A good enough reason

I hate trains.
No, seriously, I really hate then. And I have good enough reason.
So imagine my horror at being asked to attend an audition, and to have to get there by train. I should perhaps explain that 'there' is London. Oh and that today is Friday.
So now I find myself on a train back from an armpit of the south in a crowded box on at Friday afternoon.
And I hate trains.
And auditions. Because they generally go like this: "Oh it is you." And shortly after that: "Right. Thanks bye." If I'm lucky.
So here I sit, fully in the knowledge that once again I didn't get the part, in the forward facing window seat of a table for four on a train that's going to pass through the other armpit of the south - Reading. You know this train's going to be packed.
But that's OK. I keep my hat on, my book up and no-one should recognize me. No that anyone cares, what with their phones and tablets and such.
But it is outside Reading, Mortimer to be precise, that things start to go awry. For a start, Mortimer is one of the few places on earth that radio can't reach, so everyone's phone takes a break from showing cat videos. And the train decides that enough is enough and promptly breaks down. Bristol, for it was there that we were heading, will have to wait.
And I make the fatal mistake of looking out of the window. Just for a second. And the guy opposite says: "Oh it is you. I did wonder."
And his wife says, "Who is he."
"Him, off the telly. Ahh. Y'know..." and he looks pleadingly at me.
"Sixty Seconds or You're Dead."
"Yeah... Sixty Seconds or You're Dead." He turns to her and looks. "No?"
"Never heard of it." For a moment, I love this woman with my whole heart.
"It was this sketch show. With Dave Burbleberry." She sniffs. "And he was in it."
And indeed I was, for less than sixty seconds a show.
"What was your catchphrase?" For ever, I will hate this man with my whole body.
"I got my dick stuck in it."
"Bingo. I got my dick stuck in it." And his wife looks at him, and then the guy sat next to me and finally me and says, "Really? That's...."
"Unfortunate," I add.
"No," he counters. "It was brilliant. Every week, there would be something that was broken, or not happening and, and, and, he would have to say 'I got my dick stuck in it.' Boom, end of scene.
"Wife's hair dryer won't work - I got my dick stuck in it; Petrol pump's blocked - I got my dick stuck in it; Toaster won't pop up - I got my dick stuck in it. Even the election special - he couldn't post his ballot in the box because?" He directs the question at me. And I'll be damned if I answer.
"You got your dick stuck in it!"
"I did indeed."
"And," he adds with an overly long dramatic pause, "in a Welsh accent."
Which he now proceeds to try. At length.
Until, and at this point I think fortunately, the guard passes. And our chum asks: "Why's the train stopped? Has he got his dick stuck in it?"
"No," says our Welsh guard somewhat taken aback, "points are stuck."
"Brrrrriliant, you can do the accent. Go on, say it."
"Say what?"
"I got my dick stuck in it."
"Oh no. I don't think so, sir. Not really me." And he carries on down the carriage.
"Oh. Oh well. Just me then.
"I got my dick stuck in it. I gghhot my dick stuck in it."
"Look," I interject, "that's not really a Welsh accent. It's more a constipated Pakistani."
"Oh." He is crestfallen, which I rather enjoy.
But I can see him practising under his breath until eventually:
"I got my dick stuck in it."
"No. But at least the laxative has worked. Listen, have you ever seen the film 'Kingsman'? About a secret service?"
"With Jason Statham?"
"Colin Firth, but close enough."
"Sure it wasn't Jason Statham?"
"Yes. In that, the weapons officer, the Q if you like, was played by..."
"Jason Statham..."
"Mark Strong. Now Mark Strong, whilst being follicallly challenged, is probably one of Britain's best actors. His character was supposed to have a Welsh accent, but even he couldn't manage a decent one. So they switched it to Scottish."
"You sure it wasn't Jason Statham?"
"Yes."
"Then I ain't seen it, then."
I look out of the window. I hope the break in eye contact stills him. I hope.
"So, how come you can do one?"
"What?"
"A Welsh accent. You don't sound Welsh now."
"I was bloody born there. I've spent 43 years trying to lose the damn' thing."
"Oh yeah. When you're angry you can hear it."
And at that moment the trolley goes past.
"Here mate," shouts my number one fan, "got any coffee?"
"Machine's broken," says the steward.
"What? Have you got your dick stuck in it?"
What are the chances of my number two fan working for a rail company?
"Yeah. And the teapot, I got my dick stuck in that too." Only his accent is better.
They trade 'I got my dick stuck in it's to the merriment of the coach. And my mounting frustration.
"Will you, shut the flange, up?"
"What?" they say in synch to each other.
"Will you. Shut. The flange. Up?"
"The flange?"
"Yes. Just, just, shut up. I hate the phrase. For ten years since that programme aired every interview, every audition has ended when they recognise me. Normally, they demand I say it. 'Go on, go on' they say 'do the phrase'."
"And what do you say? Do you say it?"
"No, I normally reply 'Go fuck yourself' and the interview pretty much ends there...."