Showing posts with label Provinces. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Provinces. Show all posts

Thursday, 25 March 2010

A Gambler's Guide to the East Coast Mainline

Polish Ecstasy tend to let a gambler’s attitude pervade most aspects of life, whether this be staying in bed until the last possible moment (and beyond) before being massively late for work or taking death defying risks as we leap through closing doors and speed through red lights on the daily commute.

In the first of these columns, which are gambler’s guides to everyday life we’re going to address travelling on the train and principally the Peterborough to London, East Coast Mainline route.


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The leaden poetry inherent as the driver intones “St Neots... Sandy... Biggleswade...Stevenage... Potter’s Bar”; the oceans that would swell and recede season by season on the flood plains between Ely and March, the sense of leaving behind places you’ll never ever know; there is a mundane beauty to travelling between Britain’s big cities by train.



As the carriages wait on the outskirts of forgotten towns and cities or trundle across the fields between, the passenger is left to gaze out into the middle distance somewhere between the scenery and their own reflection. Needless to say, these pleasurable moments of disengagement are all too often interrupted by hair gel slicked provincial teenagers - all Breezers, nasal voices and cheap aftershave; gales of boozy laughter from toxic hen parties, banal conversations conducted at hurricane volume, persistent coughs, roaming stenches, lonely perverts or the silent threat of shark-eyed psychopaths but somehow they abide in the gaps between.

Many other grave assaults on the senses face the travelling man on his way across the country but none inspire greater feelings of helplessness and impotent rage than the dreaded site of the ticket inspector emerging through the doors at the other end of the carriage.

As a child travelling with my parents I‘d always felt a twinge of annoyance when arriving at the end of a journey, unchecked ticket in hand, knowing that we could have got away with it. Later, having begun criss-crossing the country’s railway networks under my own steam during my faltering adolescence, the nebulous morality issues surrounding paying my fare began to crystallise - like the abundance of jelly in a British Rail pork pie - around one thing: the crushing effect it had on my already sparse pocket money. Seeds of resentment were sewn.



The years passed with the haircuts, a brief trist with the Ministry of Sound's 'Ibiza Annual' and various other misguided obsessions and love affairs (Kimberley Stiff, the elusive and ultimately treacherous Carol) came and went and in the autumn off 2002 I left for university. During the fallow weekends I would often find myself travelling home for band practises or to London on the trail of The Libertines. Feelings of overwhelming freedom abounded, all wrapped up in warm beer, blue smoke*, and the songs of ‘Up The Bracket’.

As my visits to the capital became more common the seed of disobedience that had formed in my childish breast began to flower and I would take my ticketless chances with more or less unhindered success on the route operated formerly by WAGN between Peterborough and London, all the time gaining knowledge and expertise. It is with these fond memories in mind (as well as mounting consternation at constantly rising ticket prices and their ever more abstract relation to increases in service quality and reliability) that I hope to give the gift of worry free travel that only an extra thirty quid in your sky rocket or a near failsafe excuse system can bring, with the low down on how to minimise fares along this well worn route.

*Not Crack.

Disclaimer: Polish Ecstasy does not condone fraudulent or naughty behaviour in any fashion whatsoever.


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For those of you unfamiliar with the route in question it is important to remember ticket inspectors travel infrequently up and down the line so it’s always necessary to keep an eye out for them. Anecdotally speaking, the amount of times you bump into one and are forced to part with some cash tends to be a sufficiently low percentage of total trips to recommend a policy of blanket free travelling. The trick is to minimise the damage when you are caught and the best way to do this is to remember the last station you passed so that you can claim to have got on there. It is necessary to know which stations do not use ticket barriers (make a reference to the check-list below) as it is perfectly plausible that you may have had to run to catch the train and not had time to visit the machine.

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Check List

  • Peterborough - Guards on exits at random times

  • Huntingdon - Barriers on Northbound platform

  • St Neots - No reliable data

  • Sandy - No barriers,

  • Biggleswade - No barriers

  • Arlesey - No barriers

  • Hitchin - Barriers

  • Welwyn North - No barriers

  • Welwyn Garden City -Barriers

  • Stevenage -Barriers

  • Potters Bar - No reliable data, barriers expected

  • Finsbury Park - No barriers

  • Kings Cross - No barriers, Guards on exits at random times

Notes.

* Getting off at Finsbury Park will save you trouble as well as time at the London end more often than not.

* Often Ticket Inspectors seem to swoop at Huntingdon.

* Stevenage is a shit hole.




Good Luck.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

Postcards from the Provinces #1: Leicester

Welcome to the first in an occasional series of postcards from the more ill-starred and unremarkable of Britain's medium sized, mid-ranking towns, cities and conurbations.


The first post comes from Leicester, the home of Walkers Crisps, reptilian MP Keith Vaz and the 'Grebo' artistic/sartorial movement.


Art: ‘Warbo’ was reputedly one of the pseudonyms of Andy Warhol protégé Jean Michel Basqiuat. This early work found near The Manor public house, former base of the Leicester City hooligan firm known as the 'Baby Squad', seems to indicate an artist still coming to terms with his identity.







Culture: In the 1980s Leicester was the epicentre of the almost instantly moribund Melody Maker/NME christened ‘Grebo’ subculture, being the fertile ground from which notable scene pioneers such as Gaye Bykers on Acid and Crazyhead sprouted. More recently Kasabian have picked up the musical baton.









Dance-floor Etiquette: A noticeable foible of popular dance in Leicester is a tendency to switch rapidly back and forth between moods of mouse like meekness and wild-eyed and unabashed sexual aggression, often within a single middle 8. Conversely, the men-folk keep a brooding vigil around the margins of the dance floor but are not so po-faced as to avoid making sport altogether, stepping in on occasion to steal an unusual hat.


Folklore: Pictured below is an area of wind-swept grassland in Thurnby Lodge(a council estate created after the city’s slums were demolished in the 1950s) which is reputedly stalked, according to local myth by a man with a ‘Freddie Kruger hand’.






Food and drink: A particularly foul regional take on Whiskey and Ginger Ale doubles as a kind of ersatz TCP, replicating both its noxious smell and its taste. If this sounds like something that might interest you I seem to remember the active element to be Laphroig Whiskey. If you plan to use this drink topically perhaps adding Baileys or Malibu to the mix may help.


Walker's Crisps may have been swallowed up by an international crisp conglomerate but Sandworth Brothers, one of the UK's biggest names in the sausage roll/tikka slice game is still resolutely flying the flag for Leicester cuisine in the nation's gut consciousness.


Indie Disco Review:
Mosh, St Nicholas Place.

Entry: Doorman are as inconsistent as is the norm. It is quite possible you will be marched outside to sober up in the rain simply for leaning on the bar. "Everybody does this in London" will not go down well by way of explanation, no matter how jokily it may be intended. The £2 entry charge becomes less reasonable the longer you spend inside.

Smell: Season-old shinpads.

Decor: Sumo's main, vain attempt to break up the dominant indie disco motifs of black painted walls and sticky carpets is to cover large areas of wall space with black and white pictures of callow young concert crowds, sharing an aesthetic resonance with Ezra Pound's imagist work
'In a Station on The Metro' . The faces are frozen in catatonic states of bliss, bewilderment or indifference, benign and oblivious to the events mostly not unfolding before them.

Refreshments: Cheap and nasty. The lager on tap is definitely something to avoid as it smells like piss and is only very slightly cooler in temperature.

Music Policy: Seperate rooms help to aggregate the worst horrors of the DJs' playlists. In the indie room there were odd occasions scattered across the night when it was possible dance to something which didn't make you feel dead inside. These were unerringly brief and followed by 'standards' from acts such as Oasis, The Killers and
Reef.

Dancing: Drastically lacking in humour. A web of joyless circles, backs turned on each other.

Romance:

Men: Young men adopt a contemporary variation of the Hijab skilfully crafted from their own straightened hair. There were so many helmets abroad that the dancefloor resembled a Sealed Knot recreation of the battle of Hastings at times. Worth further investigation if you're into Northern 'lad-rock'types, just.

Women: Thin on the ground. A gentleman's Field Mice t-shirt will definitely not recieve the recogntion it deserves. Lacking the self-assurance to share the smallest witticism or bon mot without recoiling as if from a phantom sexual attack. Stocky.


Physiognomy: The young men of the city create the disconcerting effect of having unusually small heads and comically over-developed torsos at the same time.


Security:
The authorities have the shit so locked down that police recently arrested a man for taking pictures of the council’s city centre Christmas lights. Violent tension around many of the city's nightspots was conspicuous by its absence.


Youth Culture: "Behind the times and playing it safe" J Phillips, Thurnby Lodge, Leicester



So there you have it. A few of the mundane eccentricites that came to light in Leicester, one of Britain's identikit, middle sized cities. Please share you're own experiences of the city with us. Promise to write again soon,

Lots of Love


Polish Ecstasy

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