Please Mind the Crap

Having lived in this city for the last five or so years, it appears there are fundamentally two things that Londoners love complaining about. Namely, the National Health Service and the public transport system. Personally, I applaud both. True, they have their flaws, but I think that both are fundamentally effective systems. This blog post outlines my thoughts on the latter and in particular, tube etiquette (NB: This post was initially titled Rude Tube before that was shelved for being too obscure a cultural reference).

The Rush Hour
God bless the morning work-bound journey: what better way to start the day then to get up, shower, put on some freshly-ironed clothes, then trudge down to the tube station where you can nestle your face into a complete stranger's sweaty, hairy armpit for the full duration of the daily commute to work. Hey, it's something we all gotta go through. People deal with it in different ways however; there's a smidge of pushing and shoving at Leyton station for instance, but that's nothing compared to the frenzied reception that awaits the tube at Liverpool Street station. I remember once battling my way off the tube onto the platform, only to be almost crowd-surfed back onboard as my satchel had gotten snagged on someone's handbag. Fecks sake, you'd swear it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic- not a tube service which operates every three minutes.

This vicious, almost feral, side of commuters is decidedly at odds to typical standards of English politeness, which I find to be generally quite high. This is probably best illustrated by an incident that I was once party to in Dublin. An English holiday-maker (who had evidently risen early to make the most of his sight-seeing time) had unwisely chosen a morning, rush-hour DART* service to convey him into the city centre. Upon discovering that his chosen carriage was quite full, he made a feeble plea for space (as, I've noticed, is par for the course in London): "Excuse me? Excuse me, could you move up a bit there please?" His harmless request was then answered by a rough Irish voice from somewhere within the packed carriage: "No: fook off." The doors then closed, leaving the bemsued Englishman on the platform. The beauty of this story is that I think that both English and Irish people will nod in recognition of how their respective countries are portrayed.

* At this point I should clarify that DART stands for Dublin Area Rapid Transit; in effect, an overground train service within the Dublin area. It was originally to be called the Suburban Hub Inter Transit Entity, before the idea was binned.

More speed, less haste
Be extra-wary when rushing around. After all, the tube service is regular enough (can't say the same for the buses); hence my surprise when a colleage and I arrived on the Northern Line platform and checked the display for the next train. 'Fuck: FIVE MINUTES!' my colleague dramatically exclaimed. Five minutes? Try growing up in Dublin mate: twenty minutes between DARTs on average. If you were lucky.

Occasionally, it can be fun to observe fellow commuters rushing around. The other day, a businessman ran to get onto a tube at Bank station. However, the doors were closing, and the guy ended up getting his leg caught in the door. What made it more comical was the fact that he didn't seem to see the funny side, his face displaying an annoyed 'oh-not-again' expression, and all the rest of us could do was watch his leg twitch helplessly inside the carriage. The rest of him meanwhile leaned back in an everso-slightly-flustered attempt to catch the drivers eye before the train could depart.

Which brings me to the next point: all that panic and haste can ultimately be to your detriment. For examply, I was once wedged in beside a young lady who was visibly worried about getting off the tube in time and getting trapped in the ensuing crush. She therefore frantically scanned the name of the station each time the train pulled in, her head moving from left to right like a lighthouse on cocaine. The problem was that the girl's hair was tied back in a pony tail, the tip of which was lightly brushing my nose. Therefore, the effect of her every sudden head movement was to tickle my nose. I held it in for as long as I could, but this repeated process eventually resulted in me sneezing all over her back. Nice. In summary, she may have eventually alighted at the correct station, but she would no doubt be delayed in her quest to find a hand-dryer to dry her back.

Dozing neighbours
Don't fear the sleeper. I used to always think that there were generally three ways to fall asleep on public transport: your head gradually sinks forward, before reaching an invisible line where it snaps back up to starting position; your head gradually drops back, with your mouth opening wide for the whole bus/carriage can hear your snoring; or your head lolls to the side, left or right. This last instance invariably causes most distress to the adjacent commuter. Particularly when the snoozer starts to drool.

However, there is a fourth way. I discovered this once on the Metropolitan Line, when the passenger sitting opposite me fell asleep. They started to slowly nod forward, occasionally jerking back as the carriage rocked, until slowly I realised that they were edging ever so closer to my crotch-area. I suddenly panicked, unsure whether or not I should politely tap them on the shoulder, cough very loudly, or (drastic measures) pelvic thrust them back into their original sitting position. Fortunately a renegade wasp rescued me from my dilemma, by flying in through the window and headbutting the offending snoozer. The snoozer then awoke, startled, and swiftly withdrew from my crotchal region. Both of us then obeyed the age-old commuter code of staring out the window...even though there was nothing to see.

Poach-reading
"Oh I'm sorry- what's that? I'm reading the newspaper over your shoulder? Why yes, I certainly appear to be. But let's take a closer look at the situation. Firstly, it's a free paper and therefore entitled to all. And secondly, maybe the reason that I'm reading your paper is because my head is wedged between your shoulder and the elbow of the tall man next to me. And the only alternative to reading your paper right now is therefore to close my eyes; in which case it would look like I was sleeping on your shoulder like some fatigued lover. Now, which exactly would you prefer me to do?"

Bodily contact
It always amuses me how, in contrast to the traditional frosty demeanour of English commuters towards their fellow passengers, space restrictions on the tube or bus force you into performing, pretty much, fully-clothed positions of the karma sutra with complete strangers. We've all been there: the carriage is so full that you're forced to huddle up to the person next to you, and before you know it, your crotch is touching their arse. Yup. You both counter the intimacy by maintaining neutral expressions, staring at the nearest advertising board or fiddling with your mobile phone (despite a lack of signal). Picture a whole carraige of people doing that, and it looks like the world's most boring orgy.

I remember a classic story (recounted to me by Woolson) of a typically congested tube carriage, with a young couple in the midst of all the commuters, staring lovingly into each others' eyes. They acted like the bubble of their love was impenetrable by the sniffles and bodily odours of the fellow early-morning passengers that were packed in all around them.... until the bubble was unceremoniously burst by a fat bloke, wedged in close to the young man, who suddenly says: 'Scuse me mate; but you do realise that's my hand you're squeezing, don't you?'

Sunglasses on the tube
If wearing sunglasses on underground transport: trust me, you look like a plonker. Take 'em off.

Path-blockers
Yes, I'm talking to you, businessman-who-continues-to-read-the-Metro-whilst-walking-slowly-along-the-platform-oblivious-to-the-commuters-behind-him: it's the Metro, okay? Not the latest feckin John Grisham novel. If you REALLY want to know how the news turns out, just wait until tomorrow. And you, young-woman-who-totters-precariously-and-excruciatingly-slowly-down-the-steps-to-the-platform: you may be wearing those stilettoes so Johnny Office-crush might finally notice you, but right now you're moving as swiftly as a drunken baby deer. On ice. In stilettoes. So move it.

Kersey suitcases are also a regular offender. I cannot claim credit for coining the term 'the Kersey shadow'; this refers to the large gaps within the daily commuter stampede whereby somebody is trailing a Kersey suitcase behind them. At times, acceptable; at other times, ridiculous: one day I happened to see the below heading to a tube station (drawing is to scale):

iPods
Y'know, back in the eighties there were these magical things called ghetto blasters. And the idea was that EVERYONE around you was subjected to your personal musical taste. Which may not, amazingly, coincide with their musical taste. Then some bright spark invented the walkman, so that your personal musical taste could remain just that: personal. And although the walkman has evolved through the years into the device we now know as the iPod, the principle remains the same. So I can't fathom why every floppy-haired, skinny-jeaned, trilby-wearing gobeshite insists on playing their music at a level that, from other commuters' perspectives, sounds like a snake attempting to rap.

If ever there was a reason for iPod-listeners to be wary of the volume of their music, it is the fact that you just plain don't want some songs to be audible to the general public. Like last Saturday, when some big bloke with a sportsbag was sat opposite me, and all I could hear from his iPod was Merry Christmas Everybody by Shakin' Stevens. And, I joke not, it was playing on a loop.

Pigeons
If you find yourself at a tube terminus (such as ealing broadway for example) with the train holding at the platform, do not be alarmed if a pigeon hops aboard the same carriage as you, strolls around, gives the place a quick once-over, and hops off again. It is merely their way.

Equally do not panic if, in the larger, semi-open air stations (such as Liverpool Street), a kamikaze pigeon swoops down and almost decapitates you. This is simply an initiation ritual of most inner-city pigeon-gangs, whereby new recruits are encouraged to daringly pester commuters. Under no circumstance show any fear: it's just what they want.

Overhead announcements
These should always be listened to. Not for information purposes of course, but for humour. A comedian recently pointed out that they were sitting on a stopped train and heard the following announcement: 'Ladies and gentlemen, this the driver speaking. We apologies for the late running of this train- this has been caused by....a delay.'

Classic.

Then there's the euphemism of all euphemisms: "Ladies and gentlemen. We regret to inform you that there are currently minor delays on the Central Line, due to... a person under a train." Which for me, conjures up the image of a businessman, crouched under a train, bow-legged, like some petulant child, refusing to budge. And transport workers trying desperately to entice him out with a piece of lettuce or something.

Of course, such great announcements are not unique to London. Murphy once told me of an announcement he overheard at Dun Laoghaire DART station. Clearly it was the station controller's first day on the job. His voice cracked and wavered: "Eh..ladies and...eh men. There is...eh...currently a delay...on the Howthbound service....due to....eh...PERVERSE weather conditions. Tank you." What does this mean exactly? Cue lots of trenchcoat-wearing clouds flashing unsuspecting train drivers.

And all the world over, there is that same old problem: station announcements whereby some how only the crucial points of information are completely obliterated by static. Example: " Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that the crrrrhhhrhrhrrr forty crhhrhrhrhrhr service from ccrrrrhrhrhrhrhr-ingham is now leaving from platform ccrrrrhrhhhhrhrh-teen and will be ccrrrrhhhhh minutes late, now departing at ccccccccccchhhhhhhccchh twenty chhhchcccc. Crhrhrhhhhccc you. Have a very nice crrrrrhhhhrrr."

End of the Line
In summation: it may have its faults, it may have its downfalls; but, like those kitsch sixties sci-fi serials in which the production values were woefully shoddy and the space monsters were clearly just unpaid extras in rubber suits, these flaws are not without their charm. Embrace them. And lets face it, if londoners didn't have anything to gripe about, they might as well just go home.

Provided there's a good service on all lines of course.