Public transport bedevils us all. My close, personal friend Inky Inkermann tells a gloomsome tale in his latest post about fear and loathing on the chemin de fer. And rippling sportsboy Kev Musgrove oft-times finds himself becalmed in a sea of bustickets and nacho napkins on the 34D to Ancoats. For myself, public transport remains a distant memory, some of it sweet and nostalgic, some of it vile-smelling and with bright green flies stuck to it. There was, for example, a wonderful bus of the Thames Valley Traction Company that used to ply its trade from Broad Street, Reading, to Sonning Halt. The 44A. No longer. The evil that is Arriva has taken over that floribund route and now steams along the Old Bath Road, the passengers gaping dolefully through the begrimed windows, screaming inwardly as the feckless driver takes the Thicket Roundabout whilst lighting a fag. But I digress. I shall not be taking a bus in the foreseeable future, for which I am heartily glad. Taking a train is punishment enough, particularly with this loathsome new Virgin rule that allows any type of prole and pleb to sit in First Class if there are no seats left in steerage. It really is beyond reason. They quote Health and Safety! How dare they? They say that the companionways must be kept clear at all times in case of fire, fundamentalist bombing attacks or a sudden rush to the buffet car for an Intercity Sizzler. Two weeks ago, en route to the glorious Thames Valley from Paddington, I was obliged to sit next to a man in polyester who read a low-life tabloid very slowly, his finger tracing the line of text. "Did he stink of drink?" asked an aunt later. No, he did not, and for that I was sorry. I find the stink of drink reassuring and humbling. I also find it galvanising and motivating. There is nothing like the stink of drink to get me moving. No, he stank of Hall's Mentholyptus, which was depressing and deflating on several levels.
I am suddenly laid low, and feel bored and distracted at the thought of more linking and bolding. Forgive me if I revert to type (a pun, and quite a good one) for the rest of this discourse.
Two bus journeys of my youth stick in my mind. Once, I was travelling from Hendon to Kilburn (West Hendon, Staples Corner, Cricklewood Broadway, Kilburn High Road - the 32, I think) and the Conductress was most drole. She assumed the role of an air stewardess, and told us we were welcome aboard the 32 Edgware to Kilburn High Road. "It's a Routemaster 1254, and we will be travelling at a speed of 12 miles an hour, contraflow at Brondesbury allowing. I have asked the pilot for his height and position, and he tells me he is 5 foot 10 and sitting down. The weather in Cricklewood is reported as being mild, with balmy breezes blowing in from Pinner". We gave her a round of applause and she curtsied and told us it was her last day on the buses as she had taken a clerical position at Brent Town Hall.
Some years earlier, in Liverpool, I was queuing with six others for the 99 (Penny Lane to Gillmoss), when four young men gave us a small cardboard box each. Inside was a bread roll, made with green food colouring, filled with beetroot, a blue cake and a pink cocktail Sobranie. They said "that's your lunch". It was extraordinary, but it was Bill Harpe. I wonder what happened to Bill, and his wife, Wendy? Goodness, they were clever. Richard De Dominici is doing something similar with his latest installation, but the Harpes were better. They made the food themselves.
Bon voyage.
Excellent you are master of the links. The doing of it is bloody boring I find, but it has got a little easier - once one knew what the little green thingy was for.
ReplyDeleteA lovely post. You are too droll (drole?) for words:)
I have a vision of you sailing above the London traffic on a flying carpet, wearing Barbara Eden's 'I dream of Jeannie' costume. It is a pleasant conceit, Mrs Pouncer.
ReplyDeleteI'm actually penning (well keying) this comment whilst on a train from Cambridge to Liverpool Street. The thing is actually running 5 minutes ahead of time and I am worried that I have entered an alternative reality without realising it. (Apparently these are quite common according to Dr Who, who knows a thing or two, I believe).
ReplyDeleteI shall certainly not be attempting the tube when I arrive. A brisk walk to The East Room for lunch whilst brandishing my tightly rolled umbrella will be preferable I think.
Thanks for the info about the new Virgin rule, Mrs P: as a pleb and a prole I always travel cattle class, and it's nice to know I can get a free upgrade.
ReplyDeleteMaybe I'll end up sitting with la Pouncer next time I sally into London?
Toodle pip
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Do you remember those rather dinky Green Line buses that ran from the back end of Paddington out to Windsor. That was a nice run when my sister lived down that way.
ReplyDeletePat, what little green thing? Oh God, not more little green things. I often see them, you know. That's when I know I've had enough.
ReplyDeleteDear Gorilla, I have the costume you describe wrapped in lavender tissue paper in the chest at the end of my bed. It was a particular favourite of my old squeeze, P. Sissovate, the Camden leisure pirate. I looked dreamy in it.
Mr Jekand, you interest me strangely. I like the sound of anything tightly furled, and as for brandished! Well, really. Meet me at the Villiers Street exit of Embankment underground next Wednesday at 12 noon. Bring money.
DT, I must disappoint you, and probably in the cruelest way. Whenever I travel to town, it is always in the company of my patron, the born-again gorblimey merchant and gallery owner, Lee Vitt-Art. We sit huggermugger from Reading General to Paddington talking in a thrilling whisper to one another and drinking from a shared hipflask. Kissin' cousins, I tell you.
Oh Kev, I do. You always take me back to gentler times, and thank God someone does. I see us in St Mary Mead; I am wearing elbow-length gloves, and you are in thigh-high waders, although no-one knows why. Possibly we solve a thrilling murder in a cricket pavilion, or maybe we discover a shared hatred of Battenburg. It's a world of opportunities.
Bus conductresses should be brought back, if only for for ornamental purposes. There was one when I lived in Sheffield (route 52 Darnell - City Centre) who was the most gloriously butch lesbian and looked quite a lot like Adolf Hitler.
ReplyDeleteBus conductresses used to be known as "clippies" from the days when they punched your ticket. Was the 44A the one that went through Emmer Green? You may remember my aunty Dotty who used to lead the community singing on the upper deck. She always left the pensioners singing "Goodbyeee, goodbyee, wipe a tear baby dear from yer eyeeee" when she got off at Kiln Road and waved as they chugged away.
ReplyDeleteNice links and italics - where's the bold? I refer you to any one of a million "guide to html" documents on the web. I am also wondering what is the green thing Pat is talking about.
I shall start by saying how awful it must be for everyone in Londres with the tube strike today. Three cheers for Auty, however, and his trusty tricycle! All those nay-sayers will be laughing on the other sides of their florid, beer-swollen visages this morning. However, I see with a thrill that the Northern Line - which has a special place in my heart - is reporting a "good service" and, as usual, has knocked the dismal old Piccadilly into a cocked chapeau. Rahrahrah the Northern! For too many years I lived in Clapham Common and worked in Villiers Street, so Embankment, Waterloo, Kennington, Oval, Stockwell, Clapham North, Clapham Common is a mantra I hear in the dead moments before sleep.
ReplyDeleteAnyhoo, yes, Gadjo, you will see that I reference "Titch" Hitler in my last comment to Inky. There is something about the reliability or otherwise of public transport that brings the old curmudgeon's name into play. If there was a clippie and a lady-driver on the bus, they were usually a couple. How sweet is that? And how sad that those days are gorn.
Sudden thought: it is obvious, now, that the character of Butler - the old fuhrer on On The Buses - was based on Titch! Even the names have a similar ring ...... Butler - Hitler ...... small moustache ... hatred of the underclass ..... Alsation dog named Blondi ...... trench coat ..... tearoom high in the Bavarian Alps. I can't imagine how I missed the link before!
Daphne, a small point, but an important one: are you muddling up Sonning and Sonning Common, two completely different places? Emmer Green and SC were served by the Alder Valley Traction Company (bright green livery) and I think it was the 24 that went to Kiln Road and all stops past Grove Lane. I had a boyfriend in Rotherfield Greys an sometimes he hadn't enough money for his busfare, so I had to make the hellish trip out to South Oxon. He went on to become a horse-whisperer, and I can't say I'm surprised.
Now please Mrs P and Daphne listen carefully. I am quoting from dear Guyana Gyal who taught me the linkage:
ReplyDelete'Now at the top left of your blog page(actually that is Dashboard)look next to 'b' for bold and 'I' for italic..you will see a green icon. It says 'insert link.' Click on that green icon. A little box will open up. It should say: enter URL and there's a little white space that says http://'
OK?
How do you get from ear to ear?
ReplyDeleteVia Green Line.
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Thank you, Pat! Daphne, did you know this? Nor did I. This opens up (another) world of possibilities for me. I also want a music-playing facility like yours, and I need to know how to do umlauts. Then, and only then, will I be happy.
ReplyDeleteScarlet, is this a punne? If so, it is not a very good one. I suppose you made it up yourself, like those dreary jokes you compiled for your home-made crackers last Christmas. Do you not feel that the time is right to set your sights on higher literary achievement? I hope you feel humbled by Kate L. Brown and her book; I know I do. I intend to publish one, too. Mrs Pouncer's Pensees it will be called, to be followed by Mrs Pouncer's Ponces and finally Mrs Pouncer's Pince Nez. A trilogy. The greatest publishing houses in the Thames Valley will be begging for my patronage. I will start work on a synopsis tonight, after I have finished my latest poem. Great heavens, it is gushing from me at the moment. I have never felt so fertile.
I must admit to getting all misty eyed over the number 12 from Marble Arch to Bayswater (and beyond). Now thats what I call a bus !.
ReplyDeleteI say Mrs P , you were a little brusque with poor Miss Scarlet , some would say curt even.
ReplyDeleteBeast, tais-toi! I was not curt with Scarlet. On the contrary, my response to her (extremely perfunctory) comment was the wordiest of all, with several helpful hints rammed in, not to mention a strong moral compass, a foolproof plan and a watertight alibi. No friend could do more. And the number 12 goes to Downing Street. Some say that the eery tones of a long-dead conductor are still to be heard at the witching hour, when all is still and the tearstained face of Hazel Blears, peering from the smeary window of a Comfi-cab outside number 11 catches the yellowish light from the flickering streetlamp. Only then can the ghostly mumble be heard: Do Not Distract the Driver while the Bus is in Motion.
ReplyDeleteI am working on Scarlet's Pussy. Well somebody has to.
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...obviously not right this moment cos that would be rude...
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...and I might expand Scarlet's bush... but that'll probably upset the neighbours again...
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I'll shut up now.
I commute to work on my bicycle along a road which runs beside the local estuary. I recognise that I am extremely fortunate.
ReplyDeleteI do greatly covet Stringer Davies' tricycle...
ReplyDeleteScarlet, once again, I fail to understand your thrust. Kindly simply your thrusts, or place them elsewhere.
ReplyDeleteHello, Madame Cake! You may regard yourself as fortunate to cycle along a canal path; I, on the other hand, would be appalled to undertake such a venture. Noblesse oblige.
Kevvy, oft-times have I visualised you on a top-of-the-range Belize Tri-rider, with pedal reflectors and a back platform. Once, I saw both you and Gadj, on matching machines, pedaling hell for leather at Maidenhead Thicket. That was the day I had washed down my codeine with Bombay Sapphire.
ReplyDeleteI think I am a bit simply.
ReplyDeleteDid Gadj and Kev get tripped up by the roots in the thicket? And did their tricycles have wicker shopping baskets? Just curious.
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Naturalments les wicker baskets! How else could a gentleman carry his portable gramophone about the land?
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Myself I've always favoured a 12-gear Holdsworth in racing green with Reynolds 5-3-1 tubing and quick-release wheels for those hide-oneself-and-ones-bike-quickly moments down at the thicket.
ReplyDeleteGosh, Mrs P, I can hardly wait. As luck would have it I will, indeed, be in London next Weds and am free at that time. I assume by the reference to the Villiers St exit of Embankment you are thinking of lunch at the Savoy? Although a splendid plan, might I suggest an alternative venue? A trusted acquaintence has recommended a place called Coco de Mer in Covent Garden - extremely convenient for Villiers St. I'm not sure what genre of cuisine is served there, but I hear the decor is quite exciting, with many a tightly furled thing well brandished.
ReplyDeleteRight back atcha, Mr Jekand! However, Miss Flaring, of the Progressive Kennels, Marlow, can't accommodate the dogs that day, so they'll have to come, too. They are darlings, both of them. Inky is a long-haired Clumber, very affectionate, always rogering the coats in the cloakroom, that kinda thing. Acky, on the other hand, is an agressive and unpredictable Scottish Terrier. On a short lead and be-muzzled, he is fine. But if he scents fear or, worse still, pork products, such as luncheon meat, he is a true handful. I had him castrated and microchipped last month, to no avail. And he hates men.
ReplyDeleteWednesday could still be a go, Mrs P. I have contacted Coco de Mer (although I suspect, from the conversation with their maître d', it may not be a silver service establishment). The young lady I conversed with assured me that they have a fine range of dog collars and leads of all sizes as well as many other forms of restraint. However, she giggled when she used the word restraint so I suspect she may not be Kennel Club trained
ReplyDeleteScarlet, Kevin answers your question, and in double-quick time. He has a wind-up gramophone and some 78s of Gert and Daisy. This is where he gets his repartee.
ReplyDeleteGadj, no bike-bragging, I beg. We don't want all-comers going down with cycle envy. (This comment is rammed with entendres, both single and double. It is one of my specialities).
Mr Jekand! I do so love the way you keep coming back for more. Next Weds. then. The lesbian who de-ticks my fox terriers will care for Inky and Acky on that day, so I will be dogless. KIndly take me to Rules.
I've dropped you an email, Mrs P, to discuss logistics. I'll make sure I fly a distinctive flag from my wooden leg so that you'll be able to recognise me
ReplyDeleteI think you have mail, Mrs P.
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Mr Jekand - yeah. Scarl - whatever.
ReplyDeleteReally vile hangover. Was in Warwick last night and got completely hammered on mojitas. I will address all corresp. tomo.