And, so, I thought I would be the only Englishmen heading back on the Eurostar last Saturday, just as our fine rugby players took to the battle field. Not so.
Oh no. Who should I find myself amongst but none other than an all-conquering contingent of Britain’s finest, most cynical, avaricious bastards. No, not the England football team. Ticket touts.
Yep, a pack of them took over the restaurant car to knock back the 1664s while ‘aving a count up after their triumphant excursion. And, bloody ‘eck, what wads they had. To a man, they had chunks of notes in varying currencies the size of bricks. There must have been forty-fifty grand’s wurf between them. A right nice earner. They were the only true English winners of the day.
Now, I am all up for the reward of genuine entrepreneurial endeavour, so good luck to the touts for having the energy and balls to do a dirty job. I also know touts are impossible to control, and they have their uses to their customers, but tell me this: if the government , or the police cannot stop these geezers doing the business, then why the hell can’t they are least make sure they pay ‘effing tax on their grotesque profits.
With 4.5 million CCTV cameras watching our every move (with only a fraction doing a single thing to solve crime), then why can’t the police pick out the touts at various venues (what could be easier detective work than finding a tout at work?), then get their names, check their bank balances and tax records.
I only ask this because I happened to eaves drop with utter dismay when three of the bloated scrum on that Eurostar lamented about the busy week ahead of them – then whinge about what an “agg'” it was that they had to sign on some time. Oh, what an awful inconvenience for them to have to turn up to scribble their name for some free money.
Touts: lying, dodgy scum, the lot of them. It quite makes one want to get off the train early. At high speed.