A quick train journey is nearly always turned sour by a bus replacement, at least for the average traveller. There’s more waiting around involved, you’ve probably been thrown off guard by the change, it’ll make your journey longer and then you have to sit closer to people you don’t know – and they’ll be thieves, con-men and suspected murderers. Its hell to most – I can see it in their expressions as they board the bus. Personally, I quite like the change. The different scenery on the trip between the same two towns keeps me interested enough. Getting in close proximity with a bunch of random people too. Nothing quite brings people together like suffering.
I’m used to bus replacement services now. After four years hard commute I take it as it comes, and get on the bus with no questions asked and no shit thrown. There is no-one to blame really. That’s part of the problem with a privatised rail service – there’s not one person in charge. There’s a whole network of people to answer to, and no-one can ever say for sure. The responsibility is on hundreds of shoulders and therefore minimal. “It’s not my department,” they’d say. And here we have another prime example of bureaucracy gone mad, an injured system.
As I climbed onto the bus a friendly station guy assured me that it’d be trains back last thing that night. I like to think he recognised me as a regular. That was good news as it meant I wouldn’t be back at one or half-one in the morning on a Monday. Onboard, the bus was full. Outside, the air was thick and the heat was terrific. Somehow I wasn’t bothered by the heat which I usually dislike so much.
I climbed off the bus at the other end. I trundled around town for the afternoon, and then had practise in the evening, staying on late. When routine goes smoothly I leave at 11.15 and kick it down Oxford St on my bike, getting down low over the handlebars for maximum speed. It’s all about ergonomics man. Often I ride straight into the station and straight onto the platform, seeing nobody. Tonight though I looked up at the departures screen and noted ‘BUS’ next to Northampton. Outside I found the Station attendant.
“What’s going on with the bus to Northampton” I asked him.
“Well, it’s this,” he said, pointing at a small people carrier. An overweight old driver sat half in and half out of the driver’s seat and did not look amused at the sight of me and my bike.
“How am I going to get this in there?” I asked them, ever systematic and open to both problems and solutions. We had a problem on our hands.
“You’re not,” the Station attendant told me. There was no solution.
“I think I’ve got my spanners. I could take the wheel off.”
I judged the situation – neither of these two were going to help me get home. There was no last train, only the little people carrier. How was I going to get in that people carrier? that was the question.
The attendant shuffled around at the front of the station for a minute, while I negotiated with him. He looked uninterested in helping. I had paid my £3.05 return fare and I was damn well going to make use of every penny – I was going to get home, one way or another.
He started walking off. “Wait! Where are you going?” I called after him.
“Let me make some radio calls,” he answered.
His tone didn’t sound genuine or caring, and I was a customer! I remember once getting down to the station and going up to the booth to get my ticket. As the lady typed my request into the computer I drummed on the counter with my fingers. She looked at me with a blank, bare gaze. “Do you mind?” she said, nodding at my fingers. I stopped, thought about it.
“Hang on,” I said, “I’m the customer!” And with that I continued drumming while I waited for her to lazily print off my tickets. Some people.
As the attendant went off, hopefully to solve the problem, I slipped into the station and picked up a copy of the Passenger’s Charter, a 36-page document detailing what the train company aim to do for me, a customer. I flicked to the section on bicycles: “We welcome cycles on our services and convey them free of charge.” I read the rest of the page – nothing. Here was my defence, my sword. I waited for a few minutes, rolled a smoke and attempted a brief conversation with the ‘bus’ driver. Then the Station attendant returned. “I’ve spoken to them (the higher-ups, he meant) and they say no.”
“No!” I said, “What do you mean no? They can’t say no.”
“Well, their publications state that they don’t allow bicycles on alternative transport.”
“Ha!” I laughed. I had the Charter in my hand, with my thumb on the right page, so I read from it. He looked shocked and annoyed by me. This was the law as far as I was concerned – they were my written rights as a passenger. Just to ease his conscience I told him I knew it wasn’t him who made the rules but still, I was going to get home tonight and it was their job to get me home.
“I can’t do anything I’m afraid,” he was saying. The inflection in his voice told me he didn’t care. “I can’t do anything.”
I thought quickly. It was getting towards midnight now, and chances would look slimmer the later it got. “Right. I’m going to ring them. Give me your boss’s number,” I demanded. A small dose of anger and adrenalin worked its way through me.
“I can’t give you that number.”
I looked at the Charter and gazed over three phone numbers on the back page. “Which number do I ring?” I demanded of him. By now, I was mad. I could feel anger welling in me and carrying me along on a wave. I took out my phone and started to type in the number for customer relations. As I was typing his walkie-talkie started crackling, an unclear and fuzzy noise. He pressed a button.
Crackle. Hiss. “Bicycle?” said the voice, crackle, “Platform 2.”
In a split second of hard work he pointed the short aerial of his walkie-talkie at me and said sternly, but full of excitement: “Platform 2. Now. Go. Ride!” It was likely to be the most fun he’d had at work that day.
I knew what to do and didn’t waste a second. I pushed my bike a step or two, jumped on and rode into the station with a cigarette still in my mouth. I rode full pelt up the incline, without even shifting down a gear, and right up to the train doors, where a familiar Station attendant was saying: “How lucky are you! Hey. How lucky.”
“I was going to get home somehow,” I mumbled as I lifted my bike onto the train.
“This train isn’t even meant to be here,” she said just as the doors started closing.
I crashed down on a seat. The ticket guy came by, surprisingly. Once he was out of view I got up, pressed the button for the doors and slid into the first class section. ‘For those who have first class tickets or wish to upgrade.’ I was neither of those but I felt I was owed at least one trip in first class, after the injustice (almost) inflicted upon me. It was deserved, I thought.
There was no-one else in first class at this hour so I flopped down into a chair and made the best use of the extra space. It would have made Joe Strummer proud. It felt as if I may have even been breaking some sort of boundary, but there were no other passengers to smirk with.
Through the window there was darkness only. I noted the extra lights inside and played with them for a minute. Before long the armrest got my attention and I lifted that up and down. I was uninterested. This was boring anyway – more lifeless, soulless and plain than the rest of the train. Return me back to my people. Actually, let’s get them all in here! But I didn’t move, wanting to savour the novelty.
Why shouldn’t I sit here, in the seat which was stiffer than those on the rest of the train? If we all sat in first class we could just take it over – make the whole train one class. Of course, I must stress, this is the 21st century we’re living in. Should we let class dictate society like it used to? No, we shouldn’t. I encourage you all to go and sit in first class. On one trip since I kept the ticket guy so confused by my rambling that I got to my destination without even leaving my rigid seat. Although, I didn’t use my “independent train inspector” line I’m sure it’s a goer. Let that be an example – keep them baffled right up to your own stop.
