Awful Awful Trains

I used to work in Customer Services for a Train Operating Company, so I am aware of the work that goes into the train networks and the customer services framework around it. Having read probably 10,000 complaint letters I am aware how much public transports issues irk some people, and that’s part of the reason why I rarely complain about the trains – a good majority of the time, they work OK. Quite simply if I had an appointment I couldn’t miss I’d get the earlier train that is necessary to ensure I arrived on time. I read some cracking complaint letters over the years, and some really shit ones too. I learnt that people tend to whinge about a variety of things, from the painstaking obviously, to the bizarre and wonderful. Lack of seats is one of the is near the top of most peoples list of gripes, however some people will moan about literally anything; a lack of soap in the dispenser on 08:05 Tonbridge to London Bridge service for example, or better still I’ve heard and read complaints that the guard was too cheerful when speaking over the tannoy; there really is no pleasing some people. I never complain to the train companies when something goes wrong simply because having written back to these types of letters I know exactly what my response will contain; a half-arsed self-serving apology, a standard explanation paragraph, and a commitment to perform more satisfactorily in whatever area in the future. So I thought I’d write something for the blog instead, and touch on some of the issues that have affected me on my commute recently.

Seating is clearly an issue; I don’t even think the majority of the Train Operating Companies (TOC’s) would deny that, so it’s a good starting point. Invariably, at peak times there’s not always seat for you. It’s not the end of the world. But then Hitler’s occupation of most of Europe wasn’t the end of the world in a literal sense either, but it was, like the state of our public transport, pretty fucking bad. And so we are forced to stand. I wanted to write “packed in like cattle” but I have a big issue with this particular metaphor, its a pretentious, self-righteous, over the top thing to say, and I always reckoned that the people who wrote this in their complaints were big and fat, and had udders for breasts. Ridiculous assumption perhaps, but no-one can prove me wrong at this point, so it’s staying in. Also usually, I imagine cows are only really carried in large numbers “packed in like cattle” when they are being moved to an abattoir. A journey to Lewisham these days can be a bit dodgy, but 8 times out of 10 it won’t lead to a lethal bolt through the back of your skull, killing you instantly, although I would reserve this punishment for those people who see fit to reference our bovine friends in their poorly written letters. Back to the matter at hand, people lack the common sense to move down the carriage and stand in the aisles, for a reason unbeknownst to me and so regularly my 400 fellow commuters and I find ourselves standing, one arm raised to steady ourselves on what feels like a rollercoaster ride through Hell, in an area no bigger than a chess square. This unique positioning that we momentarily share has the knock on effect of putting faces IN armpits. The sheer volume of bodies, and raised arms creates an effect which is not recreated anywhere else in nature OR in science. Perhaps it’s the electricity from the tracks, creating some sort of polarity, but as soon as the journey beings the space between ones chest and arm becomes magnetised; much like the safety harness mechanically lowering and clipping down like at Alton Towers, our faces are pulled into our neighbours arm pit, and so it becomes a physical impossibility to remove your cranium from the personal space of your new neighbour. Obviously when I paid £380 this month for a set of thirty ninety minute journeys the train company concerned didn’t tell me about this added extra, but surprisingly it’s a welcome addition: Holding back a gut full of vomit, induced by having my nose 1mm away from an overweight, underdressed commuters sweat gland in the heat of the summer, for an hour took my mind off the fact I couldn’t get a seat, so perhaps it’s not all so bad.

On some days you will make it into a carriage, and see one last seat. A gleaming beacon among the dull grey faces, traipsing their sorry selves to their place of work for another 8 damned hours of whatever it is the people in suits, with grey faces do. The spare seat calls out to you. You want that seat, but so does the other 200 people who just piled in. It’s a difficult call, politeness, or a desire for comfort. I can tell you now I will kill your grandmother, and perhaps even my own for that seat, so don’t test me. I couldn’t give a fuck if you are pregnant, I will drag you off the seat by your hair, to avoid the armpit thing again. Oh god I hate those grey faces though. Their conformity, mixed with their aura of sadness is oppressive; I can feel it dead-arming my soul like playful newly pubescent school boys. Perhaps I should have stayed over there by the door after all.

Considering most TOC’s have a monopoly over realistic travel options in their local areas, you might hope that the tickets would be reasonably priced. I use the price of Space Raider crisps to judge the relative state of our economy. Not only are they a delicious wheaty snack, with a hilarious joke on each packet, but they also serve as a barometer for the work of our chancellor and the state of our national finances. I’m sure the more astute of my readers will be aware, Space Raiders are no longer 10p. (That’s a joke in itself, but I’ll save that for another rant/blog.) Based on the price of my favourite snack, I know that things are going to have a slightly inflated price. That’s fine, I am grown up enough to understand inflation is rising quite fast, and that the rate of pay across the country as a whole is not rising at nearly the same rate. Five thousand pound sterling however, is a considerable sum of money however you consider it. You could actually purchase 33,333 packets of Space Raiders for the price of my cramped journeys, where I’m regularly spoken to like detritus by an oaf in a poorly fitting, poorly made suit, who apparently works on behalf of the shysters providing this “service”,  Saffron is supposed to be one of the most expensive items, for its weight, in the world. That’s incorrect. I have it from a good authority that it is infact the paper my ticket is printed on. I surely haven’t swapped 33,333 delicious snacks to stand, head in armpit, in stifling hot conditions, which I am pretty sure will be a direct factor in me taking a knife to work and either killing myself, or a fellow commuter, just outside London Bridge; where we would most likely be sitting stationary “due to congestion” Congestion, you fucking pricks? You made the timetable, make sure it works properly, no?

I do understand that delays are inevitable to an extent. There is a massive amount of rail infrastructure across the country and much like our roads, this needs regular repair and maintenance. That doesn’t stop the delays ruining my morning/day/week/life. Time spent stationary just outside London Bridge, or any station for that matter, can be useful for reflection at least. For the first 15/20 minutes of any delay I am a little put out, but understanding. I often consider the polarity issue discussed earlier, other times I play a fun game with myself called “holding my breath till I nearly pass out”, and sometimes to put it simply I scan the carriage for low cut tops and camel toes, obviously the bigger and more obvious the better – on both counts. (Don’t judge me, you’ve all done it.) However, as soon as I am left in a state of solitary reflection for 30 minutes upwards , it becomes all too evident that my life is shit (for a number of varied reasons – and yes the fact I am scanning this carriage for camel toes is one of them). My idle brain becomes filled with interesting and inventive ideas on how I can end my miserable existence on this planet. I have decided that when my shit job/house/friends combo becomes too much, I will be committing the despicably cowardly deed on a train. Had I not been sat stationary due to allowing a freight train through at Hither Green for fourteen consecutive mornings, I would never even have considered performing an emergency tracheotomy on myself with a blunt table knife, and then pouring a mixture of gravel, sand and ketamin into the now gaping lesion in my Adams apple. Were it not for the broken down train in the tunnel at Sevenoaks, I doubt I would have been led to plan my demise; by injecting a potent mixture of strawberry jam and peanut butter directly into my pituitary gland. Similarly, if the offending train company had not left their “rolling stock” (trains) to fall into such a state of disrepair it could simply have rolled over, or blasted through the body of the last poor soul who sat in one too many delays and decided to hari-kari off the bridge, onto the tracks at Hither Green. See it’s a chain. That selfish soul’s suicide might well lead to mine.

So once I’ve re-mortgaged my property, and sold my car, and my neighbours children so I can afford a season ticket, having spent 14 hours on a journey I can have walked in 15 minutes, upon arriving at my destination I am confronted with a rugby teams worth of ticket inspectors. Sometimes there are literally 25 of these usually burly dickheads, which is approximately how many people pass through my station in a day. (An awesome use of resource of course). Because I am under the age of 25 (barely now) I am less likely to have a ticket, says the look in the eyes of the first inspector to approach you. Fuck your mother. I can see the look of – “please don’t have a ticket”. Sadly, for you, and your revenue inspection team, and actually, sadly for me I do pay nearly £5000 a year to be spoken down to by you and your motley crew of school bullies. I can imagine that you carried on stealing lunch money and pulling peoples pants down at the urinals, when most of us had reached the age of 16, left school and found girls, drugs and football. You failed your police entrance exam, probably due to an old unspent ABH conviction, or for possessing the IQ of a slug, and so now here you are: Strong arming kids for £20 fines, and barking orders at scared old ladies, who in all probability couldn’t tell you the difference between an Oyster card and the delicious aphrodisiac meal prepared at French eateries across the world. And do you have to be so fucking cheerful when you announce those delays?

Once again thanks for reading my nonsense. Come back soon for more. Mister Lean