I've got a ticket to ride...and they don't care.
âNotice for passengers waiting on platform one for the 08.43 to Manchester Victoria. This service has now been cancelled â Northern apologises for the inconvenience caused.â
Personally, I donât mind all that much. Iâm late for work as it is and the reason for my tardiness is a legitimate one beyond my control. With news of this cancellation, platform one at Atherton Train Station undergoes an immediate emotional transformation. Commutersâ moods free-fall into the abyss and will only be hauled out into the light at lunch time when they head for Sainsburyâs to claim their meal deal and, if the planets align, heavily discounted cookies will be greeting them on entry.
A woman next to me shakes her head violently and puffs out her chest, which I suspect is hairy, exclaiming, âIt makes you just want fotâ gerrup and smack someone.â
Her direct route to violence bypassing every other stage of anger shocks me. It isnât that bad, surely? Although, when I turn in the direction of this woman her contorted, gurning face suggests she would have no qualms in pushing me beyond the yellow line of safety to greet the corrugated face of a speeding train. I turn away â this is not the film âGhostâ and I am not Patrick Swayze.
To pass the time, I select The Civil Warsâ âBarton Hollowâ on my iPod and stare vacantly at the wild shrubbery that runs parallel to the tracks. Each five minutes that drags by brings about another apology from a womanâs voice in the sky informing us of further delays. When the train slows to twenty minutes behind schedule, I turn around to evaluate the mood of the presumed growing crowd. I half expected a scene that only Tarantino could direct; endless heaps of dead bodies which encircle the scary lady at the centre of this destruction, standing there motionless at the core of this massacre with nothing but a red-hot AK-47 in her right hand and a freshly lit cigarette in her left. Thankfully the train rolls in and there is no need for this enraged âwomanâ to be disarmed and the crowd of patient commuters hop on.
Now, Iâm not the most agile or the most excitable of morning people; I donât pour ice cold milk into a bowl of Kelloggâs Cornflakes or sit with a glass of chilled Tropicana listening to Radio 2âs Breakfast Show (I donât have anything against Chris Evans â he is a talented radio host but I have a slight grievance with how often he mentions his outrageously expensive sports cars which I will never come close to owningâŚI apologiseâŚIâm digressing) I donât whistle on my way to work, in fact I donât even speak until 9.30am most days but my manners remain.
A man, sporting his rather unnatural odour, strides down the aisle jerking his head around to find a seat. I imagine his gormless expression would cause my brother to file him under the âmouth-breatherâ sector. He has a JD sports bag, a silver bike chain hanging from his tattooed neck and one hand buried down the front of trousers ensuring his genitals are still where they should be. I suspect this anatomical check-up is of huge import as he probably âcleans upâ on the women front.
We are all guilty of it â holding your breath and hoping the person walking towards you on the train chooses not to sit next to you â only to exhale in relief as they venture past. However, when Iâm looking for a seat I tend to sit next to the person who looks the friendliest and if others share this selection policy of mine then, theoretically, I should feel complimented if someone chooses to sit next to me.
The âgormâ advances toward me, his âmean streets of Comptonâ inspired gait bobbing toward the row of seats where I am. His aggressive stride unsettles me; Iâm more âbrunchâ than âBronxâ. He stops in line with me. I look down in the hope my selection of easy listening country/folk music renders me invisible. My gaze remains fixated on my shoes and never before have they looked so fascinating than at this moment in time.
âYa gonna move up or what, pal?â he mumbles, morosely.
I look up. Iâve escaped. A man seated in the opposite row, who barely looks conscious, is treated to this request instead. He obliges, shuffles to his left without unfolding his arms and then returns to his previous state of slumber. A woman facing the newly seated hunk glances up and peers over her Metro with disapproving eyes. She sits compactly, neatly dressed and well groomed providing a stark contrast to the picture of disappointment sat across from her in the âlegs openâ position. He needs the room, of course.
The persistent rattling of the train drifts away and gently fades out as I reach âPoison and Wineâ, a suitably mellow track on the aforementioned album â it provides an enjoyable soundtrack whilst I peruse this morningâs travellers, so many of which are familiar faces. I have a few favourites amongst the castâŚ
âSat down Wilkoâ is a perennially tired, middle-aged gentleman who sits perfectly still in a trance like state â perhaps âhe canât get no sleepâ. He adopts a slight forward lean, legs shoulder-width apart and his hands are placed carefully but securely upon his rucksack. On every journey Iâve shared with âWilksyâ he is sat perpendicular to the trainâs movement. His eyes remain shut until he rouses to the voice relayed over the PA system informing him that the train will shortly arrive at Swinton station.
The âvoiceâ in question is the narrator for this journey; though his utterances are short and limited to the semantic field of train travel I enjoy his soothing and melodic delivery. I think this man may be a professional or has at least worked in a broadcasting role. He has the tone of a man who could provide the perfect narration for BBC4 type documentaries exploring the attention shift from modal Jazz to be-bop in the late 1950âs. He offers so much security through his speech; so much so, I believe I would trust this man as the pilot on my plane despite lacking any degree of aviation qualification. They say you should never meet your heroesâŚIâve never seen or heard this man on the train, just his less charming colleagueâŚâScary ticket lady!â, who shall now be referred to as STL.
And as she opens her cage door at the end of the train there is a frenetic, communal padding down of trousers and battering of coat pockets in search of rail passes and daily tickets. Disregarding all obstacles, she powers her broad-set frame down the aisle, never offering anything more than a scowl to anyone on board (I donât think she drinks Tropicana either). She never asks to see a valid ticket - her stare does that for her. Luckily, Iâve always been in possession of a valid pass. For those are unable to produce such documents, I imagine STL offers no room for negotiation. There wonât be any âCan I buy one now?â or âIâll buy one when I get off at my stopâ. STL doesnât operate this way. She went to school with Miss. Trunchbull; any âtrainspassersâ will be identified and hurled out of the speeding locomotive.
I wouldnât necessarily say I enjoy the journey to work but these quirky characters make it more fun; people might label me odd when I impulsively pull a yellow note book from my bag and furiously scribble away, but at that time in the morning my memorising skills arenât always at their greatest.
When Iâve slipped the note book away, I make my way toward the exit. I have to dodge, duck and weave through the swinging vines of Apple White earphones and stumble, eventually, to the door. As I hop off, minding the gap as instructed, I check my watch and Iâm now thirty minutes late for work and I have another five minutes yet to complete.
Striding purposefully through the station, Iâm asked to flash my rail pass for the third time that morning and receive a flyer as reward for my co-operationâŚ
**Manchester to Atherton - Evening Service Disruptions**
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