You remember Pyrrhic victories, right? When the cost of winning makes victory worthless? Well, it seems that’s where our brave revolutionaries seem to be finding themselves. I’m not even talking about the whole moral side of things – despite the whole head-on-a-stick unpleasantness back in the Imperial Palace last week. I’m talking about the actual physical cost of taking the country.
Harry the Dog told me on Saturday that the real action’s not even begun yet. Keep an eye on the borders, he reckons. Those neighbouring countries – with leaders every bit as nasty in their own way as the man we saw ripped apart on live TV last week – are eyeing up events with interest. They could have intervened, one way or another, months ago. They didn’t. And the question is why?
They’ve got standing armies. And, according to Harry’s sources, all leave has been cancelled. Those standing armies aren’t going to be standing for too much longer. There’s a whole nation there with borders wide open, a bunch of peasants in charge and seemingly no international community interested in backing them up.
There are three neighbouring regimes eyeing the place up, Martin. And according to Harry the Dog at least, it’s going to simply be a matter of who reaches the capital first.
So, as they say in California, like totally Pyrrhic, right?
Au revoir!
Dan
Letter 36
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, October 5. Amount of my day wasted: zero minutes. Fellow sufferers: Train Girl, Guilty New Mum, Lego Head, Universal Grandpa, Competitive Tech Nerds.
Check it out! High drama on the morning train! It all went off on the 07.31, as someone once said. (OK, nobody’s ever said that, but you know what I mean.)
Today’s the day Lego Head cracked. And it was pretty terrifying. (There’s also swearing, Martin, just so you’re warned. If you’re of a sensitive disposition, look away now.)
I know that technically there was no actual delay on this train, but I couldn’t wait to tell you all about it. It’s huge, Martin. It’s amazing. Unprecedented. And I’ve got to tell you about it now. You don’t mind, do you? You probably owe me a few minutes from somewhere along the line.
So. Things started as usual. Everyone in their usual places on the platform, the Coach C regulars rooted to the same spots as always, shuffling forwards to the yellow line (do not cross the yellow line!) as the train heaved itself heavily alongside. The nod and the wink to Universal Grandpa at the door, the sympathetic smile to Guilty New Mum as she bustled and panicked her way down the aisle, dropping a diary and a bottle of Calpol out of her handbag, phone glued to the ear as usual, letting Sue know all about her latest troubles with the croup (‘And now I’ve only brought the pissing Calpol to work with me and left my glasses on the bathroom shelf. Which means I’m not only blind all day and am going to have to bluff it through the whole stupid G8 thing but we’re going to have to get another bottle of Calpol in case she worsens this morning…’).
Train Girl turned up late, like always, flying down the platform and blowing a kiss at the guard as he held open the door for her and tried to look stern, landing on the seat next to me with a laugh and a pair of scalding coffees. And before we’d cleared the outskirts of Oxford, the Competitive Tech Nerds were at it again, showing off home music studio apps to each other on their iPads (like either of them have any need for a home music studio anyway. Who do they think they are? Brian Eno?).
And opposite them, next to Guilty New Mum, Lego Head. In the aisle seat. Facing opposite the direction of travel. And, as per, straight and calm and still in his seat, gazing at nothing, focusing on nothing. In a state of nirvana. The Buddha of the morning commute.
Until…
‘Yeah, but I’m talking mic and plug-in recording options. That’s what’s really important, not whether you’ve got 16 or 32 tracks to record on.’
‘Not true, mate. It’s all about the mixing desk. And with more tracks to play with, the better the mix. Any producer will tell you that. Any.’
‘You’re falling into the classic trap there. Sergeant Pepper was recorded on an eight-track, as well you know.’
‘Sixteen-track, mate.’
‘Wrong. Eight-track.’
‘Listen, mate, don’t talk to me about Sergeant Pepper, OK? I must be the biggest Beatles fan there is, I’ve got all the albums, I’ve seen McCartney twice and the Bootleg Beatles half a dozen times and I am telling you that Pepper was recorded on a 16-track deck in Abbey Road Studios in 1968. You are way out of your league, my friend, way out.’
‘I’m way out of my league? You’re way out of your le—’
And then it happened. I watched it all unfold, surreal and in slow motion.
With an almost perceptible snap, Lego Head’s eyes came back into focus, he lowered his head and fixed the Competitive Tech Nerds with a look so full of contempt, so loaded with scorn and disgust, I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. First one, then the other noticed, and the conversation petered out. And then he spoke. For the first time in all these hundreds of journeys we’ve shared, Lego Head opened his mouth and spoke.
‘Sergeant Pepper,’ he said, slowly and carefully and in a surprisingly low tone and with, of all things, a Scouse accent, ‘was recorded in 1967. On a four-track recorder. Four. Not eight, not sixteen. Four. So why don’t you both shut up until you know what it is you’re talking about. Or better still: shut up altogether.’
One of them started to say something and Lego Head held up a hand for silence. ‘I haven’t finished. Nobody cares about your music studio apps, or your GPS apps, or your content delivery apps, or whether you view them on Apple or Android or fucking Microsoft devices, or what MP3 players you use, or what headphones you plug into them, or what sort of dock you plug them into, or what fucking phone you use, or what laptop, desktop, tablet or fucking CALCULATOR you fucking use, or how many fucking megabytes or gigabytes or FUCKING TERABYTES you have or whether your fucking TV is a fucking smart TV or a fucking HDTV OR 3DTV OR A FUCKING TARDIS. NOBODY CARES, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? NOBODY FUCKING CARES ABOUT ALL OF YOUR USELESS SHITE. SO SIT DOWN, SHUT YOUR MOUTHS AND IF I HEAR ANOTHER WORD ABOUT ANY OF IT I’M GOING TO SHOVE IT ALL DOWN YOUR FUCKING THROATS. ALL RIGHT? ALL RIGHT?’
He was screaming by the end. Standing up in his seat like some huge, furious Scouse rhinoceros, screaming at the top of his voice at the cowering pair. The rest of the carriage was in dead silence.
When he finished he simply sat down, closed his eyes, tilted his head back and resumed his former position, as if nothing at all had happened. And, given that this was, of course, on a train in Britain in the morning, everyone else pretended nothing had happened too. Guilty New Mum made another call, Universal Grandpa resumed his crossword. It was like a paused DVD had started again – everyone just picking up where they’d left off. Carrying on regardless.
All except me and Train Girl. I stared, open-mouthed. She burst out laughing. ‘Bravo!’ she shouted at Lego Head. ‘Well said, that man! A fucking Tardis! Ha!’
I kept my eyes on the Competitive Tech Nerds. They both looked like they were about to burst into tears. Can’t say I blamed them either, and I told Train Girl to keep it down. Yes, they’re idiots, and sure they’re annoying, but nobody deserves that kind of humiliation, do they? Not in front of everyone?
And besides, I was a bit scared Lego Head might turn on us too.
The rest of the journey to London was sort of the same as usual. I say sort of, because it was like we were all pretending it was the same. Something fundamental had changed (Buddha had turned into… I dunno, Thor?) but everyone kept up the pretence that all was normal. All except Train Girl, who kept glancing over at them and laughing. Too much so, if you ask me.
So, like I say, sorry for the letter when there’s no delay. But I bet you’re glad I did write, eh? Whatever next!
Au revoir!
Dan
Letter 37
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 20.50 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, October 5. Amount of my day wasted: three minutes. Fellow sufferers: Sauron Flesh Harrower.
Oh, Martin. Isn’t this just typical? There I was this morning, dashing off a letter to you when there was no delay to speak of, and here I am this evening, slumped and frustrated and reeking of cheap wine outside Reading, subject to a proper, real-life delay. I could have saved that stuff from earlier, couldn’t I? I could have written it all down now – and at greater length, in better detail, with more vivid colour.
Whatever shall we discuss? There’s so much to say! Life is very long.
Life is very long, when you’re lonely. Morrissey said that, as you well know. (You remember Morrissey, don’t you? Lead singer with chirpy cockney bubblegum pop outfit Steve Morrissey and the Swinging Smiths. Had a string of Stockhausen–Waterman produced hits in the 1970s. Famously played their last gig on a rooftop in Jimmy Savile Row. Drummer only had one arm. Bassist sacked to be replaced by Sid Vicious. That’s right! That’s the one! Steve Morrissey! Had a well-publicised affair with Kylie Minogue. Enjoyed a Britpop chart battle with Oasis. Replaced Cheryl Cole as a judge on X Factor USA. Steve Morrissey! Good old Steve Morrissey!)
What’s that? I’m talking rubbish? Well yes, perhaps I am. I may have had a drink. I may have spent the afternoon getting good and sauced with Harry the Dog at the pub over the road from work; we may have gone for lunch and never come back… but nevertheless. My train is delayed and a letter must be written. You have a duty to listen, right?
No? OK, I’ll shut up. Was only three minutes anyway, right? See if I care.
Oh: one more thing. Sauron Flesh Harrower is on this train, and you know what? I’m beginning to think I recognise him from somewhere. Is that mad?
Au revoir!
Dan
Letter 38
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 22.50 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, October 8. Amount of my day wasted: ten minutes. Fellow sufferers: No regulars (Saturday).
Dear Martin
Apologies. I may have been a little over-emotional in my last letter to you. I may have let the drink do some of my talking. Believe it or not, shambolic and disgraceful as your trains are, and despite how much I wish I wasn’t delayed so much, I do (sort of) enjoy writing these letters to you. It’s nice to talk to someone about stuff.
It would be nicer if you wrote back a bit more, obviously. I’d still love to know what you made of Lego Head’s outburst the other day, for a start.
But then also, I’ll confess, it is nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t know me, I mean. Someone away from the madness of work and someone away from the difficulties of home. I’ve only really got two proper friends – I married one, and the other… well, the other is Harry the Dog. He is a mate, of course, but I wouldn’t actually tell him anything serious. He’s a drinking mate, a laughing mate, a swapper of tales and creator of anecdotes. He’s not someone to confide in.
And then there’s Beth. She’s both a laughing mate and someone to confide in. That’s what she’s always been – that’s why I married her. But lately, we’ve changed. I don’t know why, or even how exactly, but I wish we hadn’t.
Are we having a crisis, me and Beth? I hope not. I don’t want to have a crisis. I want things to be the way they were. I don’t want to have to go through everything that couples having crises go through. Can’t we just stop all the nonsense and start again? Press pause, rewind, record over all this new stuff?
Maybe. I hope so. I want to. I just don’t know how to. Let me explain. Let me tell you about last weekend. What with everything else that’s happened, I still haven’t told you about last weekend.
Let’s put it this way: Beth and I both had a great time last weekend. Though not with each other, obviously. She was away at her baby-bonding thing; I was out in London town with Train Girl. (My new friend, I guess. My third friend.)
What happened? Well, my wife came home full of enthusiasm and energy. She had a spring in her step and a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye. The baby-bonding stuff was amazing, she said. She felt she really got closer to Sylvie, that the pair of them really connected, and that as a result from now on she was sure things would be easier for Sylvie at night. She was full of talk of baby massage and baby sign language and eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose and skin-to-skin contact. It was brilliant, she said, I should have seen it.
And what did I say? I said: great! Fantastic! So pleased! I even asked how Mr Blair did, as the only man there. ‘Oh him,’ she said. ‘Dunno. I didn’t really notice him, we were in different groups, mostly.’
The thing is, I was genuinely pleased she had a good time. I am genuinely pleased, I mean. And it was lovely to see her smiling again, to see the spark and the bounce and the energy back. She is still the girl I fell in love with, you know. That’s not changed. She’s still the coolest girl I’ve ever known, despite it all. And of course I missed little Sylvie when she was away – I missed our own bonding time, those late nights and super-early mornings on the sofa, her snoring on my chest, me watching atrocities in North Africa.
But then, I also had a pretty good time last weekend. I met up with Train Girl again, we hit Soho again, we got good and trashed together again. And we didn’t talk about work, or about babies, or about how little sleep we were getting, or how the kitchen tap needs fixing. We talked about… actually, I can’t really remember what we talked about. We talked rubbish. We talked and talked, we talked non-stop – and it was all fun, and most of it was funny (most of it hilarious in fact) and then when the pubs were kicking out she led me to this illegal basement bar off the Tottenham Court Road where there was a full-on Northern Soul party going on and an ancient man with dreadlocks who looked like a prophet and stank of ganja was selling cans of Red Stripe at a quid a go, and we danced like idiots to early Motown classics until about four in the morning.
And all that night, Martin, even when she tripped on Old Compton Street and fell – literally, movie-star-like – into my arms and I caught her, instinctively, one hand cradling her head and the other round her waist so I could feel the skin (soft, warm) where her shirt had ridden up from her jeans; all that night, even when we were mock slow dancing together to the Supremes in that basement bar and both her arms were raised around my neck and her hands were locked together at the back of my head and we were so close we kept stepping on each other’s feet… all that night, we didn’t even kiss. Not so much as a peck, except when we said goodnight, and I sloped back to Paddington to get the morning train home.
We didn’t kiss. Of course we didn’t kiss! Because, ludicrously, ridiculously, even in the midst of it all, even in the heat of the moment and under the influence of a good deal of alcohol, I kept thinking about Beth. My first thought on entering that basement bar was ‘Beth would love this’. Despite it all, Martin, she’s always on my mind. And the oddest thing of all is, I can’t exactly tell her so, can I?
Au revoir!
Dan
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 22.50 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, October 8.
Dear Dan
Thank you for your four letters this week and please accept my apologies for the three delays you experienced. The problem on Tuesday was entirely a fault of Network Rail, Wednesday evening saw us fall victim to vandalism of a signal box near Acton, and the delay to your journey on Saturday was the unfortunate result of a knock-on problem caused by earlier congestion from a cross-country train in Reading.
And please do not apologise if your letters occasionally veer towards the over-emotional. The truth is that while o
f course I am always sorry that you have to write to me at all, I do experience a little guilty pleasure at reading of the ‘inside track’ at the Globe! Your job – although I’m sure rather difficult in the present circumstances – does sound very exciting!
As regards the incident you mentioned with ‘Lego Head’: I have filed an official report on his behaviour. Regardless of provocation, foul and abusive language cannot be tolerated on any Premier Westward train – further incidents may lead to the beginnings of disciplinary action. Thank you for bringing that to my attention.
Best regards
Martin
Letter 39
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, October 12. Amount of my day wasted: 14 minutes. Fellow sufferers: Train Girl, Lego Head, Guilty New Mum, Universal Grandpa.
Tally ho, Martin! Buck up there! Keep the old spirits high! Awful rotten luck in the rugger, of course – for England to go out like that, in the quarter finals, to a team as flaky and flukey as the Argentinians. Worse luck still to see our chaps so humiliated; and positively despicable sportsmanship of the victors to all peel off their shirts after the game to reveal ‘Malvinas’ t-shirts underneath. Terrible. Just not cricket at all. Not cricket and not rugby.
Still. Never mind, eh? Let’s not dwell on what might have been. Let’s move on!
Thanks for your reply, Martin! I’m so pleased to hear you’re pleased to hear from me. Strictly speaking I wasn’t really reporting Lego Head for anything, but I guess you’re welcome anyway. And to be fair to the man, since it all happened he’s been back to his usual self: implacable and unmoving in his seat all the way to Paddington. Competitive Tech Nerds have swapped carriages, however: I see them in the morning a little further down the platform, skulking with the amateurs at Coach E. (I say amateurs because, as I’m sure you know as well as I do, Coach E is the first of the standard coaches we all cram into, and as such tends to fill up much quicker than the others as the non-regular commuters panic and jump on the first available carriage they can find.)
Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time Page 14