Derren Night Part 2

We left the Opera House with great big smiles and begun (With emphasis on this word please) to walk down the street that took us home. We managed a half-way walk down the very first street when we (At least I know me and Natasha did) decided we weren't quite as satisfied as we hoped and turned the other way to see what else we could squeeze out of the night. I don't recall us managing to accomplish much as the theatre was almost deserted and a security guard had managed to take his position up outside. I found it very funny that there had to be a hard man placed outside to protect Derren from any disconcerting fans of freaks. It was only us. I couldn't imagine Derren in a fist fight or shielding himself from any Daily Mail readers or Christian activists. Besides. We had grown a fathomable love for the Derren posters that had been placed in the windows of the theatre and intended to hang around until we could either have them or steal them.



We didn't progress to doing much after that resorted to going back to the hotel where we drank the champagne, vodka, and watched omnibus's of Coronation Street, heckling at all the overweight characters like drunk thugs. I did a forwards roll on the hard floor and hurt my neck, Natasha sat in the shower drinking Vodka straight, and Claire jumped in the covers to catch up on what she had missed of The Great British Menu... Before also resorting to the shower to practise hand stands.







It wasn't long before the hotel room became boring and mundane and the amount of fun you can have inside is limited by the four walls. I was ravishingly hungry and so, at around 2AM we took a long walk to the nearest McDonalds, and we chose the route down past Harry Ramsdens famous chip shop, the Sea Life centre, and Louis Tussauds very unfamous Waxworks. It was almost a blackout but I wasn't cold. Claire and Natasha had found a block piled high with what looked like builders sand and had taken to running to the top of it and getting pissed off with coincidentally getting the sand in their shoes. I wanted to keep walking so I walked a few metres ahead and held out both arms to see if I could walk in a straight line like people do when they've been caught drinking in their car. I don't think I could, but I didn't have the eyes to see. The two of them were taking ages and then Natasha came bouncing towards me talking into a mobile phone in a Welsh accent and swearing. Alot. The swearing became contagious and I started being fowl towards people I would never have the guts to be foul to in real life, but whom wholeheartedly deserved it.

We did find a McDonalds, and it was situated in the town centre, open twenty four god forsaken hours. I was gutted when I noticed that the seating areas had been cordoned off because it was too late, but I held my breath and ordered a single bag of large fries. Everybody copied me. I was ditzy and not very hungry but I forced them down, despite getting closer to vomiting with every salt-ridden one. Natasha had burst into laughter and another Welsh accent amidst the isolated McDonalds queue. I hadn't noticed if anybody has noticed her. We left the shop and dodged the wet floor, and back into the refreshing air.

The town was desolate and looked like a ghost town, and there was no sign of light or life. Naturally we took this as our cue to belt out Fratellis lyrics in a sluggish manner and repeat endless "Your maw" jokes. Something was missing though. Like a shroud of little lost puppies, I really wanted to "hunt" for lack of a better word, Derren, which turned into a mass stalking spree which I am not embarrased about even now. We started endlessly slurring "I bloody love Derren!" every now and then, and scouring the tops of buildings with our eyes to see if he might have left a light on signalling where he might perhaps be staying. (We found out later, if of any importance at all, that it was nowhere near where we were situated.)

We walked back up towards the theatre and stood outside where his posters were designated once more, except this time I kept dropping chips out my mouth by trying to talk whilst eating, and I felt like an out-of-control litter bug. I can say that dirty things were said and I shall not say what, for, despite this blog being the most unread blog in the history of the web, it would be just my fucking luck for someone to visit this exact moment. We were sorely dissatisfied, and once more made our way to hotel camp, past two different groups of three males, with only the second group heckling us which stood to be half of how many I expected would. It was vulgar. We went home.

After another hour or so I'm pretty sure we did go out of our way to visit that McDonalds once more, but I can't recall why and what for, or even what happened on the way back. I do remember that the same man was standing behind the check out like an overworked puppy with only us keeping him from quitting work and comitting suicide. We went home again.

We were distraught to find that the sun was starting to creep up and wished to death that it was still the night. The daylight pouring in behind closed curtains can be harsh and brings you back to the reality of the day. The three of us had been in bed and out of bed, and Claire had decided to stay in bed and catch up on lost sleep. Me and Natasha dared to lay our heads back but I didn't let sleep reel me in just yet. The two of went to the bathroom where she took up her spot in the base of the shower, and I took up mine on the toilet (The seat was down). We passed the camera back and forth to eachother and snapped eachother with ridiculous faces. We shouted Claire every now and then but she had certainly been seduced by sleep and couldn't really be woken for any longer than 10 seconds.

Trying to stay awake was like trying snap out of a coma. The food we ate had so many empty calories that the energy was expended straight away, and I was beginning to think we should have been eating Weetabix or Shreddies. It was time for the morning news and weather, and we jumped in bed with Claire. The subtitles were, once more, suitably hilarious and must have been switched on for no other reason than to provide some laughter relief from the shit tip that Blackpool is.



The thought of packing was nauseating, but I got up and did mine quietly before anybody else so it could be done and out of the way. I already had a semi-large cut along my waist on the right from my laptop digging into me the entire day, so I made sure to wrap it in two plastic bags before it did anymore damage. It had only felt like we were out looking for Derren like automatic magnets a mere two hours ago, but it had been at least six. I looked out the windows and there were people, the worst of people, flogging the streets already, and I began wishing that they would retreat back home and leave the streets for us. Another reason I fought sleep was because I hated the way it feels waking up. We got dressed and made up and presentable and headed- you guessed it- to our beloved McDonalds for a breakfast of full fat bacon in a full fat bread baguette with a full fat hash brown. They looked disgusting but I was hungry. And we were noticeably tired.



We went back to finish packing and admire the alcohol stains on the wall, and say goodbye to the hotel room we didn't want to leave.



It was a slow, slow walk to the nearest Starbucks and we were hoping to pass a few hours in there to take us up to 4PM where we could nestle on a train. Despite having virtually no hunger left in me, I ordered a fruit salad and a hot chocolate. It made me laugh thinking that a fruit salad could make up for all the shit I consumed the night before. I couldn't eat it all, and so I left it on the table and laid my head back in the chair. I began almost wake-snoring like Claire had done a few hours previously, and sharpened up, embarrased. We went to HMV and to the DVD section to look for, if I remember correctly, a Derren Brown DVD. After no luck, Natasha left with Codeine Velvet Club's album. We then took a trip to Yates' and between us ordered a platter of nachos and a bowl of chips, and spent a decent amount of time in the "Chatterbox" toilet upstairs which, pervertedly, allowed two toilets in one cubicle, to chatter in. It was beyond odd. It was a picture-taking haven.



We trekked to the train station and my shoes were giving me a pain worse than agony. I didn't want to look like I complain too much so I took baby steps and stayed quiet until the train station. I had a twenty minute wait before mine and Claire and Natasha a thirty minute wait before theirs. Mine came quicker than I expected and so I asked the train guy if it was mine and he said it was. We had a group hug and then I turned and waved. I am surprised I even remembered thus far considering how fatigued I was. I got on it and typically chose another seat which went backwards. I was in a daze, and the glass water bottle by my feet kept clattering whenever it touched the floor. Three people sat next to me if I remember correctly. Two snotty looking women, and a man in a suit. I struggled for a place to look, but everytime I looked out of the window the trees passed by so quickly and sent me straight into a dizzy warp. I tried to look at the floor but the ladies bare legs were in my way, and looking down just made my head bob and my eyes tilt shut. I remember once watching a man on a bus from behind. His head bobbed left and right and it was out of control when it fell, and the weight of the fall woke him up quickly. I shut my eyes for a mere second and my head fell forward and broke my sleep, and my head shot up automatically. I was embarrased but too tired to take notice of it. I did this again. Twice. It had only been five minutes and the train had arrived in Preston, as if I had been in a super fast jet propellor.

I wobbled my way to platform one and stood for a good ten minutes and started kicking my feet up behind me to try and kick up some energy to last me the day. I don't know how long they had been there, but as the train in front of me left, I saw Claire and Natasha waving enthusiastically at me as the train sped away. I shot my arm up and waved, and suddenly wondered if I had smiled or not, and got nervous. The Glasgow Central train pulled in and I, this time, checked for an UNRESERVED seat to park myself in and hopefully stay in. My iPod had somehow lowered itself to a very red battery but despite this I plugged it in and hoped the audible waves would keep me awake for another measley three hours or so. From this point on I can't remember whether I slept or not but it wasn't long at all before we were at Carlisle, which I consider the half way point between Scotland and England.

I opened and ate a Galaxy bar and silently cursed my iPod which had now failed on me. I let my head drop back and onto the back of the seat, and mere moments later the journey had passed and I was in Glasgow. I, again, couldn't look straight out of the window without having the room spin and my eyelids drop like lead weights. I fumbled viciously with the ragged plasters on my heels before I got off and prayed that they would be satisfactory to walk in, if only for another mile or so. I stepped off the train and the shoes dug into my sores like needles, harder and then softer with every step. Some steps made me audibly moan in pain and others were alright. I stood and glanced at the huge timetable boards and, failing to find a train to Falkirk Grahamston, waddled over to the Ticket desk to ask when the next one would be. I was told I would have to find Queen Street Station and buy my ticket there, and, after dimly listening to instructions, I walked out of the exit and into the harshness of the busy city, looking no worse than a girl who hasn't slept in thirty six hours with a weight on her shoulders.

I failed to understand the "Turn left at the end of the street" instruction, and wondered just where a street abruptly ended for me to turn left in. Thinking back now it would have made sense, but not back then. I got lost and was walking for the pure joy of walking after a while. I saw central park and I passed about three photographers all with their cameras pointing at me and felt, for a moment, like a celebrity. I hurdled past them, with my aching heels (Have I put enough emphasis on my agony yet?) and walked towards the huge, square park to admire a large map and sign. It didn't even hit me that the station was standing to the right of me, showing itself illuminously. as I walked the short baby-step walk to the station, three different sirens went off, two from police vehicles and one from a fire engine which had begun circling its way around the park. I saw police motioning the vehicle to go here and there, and for the first time I realised I was in Glasgow. "Murder capital of the world." I stood at the traffic lights and watched the city people. They walk so carelessly, dodging traffic with their little legs, taking a risk by running whilst every car is stuck in a jam, and by thinking that the few seconds whilst the car engine is warming up is enough time to make it across a road. I had none of the same pleasure and had to wait until the traffic light had told me I could cross, and then cautiously baby-stepped my way around it.

I waddled to the ticket office to buy a single ticket to Falkirk, and was surprised by how smoothly it ran. Usually when I buy tickets I expect the ticket officer to look at me as though I just asked where the nearest whore house was. He gave me it and I run, or at least tried to rush, to platform seven where my deserted carriage awaited me. After being reassured by a train officer that it was the Falkirk train, I sat on it and felt at peace.

I was excited when the timetable for this particular train read "Greenfaulds" and then "Cumbernauld" and secretly hoped I would find a Jon or a Mince come steaming onto the train and park their bottoms beside me. I looked into the window beside me and I looked a catastrophe. My nasolobial crease was two foot deep, my eye bags were much of the same, and I had dry red lips and a stupidly puffy face. Whenever I looked to the left of me a man in a seat facing me seemed to never take his eyes off me. It was disconcerting so I vowed never to look in his direction again. The train stopped every ten minutes to another deserted train stop and then sped off again five minutes later. I hadn't recognised any of the places. We finally stopped in Cumbernauld and I saw no sign of buildings now life. I did see a few council estates like the type you see in run down places on TV documentaries. The kind people might want to consider killing themselves in. There was grime down the walls, pathetic little playparks in the middle, and towering flats which looked as welcoming as the plague. I did see a few small clusters of nice looking houses but no sign of anybody boarding the train which was sad. Everything else I saw had designated it's place in a large skip or manifested itself into a burnt pile of rubble. Because that's the way to get rid of unwanted goods.

I landed in Falkirk and was the last one off after gathering my things. I circled around the main building to look for a public telephone and upon failing, left the train station by the exit to find one outside. I felt the burn of the people in the waiting room watching me as I walked sluggishly past the windows, sometimes wobbling from side to side, sometimes wincing in agony, and sometimes stopping altogether. Five minutes later and I had reached the stairs. I was very much aware that I looked drunk and/or drugged, but I kept going besides. I crossed the bridge and left and realised that I knew where I was. I was in Falkirk Town Centre, so I started going forwards but then saw a phone box situated behind me and so made my way there. I started looking around for familiar buildings in which I could say I was outside of. I put my money in the phone and picked up the reciever to call. I phoned my number and heard nothing but rings and then an answering machine. I cursed, loudly. I tried a variation of my number considering I may have got it wrong from tiredness, and rang again. The thieving phone had nicked the two pound coin I had used for my previous call, but I stood my ground. A man answered this time, and I said "Hello" in a daze. He proceeded to shout hello back as if he had not heard me. I returned the favour and eventually grew impatient and put the phone down. I picked up the phone once again to try the first number and did it quickly incase said man attempted to phone back. There was nothing but answering machine noise. My own mobile phone had lost it's battery hours ago and I had nothing but coins to rely on.

I reluctantly closed the phone box door and stood still, completely dumbfounded as to what to do next. I walked up the hill with bleeding, scarred heels and past a bus stop where a man and a lady looked at me in the most peculiar way. I saw the large Tescos and figured that there must be a working telephone box there that might let me ring someone to come and save me. With every step I saw nothing but parked cars and a cluster of late-night shoppers exiting the building. I walked past the Tescos and by the closed Boots, B & Q, and other megastores and eventually walked in a huge circle around the carpark and past the shops. I felt the young drivers monitoring me in their cars and I grew helpless. They often come here to speed around the carpark and beep their horns and presumably pick up girls. At that moment in time I couldn't think of anything sadder in life itself. They drove past me once and then twice, and I collided with them whilst crossing the roads, and they sped past as soon as my puny feet had hit the pavement. I genuinely wanted to collapse and sleep on the metal barges on the traffic islands.

I found no other telephone box and so took a diagonal path through the car park again and towards the cinemas. I thought that, if anything, there would have to be phone boxes outside a huge cinema complex. After an agonising walk I was bitterly disappointed again, as I found nothing. There were couples making their way inside, and I thought they ought to find me a little worn down to be visiting the cinemas at this time of night. I walked past the cinema doors twice and past the McDonalds to scour for telephone boxes there. Nothing. I thought to myself that, if I ever were to reach anybody by telephone how would I even begin to explain where I was anymore? I didn't really know.

I shuffled my feet past the McDonalds, and I noticed that I was making my way into suburban territory. There were houses and street signs, and all sign of shops and nightlife had began to disappear and I knew that places like this just didn't have telephone boxes. I wasn't even picking up my feet anymore, I was trying to hover. I spotted a wall with a fence and crossed a desolate road to get to it before collapsing and sitting on it with my bags by either side. I tried to turn my phone off once more but it instantly said "Goodbye" and so i decided to turn my attention to nursing my bleeding feet. I took off my shoes and loosened them, and then attempted to walk but found they had made no difference. I had a brainwave and pulled out both of my laces so there would be absolutely no pressure on my feet while I walked. I thought I had finally found the solution and would be able to walk again. Although my iPod was dead also, I had managed to get it on for at least a few minutes, and had luckily picked up someone's wifi from near by. I browsed the net for a free text site where I could text someone to come and rescue me, and began to write something there.

It hit me then that I couldn't switch my phone on to find my mother's number and I swore under my breath. I switched off the internet and began to write an email in desperation. The iPod switched itself off. It was almost dark now and I felt hopeless. I gathered my bags up and stood up to prepare for an agonising walk into the middle of nowhere. I was hating everyone right now, for firstly not answering the phone, and secondly for my doubts that they were even wondering where I was. I took another few steps and my shoes dug a new fresh wound into my heels. Taking my laces out hadn't worked, and I shimmied along just as I had done before, in blistering agony. I walked up a short hill and back into the shopping complex car park, into safe territory. I had eventually remembered that there was a working phone box I had used a few weeks previously while I went for a college interview. I began to make my way there, with the sun settling down behind my back. There were too many dodgy roads, the kind that are so wide that you have to run across them incase a vehicle comes speeding around the bend. Running brought me unimaginable pain.

I followed the road down and was beginning to doubt that it was infact the right road as I could see no phone box in view the more I walked. I passed a wall and there was a man laying on his side, with a bag of what looked like frozen peas lieing under his head. He was mumbling and when I walked past seemed to motion his arm out at me. I felt rude and inhumane to pass him with a mere glance, but I would have felt even sillier if it had turned out he was merely drunk. I couldn't do anything about that. I walked on further and by now the darkness had completely settled in and made itself at home. I saw the phone box standing next to the bus stop and opened the door and stood inside. I phoned the number again and the same man I had spoken to before answered. He said "You ignored me last time!" in a jolly Scottish twang, and I apologised and asked for my aunt's name, despite us both knowing I had dialled the wrong number. I called the other variation of the same number and it rang and rang and rang. And then went onto the answering machine.

There wasn't much light but there was just enough to see that there were ants clambering about on the reciever and all over the phone's buttons, and by there being so many I began to imagine I was in some sort of fictional horror movie, where nobody can get a hold of me and I can't get a hold of them. I dropped my bags helplessly and for the first time that night, fought back tears. I didn't cry though, and instead just cursed silently for longer and longer periods of time.

I checked the timetable on the bus stop next to me and didn't even attempt to understand it, or expect any bus going to such a tiny village appear at this time of night. Just then a bus came up behind me and, although I didn't motion it to stop, the female driver opened her doors for me and exclaimed that I looked a bit lonely there. I Just etched a smile and asked her if she goes to Kincardine and how much it would be. She said she does and so I gave her three pound and dodged my way past a few pensioners to the nearest unreserved seat to the front. As the bus drove off I could barely see outside because of the harshness of the light inside. I wasn't excited about getting home, I was dreading my walk from the bus stop to my house and how I would possibly make it.

She dropped me off at an earlier bus stop in which I was thankful for. It wasn't in the centre of the village square where all the junkies and drunks go at night, and it was just up the street from my way home. I had planned to take my shoes off to give me a smooth walk but when I witnessed the amount of stones and rocks on the ground I thought it best not to. I didn't walk long, and as I stepped through the children's play park I counted the number of chimes on the village clock and it came to nine. It certainly felt alot later than nine o'clock, I was sure of that. I walked the last street and came up to my doorstep where I immediately dropped my bags and took off my jacket. I removed my shoes as best I could and walked through the doorway to the living room. Everyone was sitting on the sofa watching TV dumbly and hadn't expected me to be home any earlier. I limped through the living room and sat down on the chair and answered questions I had no interest in answering at that time of night. I looked down and admired my battle wounds and found that I had three on each foot, all of a distinctive shape and size, and shade of red.

I rolled my trousers up incase the slightest touch made them flare, and I retreated to my bedroom with my laptop in hand, just as I would on any given day.