Off The Rails

There are few things capable of persuading me that I would be a better or happier person if I learned to drive, but one of the big influences on that incredibly short list is a terrible train journey.

And oh, I've been treated to a belter today.

My first inkling that all was not well aboard the good ship Network Rail came on arriving at Carlisle station shortly after five o'clock, where I was greeted by what I initially took to be an amateur re-enactment of the fall of Saigon. Hordes of people were rushing down platforms in a panic, with trains arriving haphazardly in a different order to the timetable, and the electronic boards no longer displaying the correct information; in this maelstrom of mayhem, I managed to find the only southbound train in the station, and settled in for the ride home, only to discover within minutes of rolling away from the city that I'd actually boarded an express service to London Euston, stopping nowhere beyond Wigan.

Annoying, but not too much of a problem: after a quick chat with the conductor, I learned that my actual train was just behind the one I'd boarded, and I could easily hop off at Preston and change over. Until, just north of Preston, my actual train went and overtook the trundling snail I was sitting in. Amidst a wave of jubilant Morecambe fans returning from their League Cup victory at Blackpool, I was in for an hour's wait at Preston station for the next service.

In situations like this, railway platforms act like a sedative. The rhythm of the station's timetable and arpeggio-laced tannoy announcements give you something to focus on, and strolling up and down the platform can soothe you into a trance. I was almost in a zen state by the time the 19:17 pulled in, and I climbed aboard and found a seat for the trip in a positive frame of mind.

And then the train manager of the 19:17 announced that the line was closed and the service cancelled due to an attempted suicide on the line in Warrington. There would be no replacement train.

At this point, you get more familiar with the ordinary railway staff than you would under any other professional circumstances. As they deal with the endless parade of justifiably pissed off passengers, they fall into the weary-but-patient mode that all service industry workers switch to when their company's arsed things up and their gaffer's left them to take the flak. They were as kind and helpful as any people could possibly be in such a situation, and worked hard to find a way of re-directing each of the hundreds of stranded passengers so they could complete their journey. Will any of them be due a bonus for their good work? Unlikely. Will the shareholders of Virgin and Network Rail be due a bonus no matter what goes wrong on their watch? Probably. The funny thing about people who are only accountable to themselves is that the excuses they give themselves always seem to prevent them getting a bollocking from themselves.

So I chugged on home, through an hour's ride to Manchester Piccadilly and a further hour and a half's ride - after a half hour layover - to Wolverhampton. From there on, the only transportational nightmare I had to cope with was a taxi driver who decided that driving down a dual carriageway on the wrong side of the road was an adventure he'd always wanted to try. Still, after playing chicken with oncoming traffic, there's no place like home. I'm back safe and sound - just about - and still blipping.

Is there a lesson to be learned from all this? Aside from the facts that ordinary railway workers are good folks who deserve more praise than they get, and that the Fat Controllers at Virgin and Network Rail are incompetent to the point where I'd suggest they wear nappies and be spoon-fed until they can actually act like responsible adults, there's not much point at all. Shit happens. Me having a tortuous odyssey home is nothing compared to, for instance, whatever drove some poor bastard to try and end it all on a train track outside Warrington.

You have to maintain some perspective; that's something I worked out while standing on a station platform, in a zen state, listening to the chime of the tannoy and waiting for a train that was going nowhere.