Virgin Trains Don't you just love em.

Just got back from 24 hours in London. I was surprised at how quiet and civilised our great Capital City was and clean! And people were even chatting on the tube. What is going on? Even more confusing to a hardened old cynic, the train was bang on time on the way down and on the way back, though Virgin Trains toilets leave quite a lot to be desired. Even the SAS on one of their little training jolly's in the Brecon Beacons would have baulked at using them. While I'm about it I really hate the announcements that they make over the PA system. Not satisfied with listing out all the ways of failing to meet the high and exacting ticketing standards that Virgin require from their customers and the various penalties that you will incur for failing to hold your ticket in the right way when requested to do so by the ticket collector (they have a fancy name but I can't remember it) the announcer then proceeded to tell everyone what the complimentary food was in first class. This was fine for those who were travelling in first class but for the rest of us it was really rather rubbing it in. Especially as all we had to look forward to was a trip to the "shop" where if we were desperate we could purchase one of their sandwiches, which looked like they had been made by a bunch of ham fisted half wits on work experience. I made the mistake of opting for the cheese burger. I eventually found the cheese clinging soggily to the underneath of the plastic carton that the meal came in. It looked like someone had chewed it and spat it out and then tried to hide it. ( Yes I did eat it and no I didn't complain, I'm bloody English for god's sake) Nor do I want my listening to the Fry Chronicles interrupted by the pillock with the PA telling us that there had been a serious accident in the toilet located in coach A. I mean we didn't need telling, anyone with a sense of smell could work it out for themselves. Apparently someone had kicked the door in and the patronising little jobs worth on the PA wanted anyone with information to come along to his office, situated next to the "shop" and spill the beans. I thought he was going to add "and no one is to go to the toilet until the perpetrator has owned up." Apparently they had it covered with CCTV. Shame they couldn't have an on board plumber, then maybe no one would want to kick the door down.

Anyway I am now in recovery mode. It may take some time.

Let the Train take the Strain

So having had to postponed my trip to London for a day there I was at last sitting on the overcrowded cattle truck that passes for what Richard Branson laughingly calls a train. To be fair, and I pride myself on being fair, the train (I said I was being fair) was on time. But it was crowded, well at least it was in “Standard Class”. First Class was half full to judge by the empty seats that I had glimpsed on my way to standard class. To get a seat I had had to ask a lady clad in Manchester United scarves if she would mind using only one seat. She didn’t, despite having had no sleep for two days and enduring the rain in Moscow, and seemed happy to put up with the BW’s attempt at a conversation. So we chatted about the Final, Rugby, children, and house prices? The time passed and the further South we went the warmer it became and the drier the landscape looked. The other passengers did what passengers do, sleep, stare at their laptops, read, shout loudly down their mobile phones, listen to other peoples conversations and generally try and survive the boredom of the Virgin Train “experience”.

Arriving in London I did what I had to and learned a lot of technical legal phrases (but that’s another story) and so it was that I found myself in the early evening with a choice. To hang around London for a bit or to catch the first available saver train back up North to civilisation, and dreary weather. I decided to return to the Bosom of my family (a phrase that is guaranteed to make the Munch snigger when I say this at meal times) and caught the first available train with minutes to spare. I found myself standing (literally not metaphysically, this was no On the Road to Damascus moment) amongst the other standard riff raff in the restaurant car. There was no seating room left on the Cattle Truck part of the train, however the conductor (or On Board Train Manager or what ever glorified title the Management Consultants employed by Virgin Trains, have deemed necessary for the smooth and efficient running of the alleged service) seemed a sensible sort of chap and announced to us that he was declassifying the train. He paused as if expecting a round of applause, and then when it was clear that we did not have a clue what he was talking about, told us by way of explanation, to go and find a seat in first class. Managing to avoid being trampled in the rush I found myself a few minutes later, legs stretched out in front of me in the spacious and refined luxury of first class, deciding whether or not to read my book or do some work on my lap top (not a difficult decision really) Some time later the conductor came round to look at the tickets. I half expected to be frog marched back to standard class. He glanced at my ticket and then proceeded to explain that there was a signalling fault at Rugby and that we could be upto twenty minutes late. I relaxed. But not for long. To the bona fide first class traveller next to me he grovellingly apologised for the inconvenience that the poor man had to endure and almost begged him for his forgiveness. I was a bit taken aback. What inconvenience exactly? Was it having the nice roomy clean first class carriages swamped by the great unwashed? As it turned out that was only part of the “inconvenience”. The real hardship that was that due to a problem with onboard catering the poor things would have to make their own way to the restaurant car where if they managed to make it alive and unmolested by the lower classes cluttering up the carriages they could have a complimentary drink. I sighed to myself and returned to reading Andrew Marr’s History of Modern Britain. Marr was explaining about the deferential and class ridden nature of the pre-war era. Nothing much has changed then!

Four Days in Scotland (Alone and without a Leader) Part 1

Five o'clock in the morning. In winter there is nothing good that one can say about five o'clock in the morning. Its dark for a start. Usually damp and there is little incentive to leave the warmth of my bed and Mrs BW. But today I actually beat the alarm to it by a few seconds, and get out of bed straight away. No turning over for a few more minutes. I have a train to catch and some serious thinking to do. Its Monday morning and I am off to Fort William by train, to spend a few days on my own. the plan is to try and sort a few things out. I have some decisions to make about how to, or where to take my career. I am going with Mrs BW's blessing and encouragement. I shower and go downstairs to make some porridge. I always do this in the microwave now. Its easier, and creates less mess in the sink and consequently the drains. It takes two minutes thirty seconds to make. I use the same measurements as always. The Microwave pings. I open the door. there is molten porridge everywhere. Why? Why today? I clean it out and make some toast. My train or rather bus leaves at 6.19am from Buxton Station. Bus because this is the first day of major rail works between Buxton and New Mills, so its the bus. Mrs BW takes me down to the station. I check and recheck that I have everything. I feel nervous. I have not been away on my own, apart from trips on business for fifteen years. We arrive at the station. It is 6.12am. There is a bus there waiting. I relax and start to get my case and rucksack out. The bus sets off. I shout at it, wave my arms at it. The driver ignores me. I run across the station forecourt and manage to catch his attention. He stops. Winds down the window. He explains that this is not the bus I want. He goes on his way. I go back to the car and an amused Mrs BW. I feel an idiot. This is not an great start.

The train is lurching and rattling its way through Greater Manchester. A thin, pale, pasty light is trying to force its way through the thick cloud cover and the retreating night. I am struggling with the train timetables. When I planned this trip, well okay planned might be a little bit ambitious, drifted into it might be a better description, the idea was to catch the
9.19 Virgin train to Glasgow from Preston. That meant that if everything went according to plan I could pick up the 12.38 from Glasgow Queen Street to Fort William, a trip I was looking forward to. All that scenery from the comfort of a train, relaxing, stress free, a chance to chill out and to start thinking. I had checked the Internet just before I left this morning and it threw a spanner in the works. There was an 8.48 from Preston to Glasgow, and that was fine as we go into Preston at 8.28. The problem was I could not find it on the Virgin Timetable that Mrs BW had given me. I am not a seasoned traveller. I need things to worry about, so as we rushed through the outer suburbs of Manchester, I worried about connections to Glasgow from Preston. Mrs BW had told me not to worry. "Stick to your plan" she said. "You have booked your seat on the 9.18, you have plenty of time."

Its not a great view from the dust and rain streaked window. The derelict remnants of the industrial revolution and the great age of British manufacturing vie with waste ground and the visionary architecture of disillusioned sixties architects, convinced that they knew how people wanted to live best. The people getting on and off look tired, worn out, but I guess that would be true of anyone getting on or off a commuter train. Its not particularly busy. Before I know it we are pulling into Preston, and I have some decisions to make. In the end I decide to take the 9.18. It appears that there are at least eight different timetables for Virgin Trains Services. Mrs BW had given me the VT1 from the South West to Scotland. Very confusing! I need a coffee to recover.