The voice over the tannoy apologises for the late running of the train, and also the ‘heavy loading’. He means the fact that we’re packed together in way that would make sardines think they were travelling club class. ‘But then it IS Friday afternoon,’ he says. Yes, that’s true, we say. It IS Friday afternoon. Nobody who runs a rail network could possibly have seen that coming. At Stalybridge about a trillion of us spill out onto Platform Four, and stagger over to the notice board. Have we missed our connection? No, the Huddersfield train is also running late. Thank goodness for that. So now all we have to do is set up camp on Platform Four and wait. Decades pass. My chess game’s beginning to improve, and I’m quite liking this new beard I’ve grown, although it’s a bit whiter than I’d anticipated. Eventually there’s an announcement: ‘The train now approaching Platform Three will be the delayed Paleolithic service to Huddersfield...’ Platform THREE? When did they announce this sudden change of platform? They didn’t, of course. But they are now. So we hastily pack up our belongings – tents, yurts, Backgammon sets - and make a dash for the tunnels. Some of the babies that have been born since we arrived start to cry. Down into the tunnels, out the other side, through the woods, and up the embankment towards Platform Three we scramble. Is the train still there? Yes! We can just make out its grey shadow in the mist. But we can also hear the engine revving. Will it wait for us? A heroic effort from the front runners, who gain the platform and fling themselves at the hydraulic doors. They’re in! By linking arms and forming a chain we ensure that the train can’t leave until every last man woman and child is aboard – a fine show of community spirit, but unnecessary as it turns out. This train is going nowhere. It has to wait for the oxymoronic ‘Transpennine Express’ to pass through. Apparently due some time in April. Out come the Backgammon sets and the concertinas once more... When we finally get under way, the Ticket Collector comes round. Few people have actually seen the Ticket Collector before. The trains are usually so crowded that it’s not worth him bothering to put in an appearance. So the more customers there are, the less revenue is collected – an interesting business model. Some of the children think he’s Kriss Kringle, and a couple of old ladies reach out to touch his raiment. He looks at my ticket and says, ‘This is off-peak. It’s not valid on this train.’ ‘Well you’re the one who sold it to me.’ I say. ‘Back when I was a boy. I asked for a day return to Manchester, and that’s what you sold me.’ ‘I can’t help that. It’s not valid now.’ Fortunately I have my service revolver about me. So I take it from my inside pocket and shoot the blighter. Now I’m on the lam. But don’t worry, I haven’t gone far. If anyone wants me, particularly anyone from the Transpennine railway company, I’ll be at the bar. I still have five bullets left.
Posted on: Fri, 03 Oct 2014 21:14:39 +0000