Once There Was a Way to Get Back Homeward.


I’m still recovering from a late, stressful night on Sunday when I tried - and failed - to get home from a Paul McCartney gig at the O2.

Thankfully, I had the foresight to book a hotel room in case I ran into trouble or things would have been far worse, which is stupid really, as it shouldn’t have been so difficult to get back (no pun intended), even on a Sunday; I checked the trains and tubes before going into town and there were options right up to 1:30am; I was so confident I’d be fine I switched my booking to a hotel closer to King’s Cross as I thought this would be more convenient if I got stuck, as one way or another I had to get to Stevenage the next morning for a hospital appointment; this change ended up being the fly in the ointment when I discovered on leaving the gig that it would be hard to get anywhere, let alone the other side of the river; it was as if the venue and the surrounding transport network hadn’t realised the 20,000+ people watching Macca weren’t stopping over for the night (though I don’t know how anyone could when the hotel onsite is so expensive).

My first setback was to be expected, when I came out of the venue shortly after the show finished to meet the queue of people trying to get into North Greenwich station. What I didn’t anticipate was how slow the queue would move, or the announcement that followed almost instantly to say that due to a shortage of trains there would be no more westbound services (which meant nothing going anywhere bar three stops east); the friend I was with was going to West Ham so was okay, but the same couldn’t be said for me.

What followed was disorganised carnage (which is the worst kind) as the swarm of people around the taxi ranks and bus stops grew. I spotted a bus to Russell Square that ran through the night although it wasn't very regular and the amount of people waiting to board it was ridiculous. I stood in the queue for a while, until another announcement came across the tannoy suggesting changing trains at Stratford as another option. I looked this up on my mobile (using the last of my battery in the process) then took a punt and left the bus queue, which ended up backfiring as I ran onto the eastbound platform to watch the last train leave. It was official: I was stuck.

I rejoined the bus queue (which had grown instead of shrunk) and watched various potential buses come and go. Spin forward forty minutes or so and I was finally able to catch one (being forced onboard through all the pushing and shoving; you’ve got to love the general public). I stayed on the bus until its final destination of Russell Square, then walked in the vague direction of King’s Cross in hope of finding my hotel.

Thank God I know the area reasonably well as I didn’t have the exact address, though I knew it was somewhere near the hospital I go to for my dizziness. On the way I found a shop that was open and bought a bottle of water, a banana and some biscuits as I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since before the gig, and by the time I’d checked into the hotel it was about 2:30am. I was tired and frustrated, but at least I had somewhere to stay; note to self: don’t go to gigs at the O2 on a Sunday if you can help it; I’m starting to see why Boris Johnson travels by zip-line instead of the tube.

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