Category Archives: Miscellany

So, funny thing happened (also: general update)

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I’ve been at Queen Mary for a fortnight now, and this has allowed me to get a good grasp of where I stand with regards to available time, finances, et cetera. It’s also allowed me to explore London with a finer-toothed comb, and my findings can be summarised as follows:

  • Automatically distrust kebab shops whose names are puns on KFC.
  • Westfield Stratford City is always bloody packed. Also, the quickest way from Stratford to central London is to either take the high speed line from International (seven minutes’ travel time, every fifteen minutes) or a train to Liverpool Street from Regional.
  • The fact I’m an adopted Londoner is quite obvious, as I’m the only person who seems to thank bus drivers when alighting, and smile at police officers.
  • Riverboats are a convenient and not-too-expensive way to get around, if and only if you travel on rainy days, or on sunny days before around 11 when the tourists start popping out. This results in long queues at the ticket office, and the pier staff being anal about letting you buy your ticket on the boat.
  • The District Line is far nicer for peak time journeys than the Central Line.
  • Sainsbury’s in Whitechapel don’t stock apricots.
  • An Indian summer causes me to have a craving for mangos.

Anyway, as an apology for such an extended period of silence, here is an entertaining story from my journey home tonight: I decided to get home via the North London Line as opposed to going through central London. I armed myself with a copy of the New Scientist, a packet of Maltesers and a coffee from the Pumpkin café for the hour-and-a-bit journey from Clapham Junction to Stratford.

The first oddity occurred on approach to Shepherd’s Bush: the roof started leaking. Seriously, voluptuously leaking. At first, we assumed that it was a passenger further down the train relieving himself (cough) but it was very definitely leaking from the roof in the vestibule.

A leaking roof during a bone-dry Indian summer. It’s worth mentioning at this point that the trains in use on this line, operated by London Overground, are all products of Bombardier Transportation, the train building company which has recently announced the lay-off of 1400 workers at its Derby works, partly due to the loss of the contract to build trains for Thameslink. So, although the North may be losing an additional two hundred jobs to the jaws of economic redundancy, we can at least be safe in the knowledge that the new, German-built Thameslink trains will probably not have a leaky roof.

(Rail enthusiasts like to say a train has “character” as a euphemism for referring to faults with said units. I think I can safely say that by the time they’re withdrawn, the London Overground trains will have a lot of character.)

Continuing with my story, we continued slowly towards Stratford, stopping briefly to allow a woman to remove her alcohol from the train. Then, at Camden Road, a prim, short lady of African descent boarded the train, and, without any qualms, began dancing and singing Caribbean hymns.

This is the thing I do like about the Overground: the walk-through carriages and longitudinal seating help ease the tension, making it feel more relaxed than the staid, silent environment of a Tube carriage or a commuter train. (Even if the roof’s leaking.)

This woman finished singing Come to Jesus, and then, as if nothing had happened, asked another passenger if they knew how far it was to Dalston. He sheepishly mumbled something about it being three stops away, for which the woman thanked him, before walking down the train (through the leaking vestibule) and began singing another hymn to the rear two coaches.

When we arrived at Dalston Kingsland, someone shouted “Dalston! This is Dalston!” to her, following which she abruptly ceased singing, and danced off the train, Bible in hand, saying, “God bless you for listening!” in that magnificent Jamaican accent. By the time the doors had shut, most of the passengers, either through laughter, revelation or the warm, fuzzy feeling one gets upon witnessing something so wonderfully out of the ordinary, had massive grins on their faces.

So, with that in mind, here are two additional findings from my two weeks in London:

  • For a change, take a more indirect route than you usually would. You may be pleasantly surprised. You’ll probably run into more interesting people.
  • If you’re going to get on a train and sing hymns (which, despite my non-belief in any religion, I have zero objection to) please listen to the announcements, look up the timetables and plan your singing schedule accordingly.

So, that was my evening (bar the superb finale of Doctor Who.) Normal service will hopefully resume before too much longer.

On trolls

Aside: On trolls

So far, today, I have been called (all by the same person, bar the third and second to last—all caps are as originally posted, not mine):

  • someone who “CLEARLY WORKS FOR THE RAIL INDUSTRY”;
  • a “prick”;
  • asked “WHO THE FUCK [I AM]” and “WHO THE FUCK ASKED [ME FOR MY OPINION]“
  • an only child (!?)
  • a flange-shuffling walking encyclopaedia twat (NB: not even his choice of words, instead retweeted with a massive “HIM” applied)
  • another internet tosspot with more time than sense;
  • someone who judges others without understanding the facts, i.e. a troll;
  • and been told I should pay for replacement taxis for rail commuters,

all for daring to suggest that the Southeastern train company providing a universally-agreed-to-be-rubbish service is not a valid excuse to call their managing director, Charles Horton, a “PRICK” and a “CUNTFACE,” and that doing so paints yourself to be something of a dick.

Having been on the internet for around ten years, I’m an old man in terms of social media, so I’m desensitised to trolling and being called a troll. I am still fascinated, though, by the way that many people (usually men—statistically men) seem to assume that because they’re sat before a keyboard, rather than saying it to the recipient’s foul, disgusting face, they can safely discard any sense of politeness, decency and, in this case, sanity.

And now, a geeky interlude: the Stratford DLR extension

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Yesterday, the Docklands Light Railway extension to Stratford International, via West Ham, Canning Town, Star Lane and the former North London Line platforms at Stratford, opened.

I wasn’t on the first train (though I did see a DLR/Volker Rail photoshoot at International.) I did, however, have a look around later in the day.

Yes, this is extremely nerdy to the point of perversion. But I love the DLR, and as of later this month I’ll be living one stop on the Tube away from the Olympic park. The views of London from Canning Town station and the elevated stretches are and were wonderful, but at that point my phone’s battery was about to die (and, in a truly Herculean effort, survived all the way back to Camberley) so I didn’t take any other pictures.

Plus, here’s a thought: this is now the first time in the history of the DLR when an extension is not being actively planned or built. This is testament to the “permanent-but-modular” design of the system, but also slightly worrying when Boris Johnson is spending £7.8 million, with a view to spending much more in a time of austerity, on Milk Tray-shaped double decker buses.