Barry's Beef

Now this really is a long overdue entry into Room 101. It's not all buskers. Although, I am not a big fan of the institution of buskers, I can recognise that some deluded sociopaths do like them and feel they offer something different from the regular mundanity, frustration and delays that remain the main services rendered by the London Underground. If you see a busker, you have an option to walk past or to give them money. This is fine. The people I would put in Room 101 (hurtling headfirst) would be buskers on the actual Tube itself.
Twice last week I was accosted by a clarinet player on the District Line. Twice this guy peddled out a few numbers and twice I got nowhere near recognising any of it. Hint to budding, aspiring clarinet players: if you get near a note, play it. In fact, it really was a pain in the neck. By nature, I am not the greatest in the morning. Ideally, I will either do a sudoku or two, or more normally read a book. You know, have the decency to keep myself to myself. So what do I get for my troubles? Some prick making a racket, that's what. I can't read my book. I am stuck there with a deep and all consuming hatred and loathing burning in my heart. Then when he has finished, he comes around the carriage with his purse - pausing in front of every passenger and rattling it (his purse). Now I take exception at charity collectors shaking their tins in my vicinity, I most certainly do not appreciate the clarinetist doing the same.
And then on Friday, I had another busker on my tube. Not a clarinet player (this is good) but rather an Irish duo playing the bloody bastard banjo and singing jovially. At least the clarinet player had the decency not to be able to speak the Queen's. These characters have the patter, right down to every stereotypical nuance: the cheeky smile, the banter, the "bejeesus" - seriously they were one stop away from "top of the morning" and a full-blown riverdance. These wankers persisted for two whole stops. I felt lower than a snake's belly. After they eventually wound-up, about 3 people clapped. In the words of Alan Partridge: "I loathe these people[...] I wish all of you[...] people would get on a bus and just drive over a cliff. I'd happily be the driver."

Labels: Alan Partridge, busking, London Underground

Yesterday I get to my tube station and see that there are no delays on the Central Line, but severe delays to the District. Not a worry methinks, I can go to Stratford and get the Jubilee Line. If only, if only. Because in the time it took from me doing my Oyster card to getting to the platform, the Central Line had cocked up. Seriously, that must have been all of 40 seconds. Signal failure of Newbury Park, so I decide to bus it to Ilford and get the overland to Stratford. I hope you all appreciate getting this intimate knowledge of my daily journey.
Being surprisingly awake (I have recently changed my working hours) I go to a bus station at which I actually have an outside chance of getting a seat, as opposed to the guaranteed bundle you normally see exclusively at Indian train stations in old movies. Well I end up within earshot (a conservative estimate would be that said earshot was about 5 miles either way) of a real, old Uncle Albert sea-faring sort. Yes, our Captain Birdseye knows a thing or two about world culture and religion asking a non-white what religion they were and upon hearing the answer said: "Boooodhist? Nah, we don't get too many Boooodhists round here. Course I seen a lot of them temples in Ceylon and places like that. Served in the war, didn't I? Oh but Ceylon and that tsunami. Terrible, just terrible." And the old boy had certainly had his 3 weetabix because he didn't let up for the whole ride; in no uncertain terms making clear his views on being a racist ("Now I aint no racist"), war ("I hate war") and the differences between Islam, Hinduism, Judaism and Christianity ("For me there aint no difference between your Muslims, Indians, Jews and Whites. I don't like religion")
Sadly, no such characters on the overland or the Jubilee Line

Labels: London Underground, Uncle Albert, weetabix

Another day, another delay. Not only was the Central Line continuing its special service but the District Line decided to play silly buggers too. Whilst standing on the platform at Gants Hill forlornly waiting for the tube, the rather smug and sanctimonious station announcer proceed to apologise profusely for the delay, smarmily adding: "We are trying to ensure there are no significant delays to teh service." I think he was probably trying to keep a straight face. I was waiting for about 8 minutes and the tube after mine was another 15 minutes after that! Try harder, mate.

Labels: Central Line, London Underground, sardines

Using the Central Line every work day I am hardly a stranger to delays. Indeed, for the last 3 days I have been in no danger of getting to work anywhere near on time courtesy of the Underground's unique network of signal failures, power failures, defective trains and passenger alerts.
Today was a particular treat with Gants Hill tube advising the next westward service would be in 7 minutes, this remained in place for another 5 minutes and was then raised, somewhat oddly, to 12 minutes and soon thereafter reduced back down to 9 minutes. Eventually the train came in and the conditions were, well cramped would be understating travelling conditions at which even a sardine would balk. Basically, if you were not already a contortionist you were about to get a crash course.
A truly horrible and soul destroying way to start the day, which was by no means improved by the driver announcing, at every bloody pause in the service, that the Central Line was running a special timetable. Well, if Ken or anyone at TfL is reading this your special timetable is rubbish.

Labels: crap, London Underground