runs smoothly (which it does on average once a year).

If you're thinking of jumping, here's some advice.
DON'T!
At least don't do it on my line.
An Intercity train travels (allegedly) at over a hundred miles an hour (HA!).
Sure, when the occasional loco does manage to struggle and wheeze up to speed stepping in front of one is a nice quick way to check out but believe me there's not much left afterwards.
It's not like jumping in front of a tube train or a local stopping service where there are still recognisable bits of you scattered around; with an Intercity it takes the police and rail staff at least an hour to hose what's left of you into the verge and there are very rarely any lumps left that are too big to plop into a bucket.

I've been on a train that hit a jumper. We started braking and then there was this icky banging sound that travelled back down the floor of the carriages as the larger bits of skull or pelvis got bounced between the train and the stones and concrete sleepers.
Then we just sat there for ages, not one of us feeling in the least bit sorry for the twat smeared along the bottom of the train and seeping into the landscape just underneath our feet.
And the poor drivers have to have time off whenever they hit a jumper; we are running out of drivers!

So …
If you really want to end it all, and those nice folk at Samaritans cannot dissuade you, just let me know and I'll happily strangle you.
Just don't jump under my fucking train, you bastard!