Scary Man

When travelling on public transport, everyone knows about the obligatory weirdo. It could be the woman wearing slippers who tumbles along the train carriage arguing with herself and anyone who looks up at the wrong moment, or it might be the wild-eyed loner silently oozing such an air of menace that nobody nearby can relax. Whoever it is, on whatever journey you take, there’s always one. A few months ago, that one was me. I became the weirdo on the train.

I’d been in London for the weekend and was travelling back home. This was in January and, to mark the new year, I’d decided to try something new with my hair. I’d kept it short for a number of years and was utterly bored with it. However, my hair is very thick and becomes curly whenever it gets long - it seems to grow outwards instead of downwards and previous attempts to tame it have always proved a disaster. I’d spend ages gelling and combing it straight before leaving the house only to find out later that rather than looking like a coolly tousled Jeff Buckley, I’d instead spent the whole evening resembling a 70’s era Scouse footballer. I’d usually struggle on with the self delusion for several months before good sense and constant piss-taking would make me shave it all off again.

Not this time however - this time it would be different. Instead of fighting against my hair’s natural waves I was going to go with them; I was going to embrace the curls.

I wasn’t overly optimistic but I decided that this could be my last chance for long hair before encroaching baldness stopped me forever. By January my hair wasn’t yet long enough for me to present myself to a barber and say: ‘Here you go, do something with this,’ but it was easily long enough to make me look stupid. That day it was particularly bad as I’d forgotten to bring any shampoo on the trip. In the morning, I’d washed it with the hotel shower gel then spent the whole day traipsing round the capital getting snowed on. By the time I reached St Pancras it was corkscrewing everywhere at crazy angles like a misguided, greying clown wig.

I’d been on my feet all day in heavy walking boots and was now exhausted. Being outside in the London air for two days also had the usual effect on my body; making my eyes sore and my throat dry.

I arrived early and went to the station’s Marks & Spencers to get something to eat and drink as I waited for the train. I bought a bottle of pop and a boxed salad – edamame bean with chilli and coriander sauce. I expected a flimsy little fork to be encased in the packaging of the salad, it’s the usual procedure for food that’s sold to be eaten on-the-go. However, Marks & Spencers don’t do this. Instead they have their eating utensils stored separately in a basket by the door. This is presumably so people forget to pick up a fork and napkin when leaving which saves the store money. By ‘people’ I mean me, obviously - but I didn’t realise this until I’d opened the top of the salad and poured the sauce over my edamame beans.

It did occur to me to go back but the shop was downstairs on the other side of the terminal and there was a burly security guard on the door. He might take umbridge at people wandering in and taking their cutlery, they were obviously very protective of it. Unusually, the top of the box wasn’t re-sealable either – it was cellophane and once it was off there was no going back, you were totally committed.

I opted to eat the salad with my fingers, struggling to maintain an air of dignity. It was difficult; edamame beans are hard to snare under normal circumstances but near impossible when slippery with chilli and coriander sauce.

Then, something unexpected happened – something nobody could have foreseen which proved disastrous for my salad and me. The train arrived on time.

The whole station seemed to flock towards the single turnstile and I had an unreserved seat. I needed to find my ticket, hoist up my bag, keep hold of my bottle of pop and do something with my food while my hands were slick with watery sauce. This completely shattered the normal image I generally try to convey when travelling – the air of a world weary and well travelled cynic, like the hero in a Graham Greene novel. It doesn’t quite work when you’re frantically shovelling edamame beans into your mouth as fast as you can with two hooked fingers.

But so what? I didn’t know these people around me, who cares what they thought of me – screw them!

I finished my salad with just enough time to wipe my hands on my jeans and show the guard my ticket. Panic over. On board I found a seat next to a window and, as the train filled up with people, spent several minutes digging my book out of my bag and trying to surreptitiously clean my hands on the upholstery of the empty seat next to me.

In front, at one of the tables, was a magazine editor interviewing a photographer for a surf themed fashion shoot. The editor was someone who clearly loved the sound of his own voice and talked at length about his magazine and how great it was. The photographer had his laptop open to show his portfolio and was trying hard to sound enthusiastic and professional. In the seat across the aisle was a middle aged Yorkshire couple who looked as though they’d had a happy day shopping and were glad to be going home. When we pulled away, the carriage was busy but not full and the seat next to me remained vacant.

I was by a very hot radiator. Before long I had to shed some of my winter gear - the boots came off along with my coat and thick Lopi jumper. I was particularly proud of my Lopi jumper, it had been hand-knitted in Iceland using local wool famous for being lightweight, waterproof and incredibly warm. It’s probably the most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever bought but that doesn’t alter the fact that it does look a bit like something an aunt would give you for Christmas. Icelandic wool is very wiry so tends to stick up scruffily and I can’t put the hood up because, for some reason, it’s pointy and makes me look like an elf.

With my jumper and coat next to me, I settled in for the journey. Reading my book, it wasn’t long before I fell asleep. Almost immediately, I woke myself up with a snore that was so loud that I heard it myself over the noise of Jimi Hendrix on my ipod. ‘Christ, that was a bit embarrassing’ I thought, and sat bolt upright to make sure that I wouldn’t fall asleep again.

I fell asleep again almost instantly. This time with my head lolling backwards so my mouth drooped open in a gape. I stayed like this for two hours, waking briefly every ten minutes or so at the sound of my own snoring which was almost deafening because of the dryness of my throat. I just couldn’t stay awake, the day had been too tiring, my eyes were too sore and the seat was too warm.

When I eventually came round properly, we were in Chesterfield and just fifteen minutes from home. The train was now packed - people were standing in the doorways and at the ends of the aisle but the seat next to me was still empty. Looking round for someone to give an apologetic smile to, I saw that the middle aged couple were looking out of the window into pitch black nothingness, conspicuously avoiding any glance in my direction. The editor and photographer still had the laptop open in front of them but neither one was looking at it. One stared down the carriage, the other looked down at the table, both of their bodies were tense and the backs of their necks were reddening.

I had one of those moments of ruthless clarity that often comes when you’ve just woken up from a deep sleep – a horrible, sudden realisation of how I must look to these people. A figure with wild hair and red-rimmed eyes grunting amid a mass of tatty looking wool with no shoes on. I also noticed that in my haste to eat my salad, I’d slopped a fair bit of chilli and coriander sauce down my shirt. If it was on my shirt, it was fair to assume that there’d be some in my beard too. Marks & Spencers' chilli and coriander sauce looks quite a lot like dried vomit.

The ‘screw them!’ attitude, always my default position, wouldn’t quite cut it this time. I was beyond ‘screw them’ – it had gone too far, I’d embarrassed myself too much.

I was the weirdo on the train.

Those last fifteen minutes as we approached Sheffield were the longest of my life as I sat squirming with shame in my seat. Nobody looked at me when I got up to leave and as the doors closed behind me, I felt the carriage give a collective sigh of relief.

It made me wonder if this is how it happens - If every weirdo has simply been the hapless victim of an unfortunate chain of events and they’re otherwise quite normal. I think it much more likely that their ‘screw you’ threshold is a lot higher than most people’s and they no longer care a jot what others think of them.

Has this experience made me more sympathetic towards other weirdos on the train? Will I now look up the next time one of them reels down the centre aisle looking for people to talk at? Will I maybe even chat to them, ask them to tell me more about their reincarnated cat or the cloud that follows them everywhere they go?

Probably not, no.

The Obligatory Spooky Article

The Stocksbridge Bypass is a key link between Sheffield and Manchester and every day 18,000 motorists use it to travel to and from work. During the day, the only remarkable thing about it would seem to be the Orwellian technology used by its ultra-modern speed cameras. However, I’m here at night when the bordering fields appear black and brooding and trees cast shapes that menace my peripheral vision. In darkness it comes as no surprise that this road is famous as one of the most haunted places in Britain.

I’m parked in a layby between the Orwellian speed cameras on the outskirts of Sheffield. The road hasn’t yet reached the imposing beauty of the Pennines, here it skirts along the side of a valley that holds the village of Stocksbridge. Even before the Bypass was opened on Friday the 13th 1988, it was clear that something strange was happening in this area. Local historians uncovered tales of a monk buried on unhallowed ground and speculate that the route of the Bypass disturbed his final resting place. This Monk is often spotted walking in the centre of the road or in the rear view mirrors of passing motorists – sometimes even sitting silently next to them in the passenger seat. Maintenance workers on the night shift also reported hearing children singing in the woods. Several more dressed in Medieval clothing were seen dancing around an electricity pylon.

I can see that pylon from my car. Directly in front of me is Pearoyd Bridge where two security guards encountered a cloaked, faceless man who disappeared when they shone their torches on him. The time is 11.42pm and it’s been five minutes since a vehicle passed. I’m beginning to regret coming here alone.

The incident that’s causing me the most concern regards the two Police officers sent to investigate the story told by the shaken security guards. They parked in this exact spot and at around midnight, one of them was surprised to see the torso of a man in Dickensian clothing pressed against his car window. Turning to tell his colleague, he saw that the same man was now standing next to the passenger window. The car was then rocked by a series of loud thumps which was enough to make them turn around and head for safety.

That’s exactly what I feel like doing. My car doesn’t feel comfortable anymore so I get out and climb the embankment. I’m trying not to think of the greyish figure with flying arms and legs who leapt over such an embankment and ran into the path of oncoming traffic in July 1990.

On the Bypass, ghost stories stain every landmark - each black field is a backdrop against which I expect to see something white and shimmery. When I reach the top of the embankment, I’m too scared to look back at the road. What I see in front of me then, is enough to take my breath away completely.

On the other side of the valley, one of Sheffield’s seven hills is a lump of blackness against the deep blue of the sky. The lights of Stocksbridge spread up its side, twinkling in an irregular pattern. The effect is like gently flowing lava or, more appropriately, molten steel with patches of bright light showing through the hardening surface. The city’s jewellery box is laid out before me and all thoughts of ghosts disappear in an instant.

It’s a reminder that no matter how unremarkable a place may seem - whether it’s the town you live in or the road you drive to work on, everywhere is steeped in rich history and folklore. If you take a little interest in this history and make time to explore your surroundings, your view of the place will be transformed. More often than not, you’ll also stumble across something unexpectedly beautiful.

Hometime

I leave work at 5.30pm and drive through the murky industrial side streets lined with derelict Victorian factories. I’d usually be smoking by now but I’m trying to cut down with a view to eventually stopping. In the last fortnight, I’ve halved my daily intake but my craving means that I’m obsessing about how many I’ve got left in my packet and how best to ration them so that they punctuate my day with the least amount of unpleasantness. On my journey home, I allow myself one – the Parkway Cigarette -– and each day I try to delay as long as possible before I smoke it to try and wean myself off gradually. I have the cigarette out and it’s in my mouth but unlit by the time I emerge from a side street and turn left onto the city’s ring road.

At the first set of traffic lights I notice that someone’s carved ‘CITY OF RACIST JERKS’ with a stone onto the concrete of the bridge opposite the Tesco Express. As graffiti, it seems a little half-hearted - there’s no swearing and it’s easy to rub off. It’s as if something has annoyed the writer enough for them to protest but they’re too nice and well-behaved to commit to anything that’s overly offensive or permanent. I wouldn’t be surprised if they sneak back in the dead of night to remove the words themselves.

I follow the ring-road towards the main route out of town. Billboards and commercial signs are everywhere on this section of the journey. At no point am I out of sight of some form of advertisement.

The second set of lights controls the traffic flow at a large crossroads. There are two lanes heading towards the Parkway and I’m in the first one. From the left, the road from Attercliffe cuts across at right angles and a red car has gone through on amber and got stuck at the end of a queue on the other side. When our lights turn green, the red car is still sideways on to the oncoming traffic, completely blocking off the second lane of the ring road. The driver has no option but to sit there until his queue moves.

I can imagine the look on the faces of the people he’s delaying, can imagine how awkward and stupid he must feel. I look at him as I get close; he’s a friendly looking Asian man with a huge moustache who’s smiling broadly as though he’s about to laugh. As I pass he gives the person in the car he’s blocking a little wave. I like his attitude, it cheers me up immensely - but I’m not in the lane he’s blocking.

At the third set of lights I’m about six cars from the front. A woman in smart business clothes waits at the side of the road, wondering if she’s got time to totter across four lanes in her high heels before the lights change. Someone in the near lane waves her on and she breaks into a sturry – a sort of half-jog that gives the impression of hurrying without any actual increase in speed. Of course, as soon as she left the pavement the lights do change and by the time she’s reached the third lane, the movement of the front cars has filtered back to where she is. Her handbag’s on her left shoulder and she’s holding onto the strap with her right arm which has forced the pocket of her jacket open. Something falls out into the road, it looks like an iPhone. She’s holding up the fourth lane now and, panicking, she gives the phone two sharp kicks sending it skidding across the tarmac. Only when she’s safely on the other pavement does she stoop to pick it up. With everyone watching, she puts the phone back into her pocket without checking the damage and walks away as if nothing embarrassing has happened.

More lights at the end of the slip-road to the Parkway – I always get stopped by these. My willpower crumbles and I light my cigarette. Fuck it.

The road here is elevated and by looking down the slope of the embankment I can see right into the ground floor of the office next to me. It’s brand new, there are no blinds or curtains yet. I’ve watched it’s construction over the last year - seen it climb floor by floor; speculated about whether or not it’s a helipad jutting awkwardly from the roof; seen the heavy machinery and men in luminous tabards steadily dwindle away; watched as desks, computers and finally people moved in.

Their working hours are different to mine and the people in the office have usually gone home by the time I get to the junction. There’s always one woman left behind though, isolated on the open plan floor. Does she work different hours to the rest of them? Maybe she has to drop her kids off at school in the morning or she’s in charge of an account based in a country with a different time zone. Or maybe she’s struggling in her job and needs to stay late to catch up with work. Then again, maybe she’s a workaholic and lives for the job. Maybe she’s just avoiding going home. Why?

The Parkway is a fast road, a dual carriageway with a national speed limit. There’s plenty of traffic but it’s generally moving at quite a pace – apart from Tuesdays; it always gets clogged up on Tuesdays and I have to take an alternative route.

I’m barrelling along in the outside lane to avoid the cars joining from a busy sliproad halfway along. Up ahead I can see that there’s a man standing in the central reservation. God knows how he’s got there, there’s no sign of a car with flashing hazards and to cross in the rush-hour would be suicidal.

There’s something at his feet, a brownish clump, a smear of red – some animal that’s been hit by a car and killed. I pass him as he bends to pick it up. From my rear view mirror I see that he’s stretched a red collar from the mass of fur and is looking at the tag.

I make it home in time for The Simpsons. The journey is nine miles long. I drive it every day.