A Funny Thing Happened To Me On The Way to Work...

Laughter and commuting are words that rarely co-habitate in the same sentence. Words like mundane, repetitive and annoying are more likely verbal bedfellows when recalling your morning journey. The rare exception to this rule occurs on those the days when you happen to get on the Chiltern Line train that happens to be operated by that driver who happens to have a lunch-box full of one-liners beside him in the wheelhouse.

If you haven't heard this guy's morning soliloquies I won’t hold your skepticism against you. I majored in Skepticism, with a double-minor in Cynicism. The truth is, this type of unsolicited banter and observational commentary is the sort of self-indulgent intrusion I normally detest. Even now each time he starts with the jokes I find myself thinking 'Oh, leave it out…'. But half way through his act I start smiling a little bit. Even stranger, I find myself actually looking at other commuters and sharing a smile with them, too! Wow. On the commuter circuit that’s about as common a sight as seeing someone flossing their teeth. It just doesn’t happen.

The truth is, this guy isn't that funny. It's all really a rather pedestrian attempt at comedy. But that's just it…at least he's attempting it. It's more than most people do. And let's be honest...this is a tough crowd. You’ve never seen longer, greyer, less-ready-to-laugh faces than on a rainy Tuesday morning commuting in to Marylebone.

So, put your skepticism away, turn your Blackberry off and enjoy this guy while you can before someone reports him. Reports him for what, you might ask? Heaven knows? But he surely must be breaking some kind of rule! Using Official Property To Electronically Distribute Personal Opinions That Do Not Necessarily Reflect The Policies And Opinions Of Deustche Bahn, maybe?

You know what…I’m only half joking.

Commuter Roulette

It’s a rare Chiltern Line regular who doesn’t dabble in a spot of Commuter Roulette now and again. It's all done very quietly and no money ever changes hands (that I know of) but that doesn't mean it's not happening. Believe me, it is. In between furiously typed emails and in the split second gaps when newspaper pages are turned a committed and growing number of homeward-bound passengers are sizing up their neighbors and making their calculations.

It’s a simple enough game to play; you merely look at the commuters around you and guess which stop they will get off at. There are myriad variations depending on which train you're on. For example, if you are on the 7:33 to Stratford-Upon-Avon and you live in Beaconsfield the extent of your game is to guess who is continuing onward and who is getting off at Beaconsfield, the train's first stop. On the other hand, if you are on the 8:06 milk run to Aylesbury you will experience the maximum challenge. I'm talking Wembley, Northolt Park, The Ruislips, Denham, Gerrards Cross, Beaconsfield and beyond. Only with the full compliment of stops can you properly test your skills of observation and intuition.

So, what are you looking for? What is it that indicates a person’s provenance? Well, age plays a role, as does time of travel, type of newspaper being read and type of electronic device being used. Depth of tan tells you something, as does accent, cut of suit, presence of cycling gear and degree of spatial courtesy shown to neighbors. All these seemingly innocuous little clues can, to the well-trained eye, be converted into raw data which can then be applied to your betting.

So, lets get started. The key focus when trying to spot someone likely to alight at the first few stops (Wembley, Northolt Park and Sudbury Hill and Harrow) is age, style/quality of clothing, proximity to the doors and quality of case. If you see a young man in a High Street leather jacket standing by the doors with a carrier bag he is not going farther north than the southern-most Ruislip...at best. Dead cert. Bet heavily.

Next up are the Ruislips themselves, South and West. Ruislippers are tough to nail and are, by and large, an instinct call. Haircut and footwear (neither any good) can provide guidance for a would-be Ruislip spotter, but the sharper eyes are focusing for what’s not there. The jacket not hanging on the little bolt on the back of the chair in front. The lack of food and drink in hand or cupholder. The absence of a three-inch thick Wallander novel. It is this sense of impermanence, this lack of even the most temporary signs of nesting that marks out the abbreviated journey of a Ruislipper.

Now it gets a bit tougher. Post-Ruislip we enter an area I call the Fairway, a continuous string of posh Golf Clubs around which have sprouted the towns of Denham, Gerrards Cross and Beaconsfield, with the tough-to-pin-down Seer Green and Jordons sandwiched in the middle.

For what it’s worth, I don’t really have a tip for SGJers. Like their town, I am at a loss to find anything interesting or remotely distinguishing about them and so usually just thumb my chips at this point.

As for the other three, as I say, it’s tough. By and large commuters from all these places look similar. My advice is something like a spread bet. Break the carriage down into three groups: Comfortable, Well-off and Loaded. Then put all you’re your money on the Well-offs bailing at Denham. Oh, and ignore anyone on board who looks uncannily similar to Ruislippers as you now know the remaining people on board with bad hair and bad shoes live in High Wycombe.

OK, all that’s left now (if, like me, you live in Beaconsfield), is separating the Gerrards Cross lot from the Beaconsfield crowd. Posh and Becs.

As rule GXers are a bit fatter, have deeper tans, wear a better quality (though more predictably cut) suit and are considerably louder than their Beaconsfield cousins. If you hear a South African accent, you are hearing a GXer. If you see slicked-back hair, you are seeing a GXer. Honestly, it’s not hard. If you feel a sort of inexplicable loathing…put your money down.

As for the Beaconsfield lot. Bromptons are a bit of a giveaway. Slightly younger, cooler professionals tend to get on and off here. As do, sadly, a lot of long-skirted women with a briefcases and trainers. There seem to be more oldies getting off here, too. It’s not the best-looking lot but (and I admit to being a bit biased) there is something reassuringly genuine about us Beaconsfielders, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Change For a Pound, Guv?

They say everything has its price. Well the price to relieve yourself at Marylebone Station is 30p.

Not 40p. Not 25p. But 30p.

I'm not sure how they arrived at this price, but one can only assume that after a series of studies, focus groups and heated debate between senior ranking Chiltern Line officials and various transportation ministers, 30p was adjudged to be the optimum tariff for these services. Debatable, of course. But surely in greater need of debate is the reason to charge at all?

Should this not be a free service provided to passengers? Are we not right to feel exploited when our biological needs are seen as another opportunity to generate increased cash flow? Furthermore, are we to believe this dribble of earnings has any noticeable effect on the bottom line of such a transportation behemoth (and Chiltern Line owner) as Deutsche Bahn?

No, there must be another reason. But what? We can probably assume it's not to discourage commuters who need a wee from having one (what would be their motivation be for doing that?). So who are they trying to discourage going in there? Drug dealers? Gangs of unruly youths? Prostitutes? If they are, it's working. I go to Marylebone station twice a day and have yet to see a single hooker or junkie hanging around making deals...just commuters. And the spiciest thing most of us are looking for is a bag of Thai Chili crisps from M+S.

The truth is I actually wish they'd bump the price up to a pound. What happens when you arrive with only a 20 pound note and a few pound coins in your pocket? Then what? You're a grown man with a briefcase and a bag of groceries and now you either have to sneak into the Victoria and Albert pub and use their facilities (which incidentally are the world's most disgusting) or hop over the turnstiles at the pay toilets. I opted for the latter a few months back when this happened to me and while I took a certain satisfaction at giving two fingers up to the man, I also very nearly crashed to the floor when my trouser leg got caught on one of the turnstile bars. If that had happened I almost certainly would have expressed my growing frustration by kicking one of the stall doors, which would have been captured on CCTV, which would have been watched by a security guard, who would have been waiting for me outside and taken me to some depressing office to issue me a fine.

I know there are far more important issues to be resolved in the world right now, but nineteen quid for a peak return ticket and I can't even have a free wee? I've had enough. It's time to take to the streets. Come on! Who's with me?

Super-Aggressive Public Keyboard Fingering

It is a sound that is only twenty years old and yet already it has broken into the top 50 annoying sounds of all time, surpassing bubble gum popping and closing in rapidly on public whistling. And secondly only, in commuting terms, to the despised earphone-spillage. It is the rapid-fire tip-tap of that Next-wearing, middle-management-aspiring boffin with the 5 year old Dell laptop who always seems to sit two seats away from you.

Clearly the noise alone this thrusting young Turk makes is quite bad enough, but it's actually the layers of subtext so easily read into his furious fingering which so amuses and annoys.

The palpable sense of urgency. The wave of importance pulsating off him. The focus, the flare, the obvious potency. And, of course, the speed. Few people can type as fast as me. Ever. You don't even have to look at me, just listen. Hear that? Sure you do. That's the sound of my urgency. Others may play at committing their important thoughts to electronic paper, but not me. No, I am executing this contact report on yesterday's meeting the way an Olympic sprinter executes a race...with focus, commitment and savage speed. Blackberrys? iPhones? Way too small. Way too quiet. Don't make me laugh.

Don't I know you?

The commuter's life is one of repetition. What happens today is, more or less, what will happen tomorrow. And what will happen tomorrow is, more or less, what happened three days ago...on the train, at least. You get used to it. You come to expect it. In time you even start to like it. That nothing new will happen sort of removes any responsibility to pay attention. Why waste time looking out the window when nothing changes?

The other day, however, this Groundhog Day-esque ritual moved on to a new level of surreal duplication when the person who sat beside me on the way into London in the morning sat beside me on the way back up to Beaconsfield that night. This same-day seating dopio is among the most unnerving and, indeed, rarest of on-train coincidences. Most will go a whole working life commuting without experiencing it, but I am no longer a member of that club. I have been blooded.

In this situation the question that comes to mind first is does my repeat seating partner know what's happening or not? Secondly, do I mention it? It feels weird not to, and yet exactly what conversation is meant to commence whether he has noticed or not...one about coincidences? How deep could that be, especially when we both know we'd rather be reading World Cup predictions in our Evening Standards?

No, as you might expect, neither of us said a word to each other about the coincidence or, for that matter, about anything else.

Plus ca change.

Departure Board Personality Test

Marylebone is not a big station but it still offers the homeward bound commuter a number of options when choosing a place to stand and wait for the big board to announce the platform number for his or her train. To be precise there are five main waiting positions in the station and while the one you choose may not seem significant to you, the subtle difference in each position speaks volumes about the personality type of the commuter. What follows is a handy way to find out what your chosen standing position says about you as a person.

DIRECTLY BELOW THE BOARD:
A simple and honest, if somewhat unimaginative choice. This entry-level waiting position does exactly what it says on tin. There is the board, I'm standing under it and waiting. Boom. Nothing wrong with that. People who stand directly below the board are mostly straight-forward, clean-living people, if a bit dull. Few, it must be said, are high achievers. But that's no surprise. Especially to them. Bless.

UP NEAR THE TURNSTILES:
Interesting. While not prepared to stray too far from the safety of the big board, this subtle shift toward the platform effectively removes these commuters from the fray and puts them one step closer to the turnstiles when their track number is finally assigned. If this is your standing place you are fractionally smarter than a Below the Boarder...but not much. Your puny evolution in standing position scarcely disguises a distinct lack of ambition unlikely to be limited to train stations.

THROUGH THE TURNSTILES, TO THE RIGHT AT THE BASE OF TRACKS 1 AND 2:
Ah...I see what you did there. Initiating a pre-emptive move through the turnstiles but still within viewing distance of the big board provides these canny commuters with a decided advantage in train proximity (and therefore prime seat choice) over their more conservative co-commuters. And tucking out of traffic's way behind the wide goods gate shows a degree of courtesy not often found in modern train travel. If this is where you stand, congratulations. You are a sharp, ambitious mover with a caring side. Doff of the cap, sir.

THROUGH THE TURNSTILES, TO THE LEFT AT THE BASE OF TRACK 3:
You noticed that little mini-board hanging there, did you? Well spotted. Sure, it's intended use is for the station master, whose office it's attached to and sure, you're blocking the way a bit, but what the hell, you've paid for a ticket and it's a free country. These controversial commuters tread a narrow path between ambitious and irritating with, quite frankly, irritating pipping it most often. If this is your patch you are bold, strong-willed and highly, highly annoying. Now move out of the way you selfish bastard so we can get by!

HALFWAY UP THE PLATFORM ON TRACK 3:
Wow. These bad boys aren't afraid to roll the dice. Yes, they're farther up the tracks than any other clutch of waiting commuters and yes they have located another blurry mini-board...but it's risky up there. People who wait here know their train usually arrives on one of the higher number platforms...but not always. It's precisely this uncertainty, this potential for mayhem that a rebel commuter like this lives for. This dangerous game of platform poker exposes the maverick side of his personality. It's not for everyone, but these Adrenalin junkies feed off the risk and reward of such a ballsy waiting position. More power to you.

Norms, Observations and Annoyances: No. 7 - Tin Soldiers

Tin Soldier is the name given to a commuter who chooses to drink canned beer on his return journey to the suburbs.

While this is perfectly legal, makes no noise and certainly, within the confines of the train carriage, isn't harming anyone there is still something mildly disturbing about open on-train commuter beer drinking.

University students on their way home from a gig is one thing. But it's something altogether different when it's a businessman heading home on the 7:06 for dinner with his family. Tin Soldiers are usually a pretty uniformed lot: suited, mid-40s, large of body, ruddy of face. And they always drink the same beer...M+S specials. The green tins of lager being by far the most popular.

So what is it that makes this so disturbing? It's not a fear of drunken behavior as there's not enough time to get properly wankered on a commuter train. And it's not the oddly misplaced smell of alcohol, though that is pretty off-putting. In truth, it's more the smell of desperation which is a bit disconcerting. How great is your need for beer that you will publicly consume a semi-warm can of own-label lager rather than wait until you get home? Furthermore, how little do you care that the everyone around you thinks you're a bit of a dick?

Actually, that last bit makes me like him a tiny bit more.

Annoyance Ranking: 5