COLOR ME DEAD
Inglewood, West 33rd Street. I was parked outside a neat little redbrick building out in the ‘burbs at the request of a broad named Talula Monsoon. She’d wiggled into my office that afternoon and given me the sort of smile that can loosen a belt at ten paces. Just a simple job she said, a routine stakeout. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that nothing’s routine in my line of work, especially when my fee’s agreed with no questions asked. That amount of dough is enough to buy my curiosity and besides, Talula’s got the kind of figure that makes it hard for a guy like me to refuse.
It can get awful lonely at 3am in a dark suburban street. That’s why I always bring a friend. His name’s Mr Daniels but when you know him as well as I do, you just call him Jack. He’s a good buddy, very easy to get along with. He always travels light but he can pack a hell of a punch just when you need it. Boy, I needed it then. I reached across to the glove box to bring him out for a chat. I was a little jumpy, there was something in the air that night.
That something turned out to be a slug from a ’38. It missed me but caught Jack right in the neck. He was bleeding liquor down my suit before I even realised what had happened. Two more bullets slammed into the bodywork of my sedan before I took the hint and got the hell out of there.
I only just made it. The guy with the itchy trigger finger was now out in the street and he sure was mad about something. Not as mad as my mechanic was going to be, with two more shots my back window was gone and my trunk suddenly had air conditioning. He fired again, wide this time, then turned and ran for his car.
I headed for the hills with the guy right behind me. The roads out there are windy and unlit but I floored the sedan and hoped for the best. When I’d put some distance between us, I rounded a blind bend, skidded the car to a halt and killed the lights. It was time to have a little talk with my angry friend. In situations like this, I always find it best to do my talking with a Colt semi-automatic.
When he came around the corner, my gun was in my hand and I was ready for him. I put three, quick rounds into the space between the headlights and hoped I’d caught the engine block. At least one of them must have hit home as the car swerved to the right and into a ditch. Then, silence.
I waited a while, the smoke from my cigarette mingling with the smoke from my gun. Nothing moved.
Ten minutes later and the sound of those damn crickets was driving me crazy. I crushed my fourth cigarette under my heel and went over to see the damage I’d done.
The engine was ruined. So was the driver. Clunk click, every trip – I guess he forgot that. When the car hit the ditch he’d popped out of his seat like a champagne cork, straight through the windscreen and into the field.
He was very dead.
He was lucky, it would have cost him a fortune in chiropractor bills to fix that nasty crick in his neck.
I pulled out a torch and turned him over with my boot. I recognised the face immediately, especially the mouth, the guy had more teeth than a Ferrari gear box. I’d seen it enough times leering at me out of the gloom and more often than not, that view had directly preceded a lengthy sleep and a trip to Hopewood Infirmary.
Grinning Mike McGee, a hired goon running with Hoagy Winston’s mob. But Hoagy Winston ran his outfit on the Southside, what the hell was he doing in Inglewood?
I had no idea what Talula Monsoon had gotten me into but one thing’s for sure, I was suddenly in a whole heap of trouble...
13 November 2009
09 August 2009
Manimals
When I first arrived in Sydney, I felt pretty detached from things. I was travelling alone, wasn’t used to the hostel lifestyle and was older and flabbier than most of the people I met there. Typically English, I also had an inherent distrust of ‘Johnny foreigner’ and struggled to adapt to my environment.
After a few nights, I tagged along on a hostel excursion to a nightclub and everything suddenly seemed to click into place. There were Britons, Australians, Germans, Canadians, Japanese - every nation you could think of in that club and their behaviour was very familiar. Drinking, dancing, pulling, predatory males and flirting females all revolving around each other and playing out the same scenes that I’d seen a thousand times before. I realised then that whatever nationality, we’re all essentially the same.
Nightclubs are great places to observe the basic instincts that drive human beings. Booze erodes the veneer of respectability and burrows down into the most basic part of our brain. The primal need to reproduce takes over and nightclubs serve as mating grounds. Sure, the mating rituals may be different, but they’re mating rituals just the same. Instead of growing colourful and elaborate plumage, we might wear a snazzy shirt. Instead of a sophisticated and technical mating dance, we’ll wiggle and strut to Beyonce. Instead of calling out into the darkness with a beautiful song we’ll smarm up to someone at the bar and hit them with our best chat-up line.
I remember being in a Leeds nighclub a few years ago - it must have been about the time The Blue Planet was on television because the dancefloor reminded me of something. There was a scene in the programme that showed thousands of sardines being hounded by a group of sharks. The sardines had been pushed up to the surface to prevent their escape and had then packed themselves into a tight mass for protection. This was called a baitball and the predators swam into it at speed and picked off the weaker fish or the ones that were too slow. The Leeds baitball was a hen-party dressed in tight pink T-shirts and mini-skirts. They were all dancing close together for protection as groups of men prowled their perimeter, pushing them further and further into the middle of the dancefloor so they couldn’t run to the bar. Occasionally a man would bolt into the jiggling mass of women, looking for a bite, picking off the gullible or the ones that were too drunk.
Another primal instinct is violence. When booze has cut through our human airs and graces, the less advanced elements of society tend to fight a lot. That’s pure hunter gatherer, caveman behaviour – the need to protect or display your strength or show power – even the music in nighclubs is almost tribal in its rhythmic pounding.
I saw similar behaviour in two red-deer stags during rutting season. Each of them was surrounded by their own group of hinds and they faced off in a feeding area split in two by a fence. On the left side of the fence was Harry, the mouthy one. He was the younger of the two and kept his harem of hinds close by, preventing them from wandering freely. Being the main aggressor, he was bellowing all the time, putting on a show of strength, trying to prove his worth. Cameron, on the right, was three years older and much more dignified. Being more secure, he didn’t feel the need to watch over his hinds so strictly and they wandered around freely looking a lot less scared than Harry’s. Cameron didn’t bluster quite so much although occasionally he had to react to Harry’s goading and put the young pretender in his place. The two would eyeball each other, walking side by side, backwards and forwards along the fence. Then one would turn away casually before spinning round with his head lowered to launch himself at the opponent.
These sorts of fights happen in nightclubs all the time. I half expected one of the hinds to grab their stag by the antler and shout tearfully: ‘Leave it Cameron, it’s not worth it!’
However developed and important we think we are, you just need to add a catalyst of lager or vodka and you’ll see that, despite national boundaries, we’re all the same species. Not only that, we’re all animals too. We have the same urges and the same drives – the same behaviour much of the time. The only real difference is that our brains are bigger and we’ve built up a more complex and sophisticated system with which to display our base instincts. We’re not quite as special or important as we often think ourselves to be.
After a few nights, I tagged along on a hostel excursion to a nightclub and everything suddenly seemed to click into place. There were Britons, Australians, Germans, Canadians, Japanese - every nation you could think of in that club and their behaviour was very familiar. Drinking, dancing, pulling, predatory males and flirting females all revolving around each other and playing out the same scenes that I’d seen a thousand times before. I realised then that whatever nationality, we’re all essentially the same.
Nightclubs are great places to observe the basic instincts that drive human beings. Booze erodes the veneer of respectability and burrows down into the most basic part of our brain. The primal need to reproduce takes over and nightclubs serve as mating grounds. Sure, the mating rituals may be different, but they’re mating rituals just the same. Instead of growing colourful and elaborate plumage, we might wear a snazzy shirt. Instead of a sophisticated and technical mating dance, we’ll wiggle and strut to Beyonce. Instead of calling out into the darkness with a beautiful song we’ll smarm up to someone at the bar and hit them with our best chat-up line.
I remember being in a Leeds nighclub a few years ago - it must have been about the time The Blue Planet was on television because the dancefloor reminded me of something. There was a scene in the programme that showed thousands of sardines being hounded by a group of sharks. The sardines had been pushed up to the surface to prevent their escape and had then packed themselves into a tight mass for protection. This was called a baitball and the predators swam into it at speed and picked off the weaker fish or the ones that were too slow. The Leeds baitball was a hen-party dressed in tight pink T-shirts and mini-skirts. They were all dancing close together for protection as groups of men prowled their perimeter, pushing them further and further into the middle of the dancefloor so they couldn’t run to the bar. Occasionally a man would bolt into the jiggling mass of women, looking for a bite, picking off the gullible or the ones that were too drunk.
Another primal instinct is violence. When booze has cut through our human airs and graces, the less advanced elements of society tend to fight a lot. That’s pure hunter gatherer, caveman behaviour – the need to protect or display your strength or show power – even the music in nighclubs is almost tribal in its rhythmic pounding.
I saw similar behaviour in two red-deer stags during rutting season. Each of them was surrounded by their own group of hinds and they faced off in a feeding area split in two by a fence. On the left side of the fence was Harry, the mouthy one. He was the younger of the two and kept his harem of hinds close by, preventing them from wandering freely. Being the main aggressor, he was bellowing all the time, putting on a show of strength, trying to prove his worth. Cameron, on the right, was three years older and much more dignified. Being more secure, he didn’t feel the need to watch over his hinds so strictly and they wandered around freely looking a lot less scared than Harry’s. Cameron didn’t bluster quite so much although occasionally he had to react to Harry’s goading and put the young pretender in his place. The two would eyeball each other, walking side by side, backwards and forwards along the fence. Then one would turn away casually before spinning round with his head lowered to launch himself at the opponent.
These sorts of fights happen in nightclubs all the time. I half expected one of the hinds to grab their stag by the antler and shout tearfully: ‘Leave it Cameron, it’s not worth it!’
However developed and important we think we are, you just need to add a catalyst of lager or vodka and you’ll see that, despite national boundaries, we’re all the same species. Not only that, we’re all animals too. We have the same urges and the same drives – the same behaviour much of the time. The only real difference is that our brains are bigger and we’ve built up a more complex and sophisticated system with which to display our base instincts. We’re not quite as special or important as we often think ourselves to be.
18 July 2009
The Road Clown
Driving home from work I was stopped by some traffic lights. A car pulled up next to me and in the back was a girl of perhaps 12 or 13. She looked directly at me and started laughing.
It wasn’t just an ordinary laugh, it was a hysterical laugh. She was also pointing. At me.
‘Fair enough,’ I thought, and waited, slightly awkwardly, for the lights to change. Further down the road, the car with the laughing girl in it overtook me. Then it slowed down again until it was level with mine – just so that the girl could have another laugh. She was now grabbing at the shoulders of the woman in the passenger seat, pointing me out to her like an exhibit at a Victorian freakshow.
It was that horrible, exaggerated sort of laugh that kids force when they’re trying deliberately to make someone feel really small. It reminded me of my school days when I was young and vulnerable and desperate to be like everyone else as opposed to how I am now - old and cynical and desperate not to be like everyone else. The feeling made me want to flick her the Vs on behalf of all the kids at her own school who’ve been on the receiving end of laughs like that. I didn’t though. Fortunately my skin’s thick enough to endure the ridicule of a teenage girl. Besides, the bloke who was driving looked quite big.
However, the incident did make me wonder what specifically she’d been laughing at. The obvious guess would be my car. I get a lot of laughs from people about my car. In a perverse way, I actually quite enjoy it as I think it says a lot more about them than it does me. It exposes them as being young or dumb or downright materialistic if they don’t understand the obvious benefits of having a car like mine.
I’m happy to give them a little amusement and let them feel all superior for a fleeting moment. It might enable them to temporarily justify to themselves the vast amount of money they’ve undoubtedly spent on their own vehicles. I have sympathy for them because the initial thrill of new ownership wears off pretty quickly and that big, expensive car soon becomes just another mundane part of everyday life, just another thing. The higher the price, the more worry that comes with it – scratches and dints; car parks in dodgy areas of town, alarms, security, waxing and polishing – all those extra considerations that eat up your time and are completely irrelevant when you drive a 1984 Toyota Starlet in hearing-aid beige. Yes, they can laugh if they want. They need all the fun they can get.
I didn’t get the impression that it was the car though, the girl seemed to be laughing specifically at me. I wasn’t singing – which is usually the reason – so it must have been something else. The hair? The beard? The sunglasses? The shirt?
I suppose it’s quite pathetic that the answer’s not obvious. Maybe it says a lot about my general appearance that she was probably spoilt for choice. Then again, maybe it says a lot about my ego that I couldn’t care less.
It wasn’t just an ordinary laugh, it was a hysterical laugh. She was also pointing. At me.
‘Fair enough,’ I thought, and waited, slightly awkwardly, for the lights to change. Further down the road, the car with the laughing girl in it overtook me. Then it slowed down again until it was level with mine – just so that the girl could have another laugh. She was now grabbing at the shoulders of the woman in the passenger seat, pointing me out to her like an exhibit at a Victorian freakshow.
It was that horrible, exaggerated sort of laugh that kids force when they’re trying deliberately to make someone feel really small. It reminded me of my school days when I was young and vulnerable and desperate to be like everyone else as opposed to how I am now - old and cynical and desperate not to be like everyone else. The feeling made me want to flick her the Vs on behalf of all the kids at her own school who’ve been on the receiving end of laughs like that. I didn’t though. Fortunately my skin’s thick enough to endure the ridicule of a teenage girl. Besides, the bloke who was driving looked quite big.
However, the incident did make me wonder what specifically she’d been laughing at. The obvious guess would be my car. I get a lot of laughs from people about my car. In a perverse way, I actually quite enjoy it as I think it says a lot more about them than it does me. It exposes them as being young or dumb or downright materialistic if they don’t understand the obvious benefits of having a car like mine.
I’m happy to give them a little amusement and let them feel all superior for a fleeting moment. It might enable them to temporarily justify to themselves the vast amount of money they’ve undoubtedly spent on their own vehicles. I have sympathy for them because the initial thrill of new ownership wears off pretty quickly and that big, expensive car soon becomes just another mundane part of everyday life, just another thing. The higher the price, the more worry that comes with it – scratches and dints; car parks in dodgy areas of town, alarms, security, waxing and polishing – all those extra considerations that eat up your time and are completely irrelevant when you drive a 1984 Toyota Starlet in hearing-aid beige. Yes, they can laugh if they want. They need all the fun they can get.
I didn’t get the impression that it was the car though, the girl seemed to be laughing specifically at me. I wasn’t singing – which is usually the reason – so it must have been something else. The hair? The beard? The sunglasses? The shirt?
I suppose it’s quite pathetic that the answer’s not obvious. Maybe it says a lot about my general appearance that she was probably spoilt for choice. Then again, maybe it says a lot about my ego that I couldn’t care less.
18 June 2009
Generic Journeying
After the safe landing comes uncertainty. Will your luggage have made the same journey you have? Will you stroll through security unhindered, despite the irrational guilty feeling in the pit of your stomach? Will passport control spot something suspicious in your documentation? Will they recognise you from your picture now that you’ve got a beard?
The taxi driver should be waiting for you at arrivals. He’ll be carrying a ragged piece of cardboard that has your name written on it. What will he be like? Will he be trustworthy? Does he have the sort of face that you could describe to the police? Will his features be the last thing you see before you lapse into unconsciousness and awake in a bath of ice, a gaping hole where your kidneys should be?
Once inside the taxi, you start to relax. He seems quite friendly. You try to show him that you’re not the typical British yob by engaging him in light, generic banter. The standard cab-conversation starter of: ‘are you busy tonight?’ is replaced with: ‘How do I say hello/thanks/yes/no/goodbye etc, etc.’ in the local language. The roads around the airport are packed with taxis, all of which contain identical exchanges.
Through his heavy accent you can’t understand a thing he says back to you but attempt to cover this up by laughing politely. Eventually you catch something about Britain so you spend ten minutes telling him how rotten it is. Now he laughs politely.
On the journey, you pass some of the sights and you allow yourself to start enjoying it. All that’s left to do is face the awkwardness of paying the driver in notes of too high a denomination; book into the hotel; dump your luggage and get out into your holiday.
Already you feel a pressing sense of urgency. Time’s tight, you don’t want to miss anything. Where’s the guidebook? Where’s the suncream? Where’s the camera? Where’s my wallet?
The taxi driver should be waiting for you at arrivals. He’ll be carrying a ragged piece of cardboard that has your name written on it. What will he be like? Will he be trustworthy? Does he have the sort of face that you could describe to the police? Will his features be the last thing you see before you lapse into unconsciousness and awake in a bath of ice, a gaping hole where your kidneys should be?
Once inside the taxi, you start to relax. He seems quite friendly. You try to show him that you’re not the typical British yob by engaging him in light, generic banter. The standard cab-conversation starter of: ‘are you busy tonight?’ is replaced with: ‘How do I say hello/thanks/yes/no/goodbye etc, etc.’ in the local language. The roads around the airport are packed with taxis, all of which contain identical exchanges.
Through his heavy accent you can’t understand a thing he says back to you but attempt to cover this up by laughing politely. Eventually you catch something about Britain so you spend ten minutes telling him how rotten it is. Now he laughs politely.
On the journey, you pass some of the sights and you allow yourself to start enjoying it. All that’s left to do is face the awkwardness of paying the driver in notes of too high a denomination; book into the hotel; dump your luggage and get out into your holiday.
Already you feel a pressing sense of urgency. Time’s tight, you don’t want to miss anything. Where’s the guidebook? Where’s the suncream? Where’s the camera? Where’s my wallet?
22 May 2009
Steen-rolling
There's so much to put about the expenses row that I told myself I wasn't going to say anything about it. I wouldn't know where to start and i'd only make myself angry. I won't comment. I won't, I won't, I won't.
Aaargh, can't leave it alone! This Anthony Steen character is just too good. His interview with Radio Four's World at One is perfect. Doesn't his voice alone make you want to punch him in the face?
My favourite bits were:
'Do you know what it's about? Jealousy. I've got a very, very large house. Some people say it looks like Balmoral.' An inspired way to get the public back on his side. Brilliant.
'We have a wretched Government here which has completely mucked up the system and caused the resignation of me and many others, because it was this Government that introduced the Freedom of Information Act and it is this Government that insisted on the things which caught me on the wrong foot.' That's right, it's entirely the fault of The Freedom Of Information Act because it allowed people to discover what he was up to. I'd like to be in a courtroom when a burglar tries that line of defence. 'It's entirely the Police's fault, your honour. They're the ones who caught me coming out of the window. If it hadn't been for them I wouldn't be here'.
'What right does the public have to interfere with my private life? None.' Fair point. After all, an Englishman's Castle is his... well, castle. We have no right to poke around in his private life. Oh, apart from the fact that OUR MONEY PAID FOR HIS FUCKING PRIVATE LIFE.
I know he's an easy target - the man's clearly an idiot. His life of privilege means that he's been able to sit in his mini-Balmoral (probably on a throne) safely detached from the realities that the rest of us mere proles have to face. Only that sort of a man would say: 'I don't know what the fuss is about,' and then be surprised that his constituents are 'absolutely beside themselves with anger'. Let's face it, only that sort of a man would name his daughter Xanthe. He's blundering through a world that he doesn't understand, relying on sheer arrogance to carry him through the shitstorm that's kicking off all around him.
Granted, the way he's been highlighted and blown up in the media does feel a little like bullying a disabled child or throwing rocks at a crippled donkey. I might even have some sort of sympathy for him if he hadn't been in a position of power and able to make important decisions that affect real people. That also goes for the rest of the politicians who are apparently suffering so much from stress and depression that a psychiatrist has been brought into the House of Commons to offer counselling. Aaaah, poor Politicians, all sad because they've been found out. Nasty public, mercilessly persecuting them just because they've been getting ripped off by the people they elected to speak for them. The politicians shouldn't have done it if they couldn't face the consequences. The cost of that psychiatrist had better not be coming out of our taxes. If it is, there'd better be free counselling for all the honest, hardworking families that are struggling to pay their mortgages and bills after losing their jobs. All those families that have been let down by the politicians who allowed the banks and big business to balls up their finances. All those families without a duck island or a moat or a second home to give them any comfort.
After Steen's interview, David Cameron said: 'One more squeak like that and he will have the whip taken away from him so fast his feet won't touch the ground.' I understand why he's angry about the comments; he's been working very hard to convince the voting public that he's a down-to-earth and practical everyman - the sort of tactic that worked so successfully for Tony Blair in 1997. Hell, he was even starting to win me over after taking quick decisive action over the expenses furore while Brown dithered and skulked, typically displaying as much leadership and dynamism as a kitten's fart.
But Sheen is exactly the sort of stereotypical Tory that Cameron's been trying so hard to make us forget about. The sort of moneyed, arrogant snob who thinks he's got a god-given right to do whatever he wants because he's firmly entrenched in the higher echelons of the establishment. The fact that people like him are still in the party should be a warning to everyone who's considering voting Conservative. I have this image of a pack of old-school Tories like Steen lurking in the shadows. No matter how genuine or sincere Cameron is, as soon as he gets elected, they'll all rush forward and take over again. Then we really will be up shit creek.
Aaargh, can't leave it alone! This Anthony Steen character is just too good. His interview with Radio Four's World at One is perfect. Doesn't his voice alone make you want to punch him in the face?
My favourite bits were:
'Do you know what it's about? Jealousy. I've got a very, very large house. Some people say it looks like Balmoral.' An inspired way to get the public back on his side. Brilliant.
'We have a wretched Government here which has completely mucked up the system and caused the resignation of me and many others, because it was this Government that introduced the Freedom of Information Act and it is this Government that insisted on the things which caught me on the wrong foot.' That's right, it's entirely the fault of The Freedom Of Information Act because it allowed people to discover what he was up to. I'd like to be in a courtroom when a burglar tries that line of defence. 'It's entirely the Police's fault, your honour. They're the ones who caught me coming out of the window. If it hadn't been for them I wouldn't be here'.
'What right does the public have to interfere with my private life? None.' Fair point. After all, an Englishman's Castle is his... well, castle. We have no right to poke around in his private life. Oh, apart from the fact that OUR MONEY PAID FOR HIS FUCKING PRIVATE LIFE.
I know he's an easy target - the man's clearly an idiot. His life of privilege means that he's been able to sit in his mini-Balmoral (probably on a throne) safely detached from the realities that the rest of us mere proles have to face. Only that sort of a man would say: 'I don't know what the fuss is about,' and then be surprised that his constituents are 'absolutely beside themselves with anger'. Let's face it, only that sort of a man would name his daughter Xanthe. He's blundering through a world that he doesn't understand, relying on sheer arrogance to carry him through the shitstorm that's kicking off all around him.
Granted, the way he's been highlighted and blown up in the media does feel a little like bullying a disabled child or throwing rocks at a crippled donkey. I might even have some sort of sympathy for him if he hadn't been in a position of power and able to make important decisions that affect real people. That also goes for the rest of the politicians who are apparently suffering so much from stress and depression that a psychiatrist has been brought into the House of Commons to offer counselling. Aaaah, poor Politicians, all sad because they've been found out. Nasty public, mercilessly persecuting them just because they've been getting ripped off by the people they elected to speak for them. The politicians shouldn't have done it if they couldn't face the consequences. The cost of that psychiatrist had better not be coming out of our taxes. If it is, there'd better be free counselling for all the honest, hardworking families that are struggling to pay their mortgages and bills after losing their jobs. All those families that have been let down by the politicians who allowed the banks and big business to balls up their finances. All those families without a duck island or a moat or a second home to give them any comfort.
After Steen's interview, David Cameron said: 'One more squeak like that and he will have the whip taken away from him so fast his feet won't touch the ground.' I understand why he's angry about the comments; he's been working very hard to convince the voting public that he's a down-to-earth and practical everyman - the sort of tactic that worked so successfully for Tony Blair in 1997. Hell, he was even starting to win me over after taking quick decisive action over the expenses furore while Brown dithered and skulked, typically displaying as much leadership and dynamism as a kitten's fart.
But Sheen is exactly the sort of stereotypical Tory that Cameron's been trying so hard to make us forget about. The sort of moneyed, arrogant snob who thinks he's got a god-given right to do whatever he wants because he's firmly entrenched in the higher echelons of the establishment. The fact that people like him are still in the party should be a warning to everyone who's considering voting Conservative. I have this image of a pack of old-school Tories like Steen lurking in the shadows. No matter how genuine or sincere Cameron is, as soon as he gets elected, they'll all rush forward and take over again. Then we really will be up shit creek.
21 May 2009
Supermarket Scenes
- Down the alleyway, next to the main entrance. a cluster of staff on their break. Their identical maroon and navy fleeces and the way they're huddled together makes them look like a sports team discussing tactics. You can hear their cackles and coughs as you pass. A cloud of smoke hangs over their heads.
- The security guard in the main entrance. He's tall and overweight and he's balding badly but has tried to hide this by getting a crew cut. He's bored so he browses through the newspapers on the carousel next to him holding his mobile phone, looking for competitions to enter.
- Several beenied students loitering in the runway behind the tills, getting in people's way. They're waiting for mates that are still going through the checkout and they congregate around the store notice board. Between their feet they have carrier bags filled with booze and blue and white packaged food. In their hands, pens and pads to write down details of second-hand white goods, special deals and part-time work.
- They've moved the sandwich spreads again. Every time I come they're somewhere different. I walk up and down the three most likely aisles, scanning the shelves. A couple of people glance at me when I say to myself 'Where the fuck is the tuna?' in a voice louder than I intended.
- At the checkout, there's social etiquette regarding the Next Customer Please blocks that separate people's shopping. It's good manners to put one behind your stuff when you've unpacked. Often, the person in front won't. They'll either stand with their back to you ignoring their responsibility or, more frequently, they'll have simply forgotten and will turn and say 'oh, sorry,' with a smile when you lean across their shopping to pick one up for yourself. Some people make a big show of it. They'll put their block down behind their beans or asparagus quite flamboyantly to make sure you notice how nice they are. They'll glance at you to make sure you've acknowledged this and if you catch their eye, you can see in their half-smile that they're proud to have done something considerate. Maybe they'll even use it as an excuse to start a conversation.
- There's a middle-aged man in front of me at the till. He's buying two tins of cat food and sixteen cans of own brand bitter - the sort where the alcohol content is the most prominent feature on the packaging. I interpret this as a horrible warning about my own future. He doesn't put a Next Customer Please block down behind his stuff.
- The shop assistant scanning my food. She's got short, jet black hair and wears a very stern expression. Without looking at me, she asks whether i've got a store card and whether i'm collecting vouchers. Her tone of voice reveals that she's asked these scripted questions a million times before and doesn't care what the answers are. As I pack up my shopping and take my card out of the machine, she turns to me and says 'hope you have a good weekend'. I don't think she's being ironic, the huge smile she gives me is so lovely that it must be genuine. As I leave the store i'm in a happier mood. An unexpected human gesture like that cheers me up far more than any roll-back offers or logos with smiley faces on.
- The security guard in the main entrance. He's tall and overweight and he's balding badly but has tried to hide this by getting a crew cut. He's bored so he browses through the newspapers on the carousel next to him holding his mobile phone, looking for competitions to enter.
- Several beenied students loitering in the runway behind the tills, getting in people's way. They're waiting for mates that are still going through the checkout and they congregate around the store notice board. Between their feet they have carrier bags filled with booze and blue and white packaged food. In their hands, pens and pads to write down details of second-hand white goods, special deals and part-time work.
- They've moved the sandwich spreads again. Every time I come they're somewhere different. I walk up and down the three most likely aisles, scanning the shelves. A couple of people glance at me when I say to myself 'Where the fuck is the tuna?' in a voice louder than I intended.
- At the checkout, there's social etiquette regarding the Next Customer Please blocks that separate people's shopping. It's good manners to put one behind your stuff when you've unpacked. Often, the person in front won't. They'll either stand with their back to you ignoring their responsibility or, more frequently, they'll have simply forgotten and will turn and say 'oh, sorry,' with a smile when you lean across their shopping to pick one up for yourself. Some people make a big show of it. They'll put their block down behind their beans or asparagus quite flamboyantly to make sure you notice how nice they are. They'll glance at you to make sure you've acknowledged this and if you catch their eye, you can see in their half-smile that they're proud to have done something considerate. Maybe they'll even use it as an excuse to start a conversation.
- There's a middle-aged man in front of me at the till. He's buying two tins of cat food and sixteen cans of own brand bitter - the sort where the alcohol content is the most prominent feature on the packaging. I interpret this as a horrible warning about my own future. He doesn't put a Next Customer Please block down behind his stuff.
- The shop assistant scanning my food. She's got short, jet black hair and wears a very stern expression. Without looking at me, she asks whether i've got a store card and whether i'm collecting vouchers. Her tone of voice reveals that she's asked these scripted questions a million times before and doesn't care what the answers are. As I pack up my shopping and take my card out of the machine, she turns to me and says 'hope you have a good weekend'. I don't think she's being ironic, the huge smile she gives me is so lovely that it must be genuine. As I leave the store i'm in a happier mood. An unexpected human gesture like that cheers me up far more than any roll-back offers or logos with smiley faces on.
15 May 2009
Eurosong Fever
I used to quite enjoy the Eurovision Song Contest. I used to research the acts and place bets with disbelieving bookmakers. I've even sat there alone in front of the telly with a couple bottles of red wine and a scorecard. In my defence however, the scoring criteria I used was very different from that of the judges. I was looking for songs that were ludicrous, backing singers/dancers that were dirty looking, skimpy clothing and a decent amount of overacting from the lead singer. The more wine I drank, the more generous the marks - tellingly, my highest rated acts were usually among the last five.
Granted, that sounds quite pathetic but what can I say? I'm just a very lonely person. At least Eurovision meant that for one saturday at least I was able to keep the black dog of despair from yapping around my ankles.
Not this year though - i've lost all enthusiasm for it.
The problem is that we seem to be taking it seriously which is completely missing the point.
Britain has produced and still produces some of the greatest music in the world. We may have lost the empire; we may be crap at football, cricket and any other sport that matters; we may be miserable, skint and hated by almost every other nation on earth but at least we can knock out a decent tune - we have that going for us. Traditionally, we were, to some extent, justified to feel all superior towards Johnny Foreigner and his quaint little attempts at producing music. Spearheading the sneering was Terry Wogan who was brilliant in his role as narrator - his commentary seemed to echo what we were all feeling about the event. But last year he became so disillusioned with the ridiculous thing that he quit. The gaping hole he left behind has been filled by an obligatory reality show build up and what appears to be a serious attempt to win.
The song we've entered is obviously trying to appeal to the to the broadest audience possible. By trying to please everyone however, you water things down and make them inoffensive and boring. The result is a bland and forgettable song whose only surprising element is how much rage it manages to induce in me. The singer's no better, she's one of those Leona Lewis/Pop Factor Alexandria type clones - completely generic and pointlessly oversinging every word. It's a sure sign of desperation when a singer's got to screech and warble and stretch notes beyond breaking point. If the tune wasn't so dull she wouldn't have to yodel around it. She ends up sounding as if she's in a field hospital, wailing as a medic digs shrapnel out of her leg without any anaesthetic.
By treating Eurovision seriously, we're belittling ourselves. We used to watch it thinking: 'Look at these idiots, do people actually listen to this dross in Liechtenstein/San Marino/Azerbaijan/Monrovia/wherever?'. Now, we're the idiots and unfortunately yes, we do listen to this dross in Britain these days.
But, being British, i'm used to being let down and disappointed. On holiday a few years ago in Spain, the only thing I could get on the hotel television was a European music channel. It sucked me in and, along with my friends - who were also music snobs - we became obsessed with a band that they seemed to play every fifteen minutes or so. The song was so awful, so utterly, painfully bad that it was unintentially hilarious and we were amused no end that the Spanish seemed to like it so much. How we laughed and sneered at them for their musical tastes. How we looked down our noses and dropped references to The Beatles and Radiohead into every conversation. Imagine my horror therefore, when I returned to England to find that the same band that we'd arrogantly ridiculed were number two in the UK charts. That band was Scooter.
Scooter.
I'll never understand how my countrymen could debase themselves so horribly.
For that reason, i've always been quite relieved when Britain finishes last in Eurovision. At least that shows that we're still a little bit detached from the mindless pap churned out in the name of Europop. I hope our song finishes last again this year. Mainly so that I won't have to hear the bastard thing on the radio all the time, but also because maybe then, the people who decide what our entries are going to be will finally admit that whatever song we submit, it won't make the slightest difference. Even when we give it our best shot, take it seriously and produce a record so bad that it might actually stand a chance of scoring some points, it's irrelevant. The voting is entirely political and we're never going to win because everyone hates us.
After this year, when this will be proved beyond all doubt, we might as well say 'fuck it' and do whatever we want. Because we're one of the few countries that actually pays for the contest, we always get an automatic place in the final so why not use this to our advantage? Get Morrissey or Thom Yorke to write something - someone with established talent and credibility so that when they come last it shows up what a sham the contest is. Either that or put something in that's patently ridiculous and takes the piss like the Irish turkey from last year who sadly didn't make it through to the final because Ireland had to go through an elimination round and none of the organisers have a sense of humour. if you're going to lose, might as well lose BIG, that's what I say.
The other option is to just withdraw altogether, taking our money with us. That'd be a shame though, it'd make us look like bad losers and that's one thing we certainly aren't. In fact, we've had so much practice i'd say that the people of Britain are the best losers in the world.
At least that's something to be proud of.
Granted, that sounds quite pathetic but what can I say? I'm just a very lonely person. At least Eurovision meant that for one saturday at least I was able to keep the black dog of despair from yapping around my ankles.
Not this year though - i've lost all enthusiasm for it.
The problem is that we seem to be taking it seriously which is completely missing the point.
Britain has produced and still produces some of the greatest music in the world. We may have lost the empire; we may be crap at football, cricket and any other sport that matters; we may be miserable, skint and hated by almost every other nation on earth but at least we can knock out a decent tune - we have that going for us. Traditionally, we were, to some extent, justified to feel all superior towards Johnny Foreigner and his quaint little attempts at producing music. Spearheading the sneering was Terry Wogan who was brilliant in his role as narrator - his commentary seemed to echo what we were all feeling about the event. But last year he became so disillusioned with the ridiculous thing that he quit. The gaping hole he left behind has been filled by an obligatory reality show build up and what appears to be a serious attempt to win.
The song we've entered is obviously trying to appeal to the to the broadest audience possible. By trying to please everyone however, you water things down and make them inoffensive and boring. The result is a bland and forgettable song whose only surprising element is how much rage it manages to induce in me. The singer's no better, she's one of those Leona Lewis/Pop Factor Alexandria type clones - completely generic and pointlessly oversinging every word. It's a sure sign of desperation when a singer's got to screech and warble and stretch notes beyond breaking point. If the tune wasn't so dull she wouldn't have to yodel around it. She ends up sounding as if she's in a field hospital, wailing as a medic digs shrapnel out of her leg without any anaesthetic.
By treating Eurovision seriously, we're belittling ourselves. We used to watch it thinking: 'Look at these idiots, do people actually listen to this dross in Liechtenstein/San Marino/Azerbaijan/Monrovia/wherever?'. Now, we're the idiots and unfortunately yes, we do listen to this dross in Britain these days.
But, being British, i'm used to being let down and disappointed. On holiday a few years ago in Spain, the only thing I could get on the hotel television was a European music channel. It sucked me in and, along with my friends - who were also music snobs - we became obsessed with a band that they seemed to play every fifteen minutes or so. The song was so awful, so utterly, painfully bad that it was unintentially hilarious and we were amused no end that the Spanish seemed to like it so much. How we laughed and sneered at them for their musical tastes. How we looked down our noses and dropped references to The Beatles and Radiohead into every conversation. Imagine my horror therefore, when I returned to England to find that the same band that we'd arrogantly ridiculed were number two in the UK charts. That band was Scooter.
Scooter.
I'll never understand how my countrymen could debase themselves so horribly.
For that reason, i've always been quite relieved when Britain finishes last in Eurovision. At least that shows that we're still a little bit detached from the mindless pap churned out in the name of Europop. I hope our song finishes last again this year. Mainly so that I won't have to hear the bastard thing on the radio all the time, but also because maybe then, the people who decide what our entries are going to be will finally admit that whatever song we submit, it won't make the slightest difference. Even when we give it our best shot, take it seriously and produce a record so bad that it might actually stand a chance of scoring some points, it's irrelevant. The voting is entirely political and we're never going to win because everyone hates us.
After this year, when this will be proved beyond all doubt, we might as well say 'fuck it' and do whatever we want. Because we're one of the few countries that actually pays for the contest, we always get an automatic place in the final so why not use this to our advantage? Get Morrissey or Thom Yorke to write something - someone with established talent and credibility so that when they come last it shows up what a sham the contest is. Either that or put something in that's patently ridiculous and takes the piss like the Irish turkey from last year who sadly didn't make it through to the final because Ireland had to go through an elimination round and none of the organisers have a sense of humour. if you're going to lose, might as well lose BIG, that's what I say.
The other option is to just withdraw altogether, taking our money with us. That'd be a shame though, it'd make us look like bad losers and that's one thing we certainly aren't. In fact, we've had so much practice i'd say that the people of Britain are the best losers in the world.
At least that's something to be proud of.
14 May 2009
Burlesque Stage Names
Talula Fondue
Twinkie DeLuxe
Angel Fatale
Starlight Parfait
Ambrosia Divine
Fifi McPlenty
Almond Monsoon
Honeydew Satin
Samphire L'amour
Coco Supreme
Scrunty O'Toole
Diva Fontaine
Cupcake Fandango
Melody Crumpet
With a cowgirl theme:
Minxy Alabama
Yeeha Sparkles
Sally Sidesaddle
Dallas Bandana
Amber Rider
Kentucky McSwoon
Tamara Stetson
Delilah Udderful
More riské:
Wanda Pheromone
Labia Hottentot
Pendula Mindfuck
Chastity Buxom
Felicity Gleestick
Akimbo DeFleur
Trixie Flagranté
Remedy Fettlewell
Twinkie DeLuxe
Angel Fatale
Starlight Parfait
Ambrosia Divine
Fifi McPlenty
Almond Monsoon
Honeydew Satin
Samphire L'amour
Coco Supreme
Scrunty O'Toole
Diva Fontaine
Cupcake Fandango
Melody Crumpet
With a cowgirl theme:
Minxy Alabama
Yeeha Sparkles
Sally Sidesaddle
Dallas Bandana
Amber Rider
Kentucky McSwoon
Tamara Stetson
Delilah Udderful
More riské:
Wanda Pheromone
Labia Hottentot
Pendula Mindfuck
Chastity Buxom
Felicity Gleestick
Akimbo DeFleur
Trixie Flagranté
Remedy Fettlewell
11 April 2009
Competition Time
I presume everyone’s seen this by now? The challenge is to come up with something to justify how the police behaved - I don’t think it’s possible.
Disregard the other unconfirmed elements of the case – the reports that Ian Tomlinson had already been attacked with batons in a neighbouring street; that he had nothing to do with the demonstration the police were there to suppress; that the police officer hit him with a baton before the shove; that he died 10 minutes later from a heart attack – forget all that, just focus on what is actually visible in the clip itself.
I’ve heard the following spurious excuses already:
1. Tomlinson was drunk.
2. He was deliberately pissing the police off by walking slowly.
3. It was high spirits - the police were ‘psyched up’ and ready to face an angry mob.
4. Tomlinson was a protester and had been causing trouble moments before.
5. He was muttering insults and goading them under his breath.
None of these count, they’re all completely irrelevant. If Tomlinson was drunk, so what? If he was walking slowly just to annoy the police, aren’t they professional enough to deal with it in a civilised manner? Who cares if they were ‘psyched up’ - football fans get ‘psyched up’, nightclub bouncers get ‘psyched up’ – does that give them the free-reign to beat up anyone they want? Even if Tomlinson had been a protester; even if he’d been witnessed lobbing a brick at a squad car and was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘fuck the police’; even if he’d called the officer’s mother a rabid whore – it still doesn’t justify how he was treated.
You might try and formulate some kind of argument based on ‘reasonable force’ but that would also be bollocks. Reasonable force, as defined by the Crown Prosecution Service, means that you can only use ‘such force as is reasonable in the circumstances’. That means it’s got to be proportionate to the threat. If a police officer is in danger of being attacked or killed, they can use whatever means available to defend themselves. An unarmed man walking slowly with his hands in pockets – how much of a threat was he to a police officer dressed in full riot gear? Enough of a threat to approach him from behind and shove him so hard that he’s knocked off his feet and falls face first to the pavement?
It’s worrying that if he hadn’t had a heart attack minutes later, we might not have heard about this. It also makes you wonder how many other similar incidents happen – incidents behind the locked doors of cells or on streets where there isn’t an American fund manager recording things on his phone. But it is encouraging that the footage has generated as much interest as it has and that people seem to be genuinely outraged.
Therefore, for the good of our country, I hope that nobody manages to come up with an excuse that justifies the police officer’s behaviour. If someone does and people accept it, it’ll be a sure sign that our democratic and civilised society really is falling apart. If we start fearing the police and allowing them to wield their power indiscriminately, it’s only a short step to outright oppression and abuse. Then we’ll lose the liberty and freedom of speech that enables us to complain about things like this in the first place.
Disregard the other unconfirmed elements of the case – the reports that Ian Tomlinson had already been attacked with batons in a neighbouring street; that he had nothing to do with the demonstration the police were there to suppress; that the police officer hit him with a baton before the shove; that he died 10 minutes later from a heart attack – forget all that, just focus on what is actually visible in the clip itself.
I’ve heard the following spurious excuses already:
1. Tomlinson was drunk.
2. He was deliberately pissing the police off by walking slowly.
3. It was high spirits - the police were ‘psyched up’ and ready to face an angry mob.
4. Tomlinson was a protester and had been causing trouble moments before.
5. He was muttering insults and goading them under his breath.
None of these count, they’re all completely irrelevant. If Tomlinson was drunk, so what? If he was walking slowly just to annoy the police, aren’t they professional enough to deal with it in a civilised manner? Who cares if they were ‘psyched up’ - football fans get ‘psyched up’, nightclub bouncers get ‘psyched up’ – does that give them the free-reign to beat up anyone they want? Even if Tomlinson had been a protester; even if he’d been witnessed lobbing a brick at a squad car and was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘fuck the police’; even if he’d called the officer’s mother a rabid whore – it still doesn’t justify how he was treated.
You might try and formulate some kind of argument based on ‘reasonable force’ but that would also be bollocks. Reasonable force, as defined by the Crown Prosecution Service, means that you can only use ‘such force as is reasonable in the circumstances’. That means it’s got to be proportionate to the threat. If a police officer is in danger of being attacked or killed, they can use whatever means available to defend themselves. An unarmed man walking slowly with his hands in pockets – how much of a threat was he to a police officer dressed in full riot gear? Enough of a threat to approach him from behind and shove him so hard that he’s knocked off his feet and falls face first to the pavement?
It’s worrying that if he hadn’t had a heart attack minutes later, we might not have heard about this. It also makes you wonder how many other similar incidents happen – incidents behind the locked doors of cells or on streets where there isn’t an American fund manager recording things on his phone. But it is encouraging that the footage has generated as much interest as it has and that people seem to be genuinely outraged.
Therefore, for the good of our country, I hope that nobody manages to come up with an excuse that justifies the police officer’s behaviour. If someone does and people accept it, it’ll be a sure sign that our democratic and civilised society really is falling apart. If we start fearing the police and allowing them to wield their power indiscriminately, it’s only a short step to outright oppression and abuse. Then we’ll lose the liberty and freedom of speech that enables us to complain about things like this in the first place.
03 April 2009
Rela-a-ax
There was a famous television advert for British Rail in the late ‘80s. Shot in luxuriant, deep hues, the camera moved through a spacious train as trees and fields sped past the window. A singer with a chocolaty voice lazily drawled over the top:
Any time you choose, kick off your shoes (on the floor of a carriage, the heel of a discarded stiletto curls up cosily over the rest of the shoe),
Rest your weary eyes and catch up with the news,
A favourite book will be the perfect company (a penguin on a book cover stretches and leans back against the oval of its logo),
Rela-a-ax.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine (an old man and a young boy are playing chess – a couple of the pieces stretch and yawn),
Leave your cares and worries far behind,
Loosen up your tie, let the world speed by (a businessman’s polished shoes turn into comfy slippers),
Rela-a-ax.
It looked ace. Who in their right minds would want to drive when trains are like that?
However, that ad is twenty years old. I think it might need updating. Here’s the journey I took on Sunday – if any marketing executives are reading, they’re welcome to use it in one of their campaigns.
Exeter to Sheffield. A direct train departing at 4:38pm, arriving at 9:19pm. It was long journey but I had a seat reserved, I had my book – the perfect company – I could even have a bit of a nap. Four and a half hours isn’t so long when you’re able to rela-a-ax.
However, Exeter St. David’s was utter bedlam. A train had been cancelled. Inevitably, that train was mine.
I’d no idea why it was cancelled, nobody did, not even the staff. Nobody even knew if there would be a replacement arriving any time soon. I asked a nice, smiley lady at the counter but apparently her sunny disposition was the only skill she brought to her role, as she was useless at anything else.
‘Oh, the Leeds trains have been arriving every so often. I don’t know why this one has been cancelled.’
‘Is there likely to be another one setting off soon?’
‘There might be. It could be a few minutes, it could be several hours – I hope not though!’ she beamed.
So do I. Bitch.
A swarm of disgruntled customers was buzzing round a harassed man in a luminous tabard. He was telling them to get the train to Paddington then change at Reading to get a connection northwards. The Paddington train left in two minutes so we all rushed to Platform 3 and wedged ourselves inside the carriages like veal calves.
The train then stood there for 45 minutes while a driver arrived from Bristol. It was a scheduled service, what the fuck was he doing in Bristol? Other trains came and went – including another Paddington train that left from the platform opposite and was practically empty – and the man in the tabard was now overheard telling people to change at Taunton, which added some confusion to break the monotony.
Once the journey was underway, a heavily accented driver told us over the speaker in hushed tones – as if it was a secret – that all passengers from the cancelled Leeds train should get off this one at Taunton and catch the one behind that would take us north.
OK then.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind ours and was due to terminate at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind and terminated at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
There was a Leeds train due in 45 minutes later – should I chance that one instead? Was it running on time? Would it even pass through Sheffield? There was one single staff member at the station sat behind a wall of plexiglas at the end of an enormous queue, nobody else at all – not even a bloke in a tabard giving out conflicting advice on a whim.
Playing it safe, I got the Birmingham train. It took three hours.
Three hours sat next to the obligatory youth with the ‘shhht, shhht, shhht’ of dance music blaring out of his earphones.
Three hours of avoiding the mad, drunk woman with a booming voice and savage looking dog, who talked at anyone who paid her the slightest bit of attention. I had to duck down to try and avoid eye contact whenever she zigzagged up the aisle.
It wasn’t very rela-a-axing. Nor was there much opportunity to rest my weary eyes and catch up with the news, as I had to keep on full alert for further announcements over the tannoy. At Bristol, for example, they calmly told us that the train would be splitting in two and the back half would be staying behind. They told us this just as they shut the doors and we were about to pull away. Mercifully, I was in one of the front carriages, but that was pure luck. Passengers getting on here were also told that their seat reservations no longer applied due to a ‘mess up’.
Birmingham. We were late arriving so I missed my connection to Sheffield and had to wait an hour there.
Never mind, rela-a-ax.
I smoked a cigarette. I had to walk about half a kilometre away from the station before I found an area that wasn’t plastered with No Smoking signs.
I went to the loo. It cost 30p.
I asked for a complaint form at the information desk. They’d run out.
I bought a sandwich from a shop at the station. Station shops are just like normal shops except that everything they sell is 50% more expensive.
I tried to discard my rubbish responsibly. Bins are banned at stations now – they’re too much of a terrorist threat. I walked around the building until I found some huge, smelly wheelie bins tucked away round the back. They all had locks on them.
Astoundingly, the train to Sheffield arrived on time. Presumably, its last stop had been somewhere in the 19th century as it was the slowest train I’ve ever travelled on. I don’t say that lightly. In the past I’ve travelled across the vast open plain of nothingness between Adelaide and Perth. A journey where the horizon is empty enough to see the curvature of the earth and, because the temperature is so hot, the tracks are almost at melting point and the train must go at snail’s pace so as not to buckle them. I’ve also travelled in rural Thailand where you keep your bags buckled to yourself to avoid the hawkers and thieves and the train is followed by packs of stray dogs because the toilet is an open hole in the floor emptying straight onto the tracks.
At least the Thailand train had a toilet. The Sheffield one didn’t, it was out of order. This didn’t stop the interesting smell from permeating through the whole carriage, though. Maybe that 30p was worth it after all.
The mad, drunk woman with the dog was still haunting me, so I headed straight for the ‘Quiet Zone’ without realising that this is the carriage where everyone goes to use their mobile phones. I sat fuming for another two hours, mentally playing out the conversation I’d have with the conductor when he questioned my ticket. Unfortunately, I was even denied the pleasure of a decent argument, he just snipped it without comment.
By the time we pulled into Sheffield at nearly midnight, my carriage looked as though it was carrying refugees back from a war zone. In the same time and for the same price, I could have flown to New York.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine
Leave your cares and worries far behind
That advert seems so out of date now doesn’t it?
I’ve got a new concept. How about a boardroom full of fat, greasy, capitalist fat-cats with jagged teeth, black rimmed eyes and stained suits? They’re talking about how to improve the rail ‘service’, discussing what they can get away with charging, how much the public will take before they finally crack.
‘30p for using the bog.’
‘No, Laurence, are you mad – they’ll never swallow that!’
‘Of course they will Geoffrey, what other choice do they have? Take away their bins as well – that’ll teach them, bunch of ignorant proles. Mwaaah-haa-haa!’
‘Martin, another cognac, pronto.’
The fat-cats then pass their scheme to a group of marketeers with sharp suits, gelled hair and shiny skin. They spin and mould the idea into something that sounds vaguely rational and acceptable before giving it to the monkeys to implement. These monkeys have glazed eyes and a bewildered expression. They’re just like the flying ones from The Wizard of Oz except they’re wearing name-badges and corporate waistcoats. They don’t have a clue what’s happening outside of their narrow little tunnel of existence and it doesn’t even interest them – they’ve got their job to do and nothing else matters.
If they put the prices up again – and they’re bound to soon, it’s been a couple of months since the last increase – I’m going to save up and buy a helicopter. It’ll be a lot cheaper and a damn site less stressful.
Any time you choose, kick off your shoes (on the floor of a carriage, the heel of a discarded stiletto curls up cosily over the rest of the shoe),
Rest your weary eyes and catch up with the news,
A favourite book will be the perfect company (a penguin on a book cover stretches and leans back against the oval of its logo),
Rela-a-ax.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine (an old man and a young boy are playing chess – a couple of the pieces stretch and yawn),
Leave your cares and worries far behind,
Loosen up your tie, let the world speed by (a businessman’s polished shoes turn into comfy slippers),
Rela-a-ax.
It looked ace. Who in their right minds would want to drive when trains are like that?
However, that ad is twenty years old. I think it might need updating. Here’s the journey I took on Sunday – if any marketing executives are reading, they’re welcome to use it in one of their campaigns.
Exeter to Sheffield. A direct train departing at 4:38pm, arriving at 9:19pm. It was long journey but I had a seat reserved, I had my book – the perfect company – I could even have a bit of a nap. Four and a half hours isn’t so long when you’re able to rela-a-ax.
However, Exeter St. David’s was utter bedlam. A train had been cancelled. Inevitably, that train was mine.
I’d no idea why it was cancelled, nobody did, not even the staff. Nobody even knew if there would be a replacement arriving any time soon. I asked a nice, smiley lady at the counter but apparently her sunny disposition was the only skill she brought to her role, as she was useless at anything else.
‘Oh, the Leeds trains have been arriving every so often. I don’t know why this one has been cancelled.’
‘Is there likely to be another one setting off soon?’
‘There might be. It could be a few minutes, it could be several hours – I hope not though!’ she beamed.
So do I. Bitch.
A swarm of disgruntled customers was buzzing round a harassed man in a luminous tabard. He was telling them to get the train to Paddington then change at Reading to get a connection northwards. The Paddington train left in two minutes so we all rushed to Platform 3 and wedged ourselves inside the carriages like veal calves.
The train then stood there for 45 minutes while a driver arrived from Bristol. It was a scheduled service, what the fuck was he doing in Bristol? Other trains came and went – including another Paddington train that left from the platform opposite and was practically empty – and the man in the tabard was now overheard telling people to change at Taunton, which added some confusion to break the monotony.
Once the journey was underway, a heavily accented driver told us over the speaker in hushed tones – as if it was a secret – that all passengers from the cancelled Leeds train should get off this one at Taunton and catch the one behind that would take us north.
OK then.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind ours and was due to terminate at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind and terminated at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
There was a Leeds train due in 45 minutes later – should I chance that one instead? Was it running on time? Would it even pass through Sheffield? There was one single staff member at the station sat behind a wall of plexiglas at the end of an enormous queue, nobody else at all – not even a bloke in a tabard giving out conflicting advice on a whim.
Playing it safe, I got the Birmingham train. It took three hours.
Three hours sat next to the obligatory youth with the ‘shhht, shhht, shhht’ of dance music blaring out of his earphones.
Three hours of avoiding the mad, drunk woman with a booming voice and savage looking dog, who talked at anyone who paid her the slightest bit of attention. I had to duck down to try and avoid eye contact whenever she zigzagged up the aisle.
It wasn’t very rela-a-axing. Nor was there much opportunity to rest my weary eyes and catch up with the news, as I had to keep on full alert for further announcements over the tannoy. At Bristol, for example, they calmly told us that the train would be splitting in two and the back half would be staying behind. They told us this just as they shut the doors and we were about to pull away. Mercifully, I was in one of the front carriages, but that was pure luck. Passengers getting on here were also told that their seat reservations no longer applied due to a ‘mess up’.
Birmingham. We were late arriving so I missed my connection to Sheffield and had to wait an hour there.
Never mind, rela-a-ax.
I smoked a cigarette. I had to walk about half a kilometre away from the station before I found an area that wasn’t plastered with No Smoking signs.
I went to the loo. It cost 30p.
I asked for a complaint form at the information desk. They’d run out.
I bought a sandwich from a shop at the station. Station shops are just like normal shops except that everything they sell is 50% more expensive.
I tried to discard my rubbish responsibly. Bins are banned at stations now – they’re too much of a terrorist threat. I walked around the building until I found some huge, smelly wheelie bins tucked away round the back. They all had locks on them.
Astoundingly, the train to Sheffield arrived on time. Presumably, its last stop had been somewhere in the 19th century as it was the slowest train I’ve ever travelled on. I don’t say that lightly. In the past I’ve travelled across the vast open plain of nothingness between Adelaide and Perth. A journey where the horizon is empty enough to see the curvature of the earth and, because the temperature is so hot, the tracks are almost at melting point and the train must go at snail’s pace so as not to buckle them. I’ve also travelled in rural Thailand where you keep your bags buckled to yourself to avoid the hawkers and thieves and the train is followed by packs of stray dogs because the toilet is an open hole in the floor emptying straight onto the tracks.
At least the Thailand train had a toilet. The Sheffield one didn’t, it was out of order. This didn’t stop the interesting smell from permeating through the whole carriage, though. Maybe that 30p was worth it after all.
The mad, drunk woman with the dog was still haunting me, so I headed straight for the ‘Quiet Zone’ without realising that this is the carriage where everyone goes to use their mobile phones. I sat fuming for another two hours, mentally playing out the conversation I’d have with the conductor when he questioned my ticket. Unfortunately, I was even denied the pleasure of a decent argument, he just snipped it without comment.
By the time we pulled into Sheffield at nearly midnight, my carriage looked as though it was carrying refugees back from a war zone. In the same time and for the same price, I could have flown to New York.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine
Leave your cares and worries far behind
That advert seems so out of date now doesn’t it?
I’ve got a new concept. How about a boardroom full of fat, greasy, capitalist fat-cats with jagged teeth, black rimmed eyes and stained suits? They’re talking about how to improve the rail ‘service’, discussing what they can get away with charging, how much the public will take before they finally crack.
‘30p for using the bog.’
‘No, Laurence, are you mad – they’ll never swallow that!’
‘Of course they will Geoffrey, what other choice do they have? Take away their bins as well – that’ll teach them, bunch of ignorant proles. Mwaaah-haa-haa!’
‘Martin, another cognac, pronto.’
The fat-cats then pass their scheme to a group of marketeers with sharp suits, gelled hair and shiny skin. They spin and mould the idea into something that sounds vaguely rational and acceptable before giving it to the monkeys to implement. These monkeys have glazed eyes and a bewildered expression. They’re just like the flying ones from The Wizard of Oz except they’re wearing name-badges and corporate waistcoats. They don’t have a clue what’s happening outside of their narrow little tunnel of existence and it doesn’t even interest them – they’ve got their job to do and nothing else matters.
If they put the prices up again – and they’re bound to soon, it’s been a couple of months since the last increase – I’m going to save up and buy a helicopter. It’ll be a lot cheaper and a damn site less stressful.
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