Day in the life of... (September 2020)

Blackbell Railway

And over the train tannoy...

-- "This last carriage 

is reserved

only for those 

travelling to 

Bitter, Resentful and Bigot.

--- Please move further

down the train if 

you've got X-ray vision,

a glimpse of the future

and one eye on the past.

All poets must travel

in the front 4 carriages

as this train splits in two

at Indecision.

The last four coaches

will then call at 

Me first, then 

Selfish Parkway, 

Vile Self-Loathing

and Bognor

before finishing at

All-at-fucking Sea ----

Whilst the first four carriages 

will head on to Ecstasy,

Despair, High-on-Hope,

Disappointment East,

Disappointment West,

Euphoria Central

and will finally arrive at

TERMINAL..."

AA v RAC

When I was younger, so much younger than today.... Yellow badge v Blue Badge. What were the differences? I always assumed that the RAC was for Toffs and AA for Oiks.

Having just typed in 'RAC salute', I have found a rather clearer differentiation. 

Waiting for the train to leave

That was the best thing about living at the end of the line. Waiting for the other half of the train to trundle into the station, you could stroll up and down the corridors, picking up discarded newspapers and unwanted Punkettes! Innocent days...

Newhaven Ferry

Slow, lumbering, smelly, floor awash with vomit and beer. The Newhaven ferry to Dieppe, left at 10 am & 10 pm every day. A cantankerous crew, irritated truckers (all that Sulphate would keep them buzzing ‘round the deck for the length of the four hour journey), school trips (on the morning run), cheapskate Eurorailers (in the evening) and a clutch of low-fi hipsters heading for Dieppe and then the bright lights of Montmatre.

We used to take the night trip more often than not (10 quid cheaper). Fuelled on cheap lager, we’d get the train via Lewes and manage to slink on board about 10 minutes before departure. Although one particularly snowbound journey led to a 12 hour wait in ‘The Last Pub in England’. Plenty of opportunity to spend all remaining holiday money on toasted cheese sandwiches.

The rusting, lilting Transmanche ferries, take ages to do anything – not least open up the bars. A couple of lagers and only a bloody Toblerone to keep us company as we ease out of the alternative ‘gateway to the South’, so farewell to the fort, the River Ouse and Seven Sisters… Onwards, rolling onwards to France, Europe, the World!

When we finally got to the other side, tired, wet, cold and not a tad seasick. We’d be herded onto the docks and onto the trains (snatched memories of different mpre sinister circumstances) and then head off for Paris. All the while very conscious of the lingering smell of Newhaven – vomit & beer!

Bluebell Railway

Despite my earlier homage to BR toast I am more of a bus man than a train man. That being said it doesn’t stop me from missing the volunteer run Bluebell Line which was the UK's first preserved standard gauge passenger railway, re-opening part of the Lewes to East Grinstead line of the old London Brighton & South Coast Railway in 1960. Since then it has apparently developed into one of the largest tourist attractions in Sussex, yet it still remains true to its objectives of the preservation for posterity of a country branch line, its steam locomotives, coaches and goods stock, signalling systems, stations and operating practices.

It is also inevitably features in every possible period drama featuring steam locomotion, from ‘Brideshead Revisited’ to ‘Eh oop there goes the neighborhood’ (A satirical look at life in a pre-electrification Leeds circa 2004).

The atmosphere of the Undergound

There is something unique about the smell of the London Underground. The metro in Paris smells like a sewage treatment farm (more of them later), New York smells of fear more often than not and Stockholm's underground reeked of celery & champagne on the night that Chelsea beat Stuttgart.

The tube on the other hand smells of a unique combination of metal and grime, from the first step through the barriers at Cockfosters, the lifts at Mornington Crescent or the platform at Mile End the rush and tumble of the commuters, the procession of the carriages and the rumble of the escalators lingers in the space between the world above and the world below ground.

Combine that with the shunts, grunts and occasional rhyming curse you bump into on every other journey and you have something remarkable, frustrating and surprisingly precious. Mind the gap!

Airships

"The transport of the future"

When working at Cosmopolitan magazine in the heart of Soho on Carnaby Street (not what it used to be), I would often look out over the throbbing heart of the British Empire to be greeted by the most magnificent of sights. A silver airship, catching the last rays of afternoon sunshine, high above the West End. The office would all stop throwing tantrums, teasing their hair and bullying the postroom boy to look up at the magnificent vessel gliding through the stratosphere.

It truly looked like something from another age, not the past but very much the future. They came from a time when everything was possible, the world was opening up to a bright, bold, highly infammable horizon!

It was pointed out to me that they were actually being used more for advertising than any practical means of transport. If so, they succeeded because I was sold, sold on the idea that I have seen the future and the future is airships (albeit with GoodYear printed on the side). That being said it is now some 20 years on and I'm still waiting to board my own personal airship to take me to work.

Stop! Wait! I've got it. Perhaps everyone in England is travelling by Airship and it's just that Australia is even further behind Blighty than I thought.

Now there's a thought that somehow just won't go away!

Articles on traction engines

Back in the day, when alcopops were confined to a can of Top Deck, being a paperboy was a noble trade and pubic hair was commonplace on the top shelf . The fashion for articles on traction engines and steam fairs was at its zenith. Barely a month would go by without one or other of the “Gentlemen’s Journals” featuring an in-depth review of the ‘Matlock Steamer’, the ‘Hartlepool Belle’ or ‘Old faithful’.

Whilst today’s "Jazz Mags" are filled to the brim with ‘Dial-a-Gran’, ‘Shag-a-melon’ & ‘Thrust me big boy’ Bermudan high premium phone lines, the informative yet slightly out of reach "Bongo Pamphlets" of my innocent youth, would take a more bucolic slant on life in the fast lane.

Tucked away alongside the Mary Millington feature you could guarantee a four page spread detailing Brian Forsythe’s painstaking refurbishment of his pride and joy ‘The Essex Spirit’, complete with truly compelling and incisive reportage: - Clacton based Brian spent 15 years rebuilding this classic Pendlebury Mark 4 in his garage. His wife Judy reckons he is bonkers but said, “at least I know where he is and he always comes in for his tea when I call him”.

It was as though the two were inextricably linked, women and traction engines, traction engines and women. I hasten to add that there was absolutely nothing erotic about it all. It was just a fact, men’s ‘personal’ magazines had features about traction engines. Quite right too!

And now as I wade through the vacuous and sterile ‘lifestyle’ magazines of today, every page featuring a scantily attired newsreaderette or a stripping tele sales executive from Maroubra/Tyneside/Latvia my mind drifts regularly… out there… beyond the photoshop skin tones, beyond the cantilevered breast work, back to a time and more importantly a place where the inner workings of a Pendlebury mk4 still work as a remarkable counterbalance to the lurid happenings on pages 15-96!

Shoddy ghost trains

Fifteen bits of plywood hastily hammered together, a potential death trap on rusted tracks, synthetic hair dangling down overhead, a ghoul themed tarpaulin and some crap looking papier mache models. Plonked halfway along a knackered old pier and all topped off with a fiendish soundtrack and a permanently pissed off operator (resplendent in his 'Fort Fun/Treasure Island' red t-shirt).

You just can't beat 'em!

British Rail Toast

To be honest, I missed BR toast even when I was living in London. Because for the last few year the only food available on trains has been an 'edamame granary bap with honey drenched quails eggs and steam fried rocket and parmesan dressing'.

That being said, my memories of the perfect round of toast still remain. The toast had become an integral part of the going to London ritual. If it was for a Chelsea game, we'd meet at Eastbourne station at ten to nine and have blagged the 'not really first class' single six-seater compartment, before making our way to the buffet car. For some reason, still unclear even after all this time, the buffet wouldn't open until we'd departed Polegate (waving to Roly the incredibly rotund guard as we departed).

The shutters would open up and we'd all proceed to order, "four cans of Special Brew and four rounds of toast please" much to the obvious annoyance of the buffet steward. You see the problem was that toast took a long time to serve and as soon as the smell wafted down the carriage everyone wanted it. In fact for the last few years they didn't even put it on the menu! It became even more of a secret ritual for the chosen ones.

Once the toast was ready, normally by about Lewes, it was served without a flourish but with the tiniest serviette and we'd return to our compartment and stare in wonder at the piping hot lakes of butter that sat bubbling on the perfectly toasted (and never, ever burnt) thick white slices. After taking the first sip of brew, we'd proceed to demolish the toast with unadulterated joy.

It was then and still remains the finest toast ever made.

When BR was broken up and sold off to Network SouthEast it was one of the first things to go. Sadly but unsurprisingly Roly was next to be shown the door - a rather wide door in his case actually! However, occasionally when boarding the late train from Victoria, we would wander into the buffet, recognise the older style compartment that had yet to be refitted and have the grill removed and nod to each other in complete agreement. Our eyes would meet the Steward's and he would acquiesce gracefully to our simple question:
"Don't suppose you still do Toast, do you?"
"Not really supposed to lads, but if you just give me 5 minutes..."