In my late 20s, I listened obsessively to Loudon Wainwright III, the confessional singer-songwriter best-known for the songs he wrote in the ‘70s. (In later years, I would come to listen obsessively to his daughter Martha’s satisfyingly excoriating Bloody Motherfucking Asshole… but that’s another story).

He wrote some great lines, Loudon, and many of them live under my skin, but it’s this song, with its repetitive, rocking banality, which worms its way most frequently into my consciousness. It’s called Plane, too:

 

 

I took a train from Manchester to London today and tonight I’ve set myself the little challenge of writing my own lyrics to Loudon’s song based on my journey. I thought it would be easy and possibly not that interesting. I was wrong on both counts. In tomorrow’s post, I’ll tell you why.

 

Train, too

 

There was a baby on the train

There was a teenager, too.

Businesswoman on the train

Train conductor, too.

I ate a yoghurt on the train

Scratch that, I ate two.

Mobile ringtones on the train

Evening Standard too.

 

Train food was on the train

Train coffee, too.

Bags of crisps were on the train

KitKat Chunkys, too.

Window seats on the train

Aisle seats, too.

Mobile sockets on the train

Laptop sockets, too.

 

Sliding doors were on the train

Luggage racks, too.

Emergency exits were on the train

Emergency hammers, too.

 

There was a toilet on the train

A sink and paper, too.

There was a mirror on the train

Me, too.