Saturday was one of the worst.
Posted: Thu Aug 14, 2014 4:25 am
We took the train up to Ängelholm on Saturday. There's a railway museum up there and although it might not be a really “WOW!†experience it does have a mini cinema where the film takes you back in time and in sequence brings you up to modern day, with seats that tilt, jolt and shudder as the “on board†film shuttles you along. My 7-year-old loves it and it was at his request we made the visit, for the second time. Everything was OK. It rained like hell but only intermittently so that we weren't bothered very much. Afterwards we walked into town for a decent kebab and there, on the square, were the have-a-taste, international travelling marquee tents, selling French sweets, German würst, Greek souvlaki, Hungarian langos and even Australian …. uh... I'm not sure what they were hawking. Anyway, we bought some British fudge. Dear it is, and they must have had at least 200 different flavours! It was early evening when we decided to start for home. That's when the trouble started.
Travelling back down again the train stopped in Helsingborg: Famous for its castle, town hall, and the cheap & convenient, 20 minute-long ferries to Denmark. Some got off, some got on. A group of very loud beer-saturated youths stepped in, shouting like Nazis at the Bierkeller Putsch. We were sitting near the door so we naturally looked to see what sort of live-stock we were taking onboard. The only female of the raiding party caught my wife looking in their directly and promptly gave my dear one the finger, “What are you looking at!†Thank God they moved on to the next carriage, but you could clearly hear them making such a fuss about what, I know not. Off we went. The next stop was Ramlösa, famous for its bottled, mineral water; a 2 minute stop normally. A family from Afghanistan stepped inside, looking for somewhere to roost. We offered to shift ourselves a bit to make room for them: A 13-year-old boy, a girl of about 5, an infant in the pram, mum, and what I assumed was Gran. And there we sat for an hour and a half. Something wrong with rail traffic up ahead, we were told. All the while we could hear the “brown shirts†planning their assault on the Reichstag and working out the details on how to blame it on some poor, innocent Dutchman “on the left side â€. But finally we moved on - and what a relief!
After a time an unsteady man in his 40´s (obviously drunk) came along the corridor and into sight, looking for the loo which was just next to us. But rather than point Percy at the porcelain and then move on he decided to hang about. OK, I thought, everyone's got to be somewhere. Well, he got his sights on the Afghanis and there was nothing for it. A racist! The 13-year-old, being the only one of them who could speak any Swedish, was the target. “Why are you (in the plural) here anyway! You don't like Sweden (the boy never once said that) and all you want is to make trouble and take our money! F-Off back to Afghanistan!", he declared. I'm one of those incurable “do-gooders†who always sticks his nose where it doesn't really belong, and my wife knows this. She looked at me to see what (if anything) I was going to do. Her stern glance my way spoke clearly, “Don't you dare!†I recently got into a fair bit of trouble for my out-outspokenness and I really didn't want to get stuck into it again, but I had to do something. Sense prevailed so I went for the conductor. He was full up with the storm troopers but I guess he welcomed a break from that lot and immediately followed me back to tell “3-sheets-to-the-wind†that he wouldn't put up with him - and offered to toss him off the train at the next station if he didn't behave himself. As it turned out the Afghanis lived in the next town (Kävlinge. Famous for absolutely nothing) and it was they who disembarked, leaving us with the now glaring-at-me shyt face. I braved a discrete glimpse at my wife's face – the same stern warning as before. We moved to another part of the train. No, not “that way†…... “the other wayâ€.
Travelling back down again the train stopped in Helsingborg: Famous for its castle, town hall, and the cheap & convenient, 20 minute-long ferries to Denmark. Some got off, some got on. A group of very loud beer-saturated youths stepped in, shouting like Nazis at the Bierkeller Putsch. We were sitting near the door so we naturally looked to see what sort of live-stock we were taking onboard. The only female of the raiding party caught my wife looking in their directly and promptly gave my dear one the finger, “What are you looking at!†Thank God they moved on to the next carriage, but you could clearly hear them making such a fuss about what, I know not. Off we went. The next stop was Ramlösa, famous for its bottled, mineral water; a 2 minute stop normally. A family from Afghanistan stepped inside, looking for somewhere to roost. We offered to shift ourselves a bit to make room for them: A 13-year-old boy, a girl of about 5, an infant in the pram, mum, and what I assumed was Gran. And there we sat for an hour and a half. Something wrong with rail traffic up ahead, we were told. All the while we could hear the “brown shirts†planning their assault on the Reichstag and working out the details on how to blame it on some poor, innocent Dutchman “on the left side â€. But finally we moved on - and what a relief!
After a time an unsteady man in his 40´s (obviously drunk) came along the corridor and into sight, looking for the loo which was just next to us. But rather than point Percy at the porcelain and then move on he decided to hang about. OK, I thought, everyone's got to be somewhere. Well, he got his sights on the Afghanis and there was nothing for it. A racist! The 13-year-old, being the only one of them who could speak any Swedish, was the target. “Why are you (in the plural) here anyway! You don't like Sweden (the boy never once said that) and all you want is to make trouble and take our money! F-Off back to Afghanistan!", he declared. I'm one of those incurable “do-gooders†who always sticks his nose where it doesn't really belong, and my wife knows this. She looked at me to see what (if anything) I was going to do. Her stern glance my way spoke clearly, “Don't you dare!†I recently got into a fair bit of trouble for my out-outspokenness and I really didn't want to get stuck into it again, but I had to do something. Sense prevailed so I went for the conductor. He was full up with the storm troopers but I guess he welcomed a break from that lot and immediately followed me back to tell “3-sheets-to-the-wind†that he wouldn't put up with him - and offered to toss him off the train at the next station if he didn't behave himself. As it turned out the Afghanis lived in the next town (Kävlinge. Famous for absolutely nothing) and it was they who disembarked, leaving us with the now glaring-at-me shyt face. I braved a discrete glimpse at my wife's face – the same stern warning as before. We moved to another part of the train. No, not “that way†…... “the other wayâ€.