As a northerner, a resident of the sticks that are way out there, I grew up almost entirely reliant on scant service buses, and as such, only visited the places to which the buses went. Cities, like London, with their subway systems were a great source of envy for me. Trains, being not just cool, they can take you anywhere. Using these systems, like the London Underground, give you a different perspective of them.

My First Time

My first experience of the Tube must have been in the very early eighties, and I was very little, and don’t remember very much of it. A family trip to London on the brand new Intercity 125s, and that’s about as much I recall. So my first genuine exposure to the tube was around 1994 when I visited a friend in Watford.

Being a young adult of limited means, a student, I was using the National Express, like in the song, and the way from Watford to Barnsley was via Victoria Coach Station. And the best way to get to Victoria was an Intercity train from Watford Junction to London Euston, but that was something that only happened to people with money. The cheaper alternative was the semi fast commuter service in to Euston. Cheaper than that was the slower DC line to Euston. And even cheaper than that was the Metropolitan Line to Baker Street, and then the Circle to Victoria. An hour longer than the next best option, but it cost about £1.50 instead of a tenner.

I remember this journey particularly well because of much it contrasted with my expectation of London and the South of England. To make the coach from Victoria I had leave early, before seven am. And it was still dark, foggy, snow on the ground, and to get there I had to walk through a lonely municipal park, and for the entire twenty minute walk, I didn’t see another soul until I arrived at the tube station and purchased my ticket from a chap behind a little window. The train was waiting for me at the platform, and as far I could tell, the train too was empty. I had an entire London Underground train to myself. The first stop was a couple of minutes down the line, Croxley, and no one got on or off there either, and the snow was crisp, fresh, undisturbed.

It was the darndest thing, and I began to doubt the realness of my situation. Was I dead?

Obviously I wasn’t. The whole of the South East had just over slept or something. Having an entire train to myself wasn’t going to last though, and from then on it began to fill up and by the time the train arrived at Baker Street it was standing room only.

The thing I remember most about that train ride, aside from the emptiness at the start, was looking out of the window of a London Underground train and seeing open countryside and suburbs, and with a dusting of snow no less. The closer you get to London, the denser the housing gets. Victorian terraces that stretched as far as the eye could see, four of five, or even six stories tall, smoke bellowing from the chimneys. Very Mary Poppins.

Recalling this journey made me realise something about myself. This trip was the first and only time I ever used Baker Street station without a certain song getting stuck in my head.

The onward train from Baker Street wasn’t as pleasant as the first. The station wasn’t as empty, in fact it was positively heaving. And when I did manage to board a train, well, “like a tin of sardines” might be a well worn cliche by now, but its yet to be beat. It was packed. I was unable to raise my arms to hold a hand rail, but there was no danger of losing your balance as the train jolted about beneath the streets of London. I can’t even use the word jostle, for that would imply some degree of freedom of movement within the carriage. There was none.

Gone too was the scenery. We were now deep below ground. The delightful snow topped open countryside and suburbs was replaced with armpit. A lot of armpit. Armpit in ever direction, as far as the eye could see. I’d never held breath so long, and the diesel fumes and tabacco smoke of the open London air never tasted so sweet.

Since then, I have used the tube many times and found it just as unbearable at rush hour, but quite pleasant at any other time.

Their First Time

A year or so ago I was working in London and thought it would be a good idea if the wife and kids traveled down to meet me for a weekend of sights and sounds, and travel down to meet me they did.

It was a weekend of firsts, for all of us. It was the boys’ first long distance train ride, first time in London, first Black Cab, first West End show. It was my first, and last, Uber. It was also, the first time on the London Underground for the kids, and it did not go well.

We were staying at the Kings Cross Plaza, quite a walk from any tube station but I was absolutely adamant that we should have the experience of the London Underground. It would be fun. It wasn’t.

The nearest tube stop was Russel Square, so we walked there. I was particularly looking forward to showing the kids the steep long escalators that go so far down that you cannot see the bottom. Russel Square is not the station for that sort of thing. The platforms being accessed by lift. A very busy crowded lift as it happened. It took us a while to figure out how to buy tickets too. The whole system is geared up for using contactless tickets. You just present your oyster card, phone, or bank card to the gate and it opens for you. There was very little provision for passengers traveling with children that did not have oyster cards, mobile phones, or bank cards.

When we did finally make it down to the platform, it was quite exciting. You could hear, even feel, the rumble of the trains, the whoosh of air as trains whizzed through the tunnels, and that musty old ozone smell that is unique to the London Underground. This was what we’d come for.

The first train burst out from the tunnel and slowed to a screeching halt. The doors slid open for us to board, but we couldn’t, beyond the door was a wall of people, several layers deep. There was no boarding that train. We let it go and waited for the next one. It was the same. We observed the locals forcing their way in to the carriages and after watching the third train leave without us we resolved to give it a try.

We (wife and I) each took a firm hand of a child, straightened our backs, and took a deep breath as yet another train drew in to the station. I had the hand of the eldest, and as the doors opened, he stepped aboard along side his mother, who held tightly the hand of our youngest. Without warning. The doors slid shut, separating me from my assigned child, and my youngest from his mother. I pulled him away from the platform edge.

“I’ve got him” I shouted to my horrified wife, “Meet at next stop!”

And then they were gone. The train whizzed out of view and we had no option but to wait for the next one. I shudder to think what might have happened had the kids boarded the train together first, or been left on the station without us.

Onboard the train, our separated family unit was the talk of the carriage. All were disgusted that this could have happened. Where was the warning that the door was closing? Where was the guard? I don’t know why I didn’t make a complaint, this was a serious breach of railway safety rules. This one event would have been enough to put the kids off London, but that was only the outbound trip, later, we had to return to the hotel.

It wasn’t until much later that we returned to the Plaza, by then it was late, after eleven, and the platforms and trains were all much quieter. I think we used Leicester Square, and there was a relaxed friendly atmosphere as most passengers were wined and dined and returning from a pleasant night out. The train came in and we boarded without incident.

Just up from us was a young man sat hunched, his head in his hands. I only really registered that he was there at because it was just as I was looking in that direction that he suddenly belched the content of his stomach on to the carriage floor. It stank. We got off of that train and waited for the next one.

Larping a Commute

The thing that inspired this post to begin with was a recent trip to London for a few days, and my usual hotel haunts were unavailable so I ended up staying further out. Baker Street is well within walking distance of Bloomsbury but I rather liked the idea of pretending to be a beleaguered weary tube commuter for a few days. Larping, for the unitiated is Live Action Role Play-ing. I doubt that I will do it again.

Its nice for cities that have metros, they are fast and efficient, but in rush hour, they really aren’t fun. They are hot and sweaty, the London Underground has a constant temperature of 50 degrees Celsius, or there abouts, which is why it always feel so warm, even in winter. Even before I arrived at the station, there were crowds of people overtaking me on the pavement, a stream of people, a river, nay, a raging torrent of commuters.

Through the station gate and you have to make a payment to gain access to the trains. Everyone knows where they are going and work on autopilot. You hear the sighs from behind as you fail to complete the card payment at the gate in one fluid motion, adding crucial seconds to their journey. Baker Street station is on the junction of 5 lines, interconnected by tunnels and bridges and subways and walkways. Its easy to get turned around and find one’s self about to board a train in the wrong direction. Luckily, during rush hour, there are plenty of trains, but they’re all full, and it takes a few trains before one appears with a gap in the door way to accommodate you.

The ride itself is bouncy and awkward. You don’t want to catch anyone’s eye in case it got weird. I don’t know what would happen if that did occur, but I feel like it would be bad.

Baker Street to King’s Cross is three stops. More than enough to get the taste of a central London commute, and when you get there, you follow the swarm up the escalators and along the wide subterranean avenues. On the first day of my larping, there was some sort of delay, and crowds were gathering, hundreds of people penned in line like sheep. Its always a relief to break out in to the open air again, and promise ourselves, never again.

Please Can You Help Me

On the last day of this trip, after checking out, I made my way to the office for the last time. I had planned to take a photo of the commuters penned in like sheep to illustrate this blog post, but it was clear so didn’t bother. I took a wrong turn however and found myself walking beneath and along the undercroft beneath the magnificent train shed roof.

As I wandered past the shops and outlets beneath the railways of the international rail services, marveling at the Victorian opulence, my eye met that of another. To be fair, it was the pie that I noticed first. A disheveled young lady with a thick blue coat and backpack was eating a pie. She changed her course to intercept me. I had every intention of walking away but she said something and I had to stop.

“Please can you help me” She said.

Something about big cities and crowded spaces with strangers sort of shuts down your responsiveness to others I find. Like not wanting to make eye contact with others on the train. Whats the worst that can happen? Well, they might want something for a start. I was more than prepared to mind my own business and go about my day. For a moment, I was reminded of the movie Liar Liar, when Jim Carey’s lawyer that cannot lie character was asked on the street “can you spare any change”.

If I replied with anything other than yes, it would have been not only a lie, but it would have been a heartless lie. So I stopped and turned to face her. “What help do you need” I said.

She was very softly spoken and seemed to choose her words cautiously and deliberately. I do not know if she was recalling a well practiced script or thinking on her feet.

“Thank you for stopping and talking to me” She said. “I am homeless and destitute and I need to get money for a ticket”.

I am accustomed to this play. We have it up north, but its not usually a disheveled young lady asking politely. More often then not its a coarse “Scuse me pal you haven’t got twenty pence for the bus home have ya?” spoken in an accent not unfamiliar in one of the larger cities to the western edge of Lancashire.

“How much do you need?” I asked her, and she told me. It wasn’t a trivial amount, nor was it excessive, so I gave her what little cash I had on me. She thanked me, and said bless you. And its difficult to fathom because her expression was unchanged throughout the entire encounter, until I said “Bless You” in return.

Its almost better to believe that I had been scammed out of a small amount of money, than to think that there really are destitute and homeless people dependent on the generosity of commuters on the London Underground.

We don’t see that up north, not in the rural communities. There is no one around to ask for money for a start, and its difficult to imagine being asked for help every day without having to harden the heart a little. As useful as the underground is, I am glad I use it rarely.