Tourist Guide to London Underground - 5 Essential Tube Rules

Tourists visiting London, first of all, let me just say – it’s not you, it’s us.

We sigh as you cluster around the entrance to a platform, perusing the tube map or just looking a bit lost.

We grumble as you block the left hand side of the escalator, denying us swift progress to wherever we’re going.

We mutter – and maybe even give you ‘a look’ – as you spend several days trying to figure out how to use the only functioning ticket machine on a morning when we just happen to be late for work.

You see, you’re not to blame, but you’re stopping us from getting to where we want to go a few minutes earlier than we otherwise would have! This is the SOLE AIM of any true Londoner – and you obstruct us at your peril!

Yes, we’re being unreasonable. We know that. But in order to foster better relations between you and us, I offer you a guide to using the London Underground network just like the natives.

RULE 1: You don’t HAVE to get on the train in the middle. You can move along and get in at either end too! Tube trains are quite long – as long as the platform, in fact. This appears to be something you’ve failed to figure out thus far. Admittedly this isn’t true of Circle Line trains – we’ve done that to catch you out just when you think you’re getting the hang of things.

RULE 2: Just to reiterate: Never, ever get in the way. Fine, so you want to stop and watch the really crap busker playing bongos he obviously rescued from a skip. Just do it against the bloody wall or something! Don’t you know we have SOMEWHERE VERY IMPORTANT TO GO and we need to be there NOW, NOW, NOW?

RULE 3: Don’t look aghast at the crumbling infrastructure and grime. It’s all stage-dressing to make the Americans feel they’re getting a proper ‘heritage’ experience and to fool Europeans into feeling superior.

RULE 4: For the love of god, don’t try to engage us in friendly conversation. We’ll just think you’re insane and recoil in fear. We British are simply too shy to make eye contact or talk to strangers. Until we go on holiday. Then we’re quite happy to dress as naughty nuns and drunkenly flash our genitals at anyone.

RULE 5: Don’t plan to go anywhere fast at weekends, as we shut down half the network to replace the Victorian steam-powered signals and Stone Age flint tracks. In fact, don’t plan to go anywhere fast during the week – our finely tuned, precision engineered trains break down more frequently than Ferraris – that’s the price you pay for such dream machines.

OK, that’s it. Before you visit, commit these simple rules to memory. After all, you wouldn’t want us to give you ‘a look’ would you?

Threadless and Luckless

My t-shirt submission to Threadless has been rejected! In their jaunty American way they tell me that "we feel your idea could use a little more work" and "we hope you take these decline reasons to heart and use them to rework your submission and resubmit" (if they were a creative director, I think they'd have said "it's shit, do it again"). Ah well, it's their loss etc...grumble...gripe...

Doktor Avalanche Threadless T-shirt Attempt

I've meant to do this for YEARS...

Threadless is a t-shirt site where budding fashion-fuhrers submit designs for generic male/female cotton under/work/youth garments and visitors to the site vote for their favourites. The design with most votes gets made into a t-shirt and sold. My effort is a bit shit, but I'm hoping that it's at least accepted to be put up for the vote. It is, of course a tribute to the pre-eminent rock drummer of the 80s - Doktor Avalanche, drum machine from the Sisters of Mercy.

Random Desktop

Here's where my mind took me in my lunch-hour. Analyse as you see fit and please use as a desktop (just click on the pic to see it full-size and right-click). Thank you to FFFFound and Skiffy for the original images.

What a Bastard

I’ve recently been reading a book about a ‘royal bastard’ – the illegitimate son of a Prince. He has a pretty rubbish time of it, with his origins used to abuse and shame him throughout the novel.

This seems to have awoken a certain amount of reflection on my part, as I’m a bastard myself (though lacking royal blood). Of course, I use this term provocatively. We live in an era where judgments about one’s birth are muted or, indeed, nonexistent entirely.

However, as the son of an unmarried, single mother in the 1970s, it was a source of deep shame and embarrassment to me. It’s not something I like to recall often. Not because anyone was particularly cruel, but because fear of being different drove me to tell some ridiculous lies. I’m now disappointed that I wasn’t stronger and proud of who I am.

I remember I only started to feel the need to lie when my mum and I moved to Leamington Spa from Manchester. I was seven at the time. We lived in a poor neighbourhood in Manchester, where there were several other single mothers and so it wasn’t an issue with other kids in my gang at school.

However, in Leamington Spa, it was all small-town values and nuclear families. I think, even at seven, I knew that a dead father is going to get a better response than one who’s just off the scene. So, as far as any of my new friends were concerned, my dad had died. He met his demise in various interesting ways, I seem to remember, but I think the most common version was a car crash.

The other lie was that my mum’s boyfriend at the time was my uncle. I didn’t realise at the time that this was a terrible cliché, I wish I had tired harder to be original (something like “my mum is in a bizarre tree-worshipping cult and that bearded man is her guru”).

Who knows? Perhaps I saved myself a whole heap of teasing. After all, children are vindictive little shits. One classmate, whose mum had polio, was relentlessly bullied and ridiculed. Because his mum was in a wheelchair! Jesus, the Ku Klux Klan has nothing on kids.

Ultimately, however pragmatic I was, I regret not being true to my mother and my real origins. The story of how I came into the world was never shameful and is, in many ways, more interesting than my lies. But that’s a tale for another post…

Random thoughts: Reception

A company’s reception area offers a big clue to its character. I’m sitting in one now. Beautiful minimalist décor and elegantly designed lighting, but receptionists who have spoken to me with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. Steel, grey and white. Modernist leather chairs that feel like Mies Van Der Rohe designed them whilst in a particularly sadistic mood. Counter-intuitive doors on the toilet that open the wrong way so they feel locked until you pull them.

It’s all semiotics. The body language of an entire company.

I’m considering what all this tells me and waiting for someone to collect me. That’s always an awfully apprehensive feeling when you have an interview. The hope of someone grabbing you quickly when you see people approach, then the anticlimax when they walk past, looking at you looking at them and knowing you’re waiting for an interview. One feels exposed and a little foolish.

I’m not here for an interview, however, so at least I can relax, feel my arse go numb in this torturous piece of furniture and look high-powered and dynamic by writing this on my laptop. It seems to me that we spend a great deal of our working life trying to look high-powered and dynamic when, in fact, we’re flawed and a bit foolish.

Or am I simply driven to introspection by this stripped-down corporate purgatory?

In Praise of Ish

I was thinking about what a great thing 'ish' is. In fact, I suppose I should say it's great-ish. Just by adding 3 letters to the end of a word, that word immediately becomes ambiguous and vague. Is it cold outside? No, its cold-ish. Will we meet at six? No, let's hook up around six-ish. Hungry? Well, I am a bit peckish, not to mention puckish in my occasional mischievousness.

I wonder whether this is something that's peculiar to the English language and hence betrays a very English desire to skate over anything that sounds definite? Emily, my French-speaking wife, suggests there isn't a French equivalent.

Do other languages have 'ish'?

I Might as Well Face It, I'm Addicted to GRRM: A Song of Ice and Fire

I’m a fanboy snob. I was one of the kids who had their minds blown by Star Wars in 1977. My favourite novels as a lad were Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion sagas. After such brainwashing, you’d therefore expect me to lap up any old fantasy or sci-fi crap, perhaps even getting the peroxide out and dressing up as Elric of Melniboné at fan conventions.

I am quite picky about what genre shit I consume, however. This is possibly why I managed to miss out on the gargantuan talents of George RR Martin (or GRRM as his fans call him). The name didn’t inspire confidence, I guess. Anyway, after coming across a discussion of his stuff on Amazon, I decided to buy the first of his ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ series, ‘A Game of Thrones’. Now I’m completely addicted – I spent yesterday anxious awaiting the arrival of the third novel in the series like a crack whore awaiting a rock.

The book is primarily set in the fictional realm of the Seven Kingdoms. The world is at a medieval level of development, so no surprises there: you have knights, castles and all the usual feudal gubbins. The plot charts the realm’s rapid descent into a great big civil war that makes the War of the Roses look like an episode of Gladiators. On top of this strife, a decade long winter is descending and sinister forces are gathering in the north...

When I began reading it, I wasn’t very hopeful. I’m not a fan of the cod-mediaeval stuff, so the setting seemed a little tired. However, I liked the multiple viewpoint chapter structure, with the potential for irony as different characters address the same events through their own lens. And, as I read more, the writing seemed richer and standard fantasy trappings became subverted and, frankly, brutalised. It starts as Ivanhoe and ends as 120 Days of Sodom.

Primary protagonists die. Moral lines become blurred. The plot shifts in unexpected ways. The mediaeval setting becomes darker, characterised by violence against the poor by those with power (rape, pillage, massacre, torture, all perpetrated by ‘honourable’ knights). I love that stuff in novels – having my expectations messed with. Even fantasy stories become far more immersive when they reflect the random chaos of the real world.

There are also lovely touches of good descriptive writing – all rooted in earthy nature, as is right from a medieval perspective. The other thing that reflects a mediaeval context is 14-year-old girls being married off and having sex, which has caused a certain amount of censure from concerned citizens on Amazon. I strongly doubt GRRM is a paedophile, but he does seem to be obsessed with children surviving the brutality of the world and becoming adults before their time.

Anyway, I’m now a big geeky GRRM fan and it’s great that he is still alive, churning these epic books out. Long may the addiction continue…