Midget Jones’ Diary

A WHOLE BOTTLE. Sorry if anyone thought I’d been poisoned, I just never got the chance to update.

But more of that later. Because it’s time for… ANOTHER MYSTERY SERVICE STATION! Unfortunately I haven’t been able to identify this one yet, but I can tell you that it’s somewhere on the route from Brighton to London. Similarly to my other Mystery Service Station, I remember very little of what happened thanks to having been unconscious in a Ford Transit for half an hour.

I do remember this, however: I bought a litre of gin. At two in the morning. I didn’t really understand the arse-clenchingly massive significance until the next morning when I resurfaced to find an unopened bottle of gin on my floor. I wish I could find out more information, as clearly the number of opportunities to buy spirits on Britain’s roads late at night is criminally small. We’re so far behind the rest of the continent in some ways.

The Mystery Service Station earns itself a well-deserved five unwaxed lemons out of five.

Now, back to the rancid champagne. It was a bottle of vintage cava, so not technically champagne, but it cost me an arm and a leg at the time so I thought I’d save it for a special occasion. Three years later, and I decided amongst myself that Tuesday the 21st of November was a suitably noteworthy day to enjoy it.

Now, I’m no Jilly Goolden, but it tasted a little odd to me. I gave it the benefit of the doubt though, because vintage champagne and I are not the most regular of friends. As with all things, after the first glass it started to taste alright.

So there we go then, two for one! Any news on the location of the illegal booze service station will be added as I find it. Any donations of vintage champagne are encouraged.

Ok, my second service station review may not be as reasoned and detailed as the last one. It involved me getting up at 5.30 in the morning to do a 10 minute gig at 5pm, followed by another, proper gig at 10.30pm.

Anyway, I awoke at roughly 2am with a mini-hangover from the vodka, listening to a Brazilian man singing David Bowie songs in Portugese accompanied by an acoustic guitar, and my drummer holding his phone up to my ear, playing the sound of a woman screaming. This may go some way to explain my severe confusion and mental anguish. I have a vague recollection of wandering around the forecourt with my hood up. I’m not sure if I bought anything, so I can’t comment on the quality of service, although the drummer spent £3 on a sandwich, so I took that as karma for the emotional torture he put me through.

This isn’t really going anywhere, so I’m going to end with a more traditional anecdote, set in another Mystery Service Station toilet somewhere in the South West. There was a man, relieving himself and enjoying an ice cream at the same time. I think it was a Magnum, although I’m not sure what model. When he finished, he put the ice cream down on the edge of the sink, zipped up, retrieved his Magnum and left. Not really funny, but was the single most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen in a public toilet.

Subsequent research has told me that this was, in fact, Warwick South, so all I can say is go there sober. Warwick North receives two blood-curdling rape screams out of a possible five.

And here it is, the inaugural Service Station Review! Ah, Leigh Delamere… a place of disparity; it is home to the highest highs and lowest lows you’ll ever find in a service station. Although not as low as Gordano, but more of that later.

• Marks & Spencer Simply Food - A very welcome addition to any service area. The westbound side has a really nice blonde girl working there. I want to marry her, but all she wants is my sushi and a curt conversation involving PIN numbers.
• Vibrating chairs - There’s something enjoyable about sitting on a massage chair in a public place. Everyone looks at you, and thinks ‘Man, he looks relaxed, I wish I wasn’t in such a hurry to go to Wales’
• The World’s Hottest Coffee - Courtesy of the Upper Crust, which also helpfully explains the origins of the French stick. They used to put them down their trousers for some sordid reason, those dirty, beret-sporting bastards. But they have harnessed the secret of ultimate insulation, because we’d almost got to Devon before I could even take a fearful, puckered sip on my cappucino.

• The petrol station, at night - Oh God, where to start? This place brings to mind some kind of petrol-station-of-the-damned scenario. It’s worth mentioning, for the sake of fairness, that I went here at 3am on a Tuesday morning, so my emotional state may have been somewhat clouded. But still, petrol station night staff aren’t well known for their social skills so I think it was a fair battle. All I wanted was to pay for my Eat Natural bar (macadamia nut and dark chocolate, potential stalkers and sponsors!) but the dried-up old crone serving was having a lengthy conversation with a trucker. When I eventually got to the front, all she could do was laugh manically. She was literally cackling while she was serving me and I still have no idea why. Maybe I reminded her of a joke the trucker told her. All told, it was very unnerving and I’m never going back there after sundown.

So, there you have it. Leigh Delamere; both the apex and nadir of Great British service stations. I give it four M&S borlotti bean salads out of five.