On a Difficult Journey in to Work
Before I left the house, I checked the London Tube Status app on my phone and saw that the Piccadilly Line was delayed, so I headed for the Victoria Line at Highbury & Islington instead. Upon arriving on the platform, it was overflowing, with a full train standing idle on the tracks. I made my way down to the spot where I would need to get off at Victoria and waited. I sat down on a bench. A few more minutes passed as I found my place in the Frankie Boyle autobiography.
"Ladies an' gen'lemen, this train is bein' taken ou' of service due 'o a faul'y train a'ead of us a' King's Cross. Please ge' orff the train so we can move i' ou' o' the way." The passengers were tenacious, unbudging. "Ladies an' gen'lemen, the longer you stay orn this train, the longer i''ll be before you can ge' to yer destinations." Sullenly, resentfully, reluctantly, the passengers surrendered their hard-fought for spots of privilege on the carriage, a process made even slower by the equally sullen, resentful reluctance of the would-be passengers at the edge of the platform to make way for the refugees pushing them aside. Eventually the train emptied and the doors swished shut, to audible sighs of discontent. I sat on my bench. Frankie was graduating in Brighton. Minutes passed.
"Ladies an' gen'lemen, my apologies for the confusion, bu' please will you get back on the train so that i' can depar'." Several passengers actually screamed as they rushed through the opening doors. "This is NOT FUNNAH!" yelled one well-spoken middle-aged lady down the platform. There was precisely no chance of me getting onto this train, but I stood up anyway, and made my way to where the doors of the present train were closing, to facilitate my access to the next train. The train pulled away, and every door's window had coated bodies pressed against it.
The second train swooped into the platform, and pulled to a halt ... a yard further up the platform from the previous train. I was now, to all intents and purposes, nowhere near the doors. I sighed quietly to myself as others made their way onto the train and were wicked away. A pause; and a third train pulled in, in the same position as the second - I was still fractionally too far away to get on. At least, though, I would make it onto the fourth: all that stood in my way was a little old lady.
The fourth train pulled into the platform and the doors shone dully before me. I stood, patiently, needing only to wait for the old lady to get on and then I too would be on my way. A gap; a wait; the doors pulled open - and a young black man from behind the old lady shoved her out of the way with both arms, sending her cannoning into me and both of us stumbling backwards. Other passengers from behind him swarmed into the gap and onto the train as I helped the old lady to remain steady on her feet. There was one space left on the train after those who were willing to push ahead of the old lady had stomped on, and I helped her onto it. "Here you go love, you can make it on," she said to me kindly, trying to shrink into the carriage to make room. "There's not enough room, but thanks," I told her, trying to smile. The doors pulled closed and the old lady too was on her way. I stood yet on the platform, waiting.
After a while, a fifth train's lights appeared in the tunnel and I readied myself to get on board. The train slunk into the station and pulled to a stop. It did so a yard back down the platform, where the first train's door had been. I was now stood where the doors for the other trains had been. "Why me?" I offered up in silent commotion. The late-coming passengers who had not been able to get near to where the doors had been seized their opportunity and got on the train when its doors opened miraculously before them. I would, of course, have done the same in their shoes. But I was in my MBTs, and they were in the wrong place, and I with them.
A sixth train pulled in to the platform, and at last I got on. Behind me, a young Asian man stood in the doorway, phat choons pumping tinnily from his headphones as he chewed the gummy cud blankly, leaving a pleasingly large amount of space around me but not, alas, much pleasing the passengers on the platform behind him, their alternately desperate and irate entreaties falling on headphonic ears. The doors pulled to and at last I was on my way.
My serene progress continued only as far as King's Cross, the next station. The young Asian man remained resolutely in the doorway, face betraying neither emotion nor sentience, blocking from entry all but the most obsessive King's Cross commuters and again leaving me and the others on the carriage with space and air: our doughty protector, our deaf-mute bodyguard. The doors pulled shut ... and opened again.
"Well done, you idiots," a scratchy female voice came through the train's intercom, "you've successfully stopped the doors from closing and held everybody up." Everybody looked up nosily, ready to lock on disapproving stares if the culprits were nearby. The doors closed again and our Fellowship was once again en route.
But our luxurious space was a fleeting joy, as at the next station, Euston, the doors opened on the other side, and our champion was no longer able to save us from the hordes outside the glass. As they poured in, we fell back, even encroaching at last into the space of the hero on the other side. His nobility and forbearance served as an inspiration, as he continued to stand, imperturbable, with dead eyes, budded ears and masticating jaw.
With time, as we wended our way through Warren Street and without, the waves of wanderers washed away and the carriage cleared - but never enough for me to sit. My legs were stiff after having borne the brunt of my bulk for so long, but I nonetheless managed to leave the Victoria Line, and my ordeal at Victoria itself. I struggled across to the District Line, where, without precedent, a Wimbledon service was waiting quietly for me, and on which I was even able to find a seat. I sat, wearily, allowing my legs to rest, and finally re-opened the Frankie Boyle. He was working in an asylum in Brighton. At last I could smile again.
"Ladies an' gen'lemen, this train is bein' taken ou' of service due 'o a faul'y train a'ead of us a' King's Cross. Please ge' orff the train so we can move i' ou' o' the way." The passengers were tenacious, unbudging. "Ladies an' gen'lemen, the longer you stay orn this train, the longer i''ll be before you can ge' to yer destinations." Sullenly, resentfully, reluctantly, the passengers surrendered their hard-fought for spots of privilege on the carriage, a process made even slower by the equally sullen, resentful reluctance of the would-be passengers at the edge of the platform to make way for the refugees pushing them aside. Eventually the train emptied and the doors swished shut, to audible sighs of discontent. I sat on my bench. Frankie was graduating in Brighton. Minutes passed.
"Ladies an' gen'lemen, my apologies for the confusion, bu' please will you get back on the train so that i' can depar'." Several passengers actually screamed as they rushed through the opening doors. "This is NOT FUNNAH!" yelled one well-spoken middle-aged lady down the platform. There was precisely no chance of me getting onto this train, but I stood up anyway, and made my way to where the doors of the present train were closing, to facilitate my access to the next train. The train pulled away, and every door's window had coated bodies pressed against it.
The second train swooped into the platform, and pulled to a halt ... a yard further up the platform from the previous train. I was now, to all intents and purposes, nowhere near the doors. I sighed quietly to myself as others made their way onto the train and were wicked away. A pause; and a third train pulled in, in the same position as the second - I was still fractionally too far away to get on. At least, though, I would make it onto the fourth: all that stood in my way was a little old lady.
The fourth train pulled into the platform and the doors shone dully before me. I stood, patiently, needing only to wait for the old lady to get on and then I too would be on my way. A gap; a wait; the doors pulled open - and a young black man from behind the old lady shoved her out of the way with both arms, sending her cannoning into me and both of us stumbling backwards. Other passengers from behind him swarmed into the gap and onto the train as I helped the old lady to remain steady on her feet. There was one space left on the train after those who were willing to push ahead of the old lady had stomped on, and I helped her onto it. "Here you go love, you can make it on," she said to me kindly, trying to shrink into the carriage to make room. "There's not enough room, but thanks," I told her, trying to smile. The doors pulled closed and the old lady too was on her way. I stood yet on the platform, waiting.
After a while, a fifth train's lights appeared in the tunnel and I readied myself to get on board. The train slunk into the station and pulled to a stop. It did so a yard back down the platform, where the first train's door had been. I was now stood where the doors for the other trains had been. "Why me?" I offered up in silent commotion. The late-coming passengers who had not been able to get near to where the doors had been seized their opportunity and got on the train when its doors opened miraculously before them. I would, of course, have done the same in their shoes. But I was in my MBTs, and they were in the wrong place, and I with them.
A sixth train pulled in to the platform, and at last I got on. Behind me, a young Asian man stood in the doorway, phat choons pumping tinnily from his headphones as he chewed the gummy cud blankly, leaving a pleasingly large amount of space around me but not, alas, much pleasing the passengers on the platform behind him, their alternately desperate and irate entreaties falling on headphonic ears. The doors pulled to and at last I was on my way.
My serene progress continued only as far as King's Cross, the next station. The young Asian man remained resolutely in the doorway, face betraying neither emotion nor sentience, blocking from entry all but the most obsessive King's Cross commuters and again leaving me and the others on the carriage with space and air: our doughty protector, our deaf-mute bodyguard. The doors pulled shut ... and opened again.
"Well done, you idiots," a scratchy female voice came through the train's intercom, "you've successfully stopped the doors from closing and held everybody up." Everybody looked up nosily, ready to lock on disapproving stares if the culprits were nearby. The doors closed again and our Fellowship was once again en route.
But our luxurious space was a fleeting joy, as at the next station, Euston, the doors opened on the other side, and our champion was no longer able to save us from the hordes outside the glass. As they poured in, we fell back, even encroaching at last into the space of the hero on the other side. His nobility and forbearance served as an inspiration, as he continued to stand, imperturbable, with dead eyes, budded ears and masticating jaw.
With time, as we wended our way through Warren Street and without, the waves of wanderers washed away and the carriage cleared - but never enough for me to sit. My legs were stiff after having borne the brunt of my bulk for so long, but I nonetheless managed to leave the Victoria Line, and my ordeal at Victoria itself. I struggled across to the District Line, where, without precedent, a Wimbledon service was waiting quietly for me, and on which I was even able to find a seat. I sat, wearily, allowing my legs to rest, and finally re-opened the Frankie Boyle. He was working in an asylum in Brighton. At last I could smile again.