It's probably better that the brakes are stuck on, rather than stuck off. I presume they are designed this way. Nonetheless, it's not getting us to Reading any faster and when we do manage to make it that extra 200 yards into the station no doubt we will be slung off the train. The buffet may be open but whether or not it has any lager left is debatable.
On the plus side, the train manager does sound extremely posh and domineering and not at all phased by the fact that the driver is currently smacking parts of the brakes with a rubber mallet.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Irritating people on trains
Third Rate Western have managed to get me to London on time this morning and, midway through the return journey, they seem in significant danger of getting me home on time too. So to while away the time, I shall direct my simmering annoyance at my fellow passengers. Specifically the one opposite me.
Perhaps the message she is trying to give out is "Look at me, I have an iPhone". Well big deal, love, we don't want to hear the damn thing beep every time you touch its screen. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, but it looks very much like she is trying to prove that, just like monkeys with typewriters, if you jab an iPhone enough times the entire works of Shakespeare will emerge.
I could move to the quiet coach, I suppose, but since all the table seats were removed, I'm quite keen to retain my legroom. I could vent my spleen, but she looks quite phsychotic to be honest and I'm not sure I want to incur her wrath. She is now doing the crossword and seems very pleased with herself for writing in the word "dog". Into a 6-letter space beginning with R, but at least she's enjoying herself. Ok I might have made up the bit about the dog.
Perhaps the message she is trying to give out is "Look at me, I have an iPhone". Well big deal, love, we don't want to hear the damn thing beep every time you touch its screen. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, but it looks very much like she is trying to prove that, just like monkeys with typewriters, if you jab an iPhone enough times the entire works of Shakespeare will emerge.
I could move to the quiet coach, I suppose, but since all the table seats were removed, I'm quite keen to retain my legroom. I could vent my spleen, but she looks quite phsychotic to be honest and I'm not sure I want to incur her wrath. She is now doing the crossword and seems very pleased with herself for writing in the word "dog". Into a 6-letter space beginning with R, but at least she's enjoying herself. Ok I might have made up the bit about the dog.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Premature seat selection
A nice dose of chaos today to remind me why I drive to work these days. Already distraught at the thought of the last off-peak train of the week, my mood was not lifted by the prospect of severe delays heading into Didcot (is there a worse place to get delayed?) caused by some kind of signalling malady. So a mad dash to the Swansea train, with a change at Swindon giving the options of picking up another service back home, or calling the wife for a more civilised journey down the M4.
As I jogged past First Class (I'm carrying quite a bit of "Christmas" weight at the moment so to say I was running would be rather dishonest) I considered for a fleeting moment diving into a large leather seat and paying the excess fare, then trying to claim it back from a hopefully understanding boss later. But the moment was fleeting, and so I settled into Coach A along with the other 400 people trying to do the same thing. Imagine, then, my horror when moments into the journey the well-spoken train manager announced that "in the interests of safety, which is his top priority" he was declassifying First Class and we were free to relax in the thickly-padded recliners, draw the curtains and snooze safe in the knowledge that in a mere 3 hours we might make it to Didcot.
Sadly, the small matter of coaches B, C, D, and E stood between me and travel nirvana, as did about a thousand disgruntled commuters so I figured that any attempts to drag myself to the buffet and beyond would be fruitless.
On the plus side, good on the train manager for not only offering up First Class for the proletariat to sample, but also for doing his damndest to make sure that 97-year-old Maureen from Hereford knew exactly where and when to change to get safely home, albeit slightly later than she had planned.
Still, not an experience that would tempt me back into the swing of public transport. Monday brings with it the pleasure once again of Radio 4 and a smooth waft down the M4 in man's greatest triumph, the motor car.
As I jogged past First Class (I'm carrying quite a bit of "Christmas" weight at the moment so to say I was running would be rather dishonest) I considered for a fleeting moment diving into a large leather seat and paying the excess fare, then trying to claim it back from a hopefully understanding boss later. But the moment was fleeting, and so I settled into Coach A along with the other 400 people trying to do the same thing. Imagine, then, my horror when moments into the journey the well-spoken train manager announced that "in the interests of safety, which is his top priority" he was declassifying First Class and we were free to relax in the thickly-padded recliners, draw the curtains and snooze safe in the knowledge that in a mere 3 hours we might make it to Didcot.
Sadly, the small matter of coaches B, C, D, and E stood between me and travel nirvana, as did about a thousand disgruntled commuters so I figured that any attempts to drag myself to the buffet and beyond would be fruitless.
On the plus side, good on the train manager for not only offering up First Class for the proletariat to sample, but also for doing his damndest to make sure that 97-year-old Maureen from Hereford knew exactly where and when to change to get safely home, albeit slightly later than she had planned.
Still, not an experience that would tempt me back into the swing of public transport. Monday brings with it the pleasure once again of Radio 4 and a smooth waft down the M4 in man's greatest triumph, the motor car.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
It's (not) good to be back
Several months with not a single journey requiring the services of Third Rate Western has been most pleasant. Off to London yesterday, though, and even I am not stupid enough to attempt that journey in the car. There's only so much Radio 4 one can tolerate to be honest.
So, up early and away we go.
Suit - check
Wallet - check
Oyster card - check
Mobile - check
Check the live departure boards - check
And off to the station. I note that knackered old parking ticket machine is still proudly guarding the bottom of the steps to the platform, but there do appear to be a couple of new machines elsewhere in the car park. Whether they work or not is, of course, another matter. Never mind, I pay by text message these days - which is presumably what APCOA wanted to encourage me to do by failing to fix the machines for NEARLY TWO YEARS!
I digress. We're here for a train journey to London, not an investigation into parking facilities. So, although the live departure boards indicated all was well in the world of Third Rate Western it is, as is so often the case, not. Not at all. Bugger all trains is what it is, in fact. Something has happened, somewhere near Swindon. Not sure what, or precisely where, but chaos ensues.
In a rare moment of sympathy for the poor platform staff (even though they do have a nice warm box to skulk in), I take issue with a fellow commuter who seems to think that the staff have deliberately screwed up his journey just for shits and giggles. They clearly enjoy a crowd of irate travellers demanding to know where the train is. As it happens, they have no more idea than I do, and I even tried asking a pigeon.
So off we go to Bath, to get a train that's going to London, via Bradford-on-Avon and Newbury. An opportunity to gaze upon the beauteous vista that is Trowbridge is usually welcomed, as is a fleeting glimpse of the White Horse of Westbury, but this morning is really not the time to enjoy them, as I am late. Very late.
So, no-one, least of all the unfortunate platform staff, knew what was going on. Perhaps we should all be grateful, though, that amongst the chaos, the four revenue protection stalwarts were on guard, ensuring that nobody could get onto a train without a ticket. Not that there were any trains to get on, but if Hitler had taken that kind of view, he'd never have made it to Dusseldorf let alone Dover.
So, up early and away we go.
Suit - check
Wallet - check
Oyster card - check
Mobile - check
Check the live departure boards - check
And off to the station. I note that knackered old parking ticket machine is still proudly guarding the bottom of the steps to the platform, but there do appear to be a couple of new machines elsewhere in the car park. Whether they work or not is, of course, another matter. Never mind, I pay by text message these days - which is presumably what APCOA wanted to encourage me to do by failing to fix the machines for NEARLY TWO YEARS!
I digress. We're here for a train journey to London, not an investigation into parking facilities. So, although the live departure boards indicated all was well in the world of Third Rate Western it is, as is so often the case, not. Not at all. Bugger all trains is what it is, in fact. Something has happened, somewhere near Swindon. Not sure what, or precisely where, but chaos ensues.
In a rare moment of sympathy for the poor platform staff (even though they do have a nice warm box to skulk in), I take issue with a fellow commuter who seems to think that the staff have deliberately screwed up his journey just for shits and giggles. They clearly enjoy a crowd of irate travellers demanding to know where the train is. As it happens, they have no more idea than I do, and I even tried asking a pigeon.
So off we go to Bath, to get a train that's going to London, via Bradford-on-Avon and Newbury. An opportunity to gaze upon the beauteous vista that is Trowbridge is usually welcomed, as is a fleeting glimpse of the White Horse of Westbury, but this morning is really not the time to enjoy them, as I am late. Very late.
So, no-one, least of all the unfortunate platform staff, knew what was going on. Perhaps we should all be grateful, though, that amongst the chaos, the four revenue protection stalwarts were on guard, ensuring that nobody could get onto a train without a ticket. Not that there were any trains to get on, but if Hitler had taken that kind of view, he'd never have made it to Dusseldorf let alone Dover.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Where are the updates?
My regular readers (both of you, to borrow a phrase from Terry) will no doubt be wondering why I haven't posted anything for, ooh, several months.
Two reasons: firstly, much of my time has been taken up changing nappies and other baby-related activities. Secondly, I haven't commuted with Third Rate Western since April. Instead, I drive to work. In my old, thirsty, polluting banger. At 23mpg, it's still cheaper than taking the train, though. Let's do some sums.
The train taking the strain
Ticket to Bristol: £6.40
Parking: £4.50
Fuel to station: £0.50, perhaps
Total: £11.40
The car's the star
Ticket to Bristol: £0
Parking: £0
Fuel: £6 if I take it steady, £7 if I'm late
Not much of a decision, is it. But of course, I have to put up with spending longer commuting. Actually I don't. If I leave at the same time that I'd normally go to the station, it takes me 35 minutes to get to work, 25 if it's school holiday time. Door to door by train is 55 minutes.
So despite Mr. Brown wanting to tax us all off the roads and onto public transport, the good old car is still the relaxing, cheap, fast option.
Two reasons: firstly, much of my time has been taken up changing nappies and other baby-related activities. Secondly, I haven't commuted with Third Rate Western since April. Instead, I drive to work. In my old, thirsty, polluting banger. At 23mpg, it's still cheaper than taking the train, though. Let's do some sums.
The train taking the strain
Ticket to Bristol: £6.40
Parking: £4.50
Fuel to station: £0.50, perhaps
Total: £11.40
The car's the star
Ticket to Bristol: £0
Parking: £0
Fuel: £6 if I take it steady, £7 if I'm late
Not much of a decision, is it. But of course, I have to put up with spending longer commuting. Actually I don't. If I leave at the same time that I'd normally go to the station, it takes me 35 minutes to get to work, 25 if it's school holiday time. Door to door by train is 55 minutes.
So despite Mr. Brown wanting to tax us all off the roads and onto public transport, the good old car is still the relaxing, cheap, fast option.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
You only have yourselves to blame
In a rare departure from ranting directly at Third Rate Western, I feel it's time to address one of the main causes of the irritating, avoidable, smaller delays to services. The kind of 3 or 4 minute delay at each calling point, that ends up being 20 minutes by the end of the journey. The kind of delay that is caused by stupid passengers who can't be arsed to close the door behind them.
You see it at every station, pretty much every time a train calls. Everyone gets on, and then the platform staff have to walk up the entire length of the train shutting all the doors. Of course, the situation is even worse on stations that aren't manned (aside of the fact that arguably the HSTs shouldn't be stopping there at all) when the train manager has to do every door. And inevitably by the time he's finished, some late arrival at the station has left another one open and so the tedious cycle begins again.
When I was a lad (before I was sent down t' pit and had to eat gravel etc.) I'd get the train to and from school, on the London to Brighton line with old fashioned slam-door trains. There were no platform staff. The guard didn't have to shut the doors. The commuters did it themselves. Why? Perhaps because they knew that no-one was going to do it for them, and if they didn't shut them then they wouldn't be on their way to work any time soon.
So perhaps a social experiment is called for. Maybe if the platform staff stop shutting doors, and train managers simply announce "we are not leaving because someone hasn't bothered to close the door behind them" people will start taking 3 seconds out of their lives to speed up the journey for everyone else.
You see it at every station, pretty much every time a train calls. Everyone gets on, and then the platform staff have to walk up the entire length of the train shutting all the doors. Of course, the situation is even worse on stations that aren't manned (aside of the fact that arguably the HSTs shouldn't be stopping there at all) when the train manager has to do every door. And inevitably by the time he's finished, some late arrival at the station has left another one open and so the tedious cycle begins again.
When I was a lad (before I was sent down t' pit and had to eat gravel etc.) I'd get the train to and from school, on the London to Brighton line with old fashioned slam-door trains. There were no platform staff. The guard didn't have to shut the doors. The commuters did it themselves. Why? Perhaps because they knew that no-one was going to do it for them, and if they didn't shut them then they wouldn't be on their way to work any time soon.
So perhaps a social experiment is called for. Maybe if the platform staff stop shutting doors, and train managers simply announce "we are not leaving because someone hasn't bothered to close the door behind them" people will start taking 3 seconds out of their lives to speed up the journey for everyone else.
Give up your seats
I've been roundly chastised recently for the tone of my rants implying that I am aiming my wrath directly at the Third Rate Western frontline staff, when of course I'm aware that the vast majority of problems are caused by poor management decisions of epic proportions.
However, what is not acceptable is for a train to be at standing-room-only point, with all vestibules full of people, and for 4 Third Rate Western staff to be happily occupying 4 seats and having a nice chat and a coffee on their way, one presumes, to a training course in Bristol. There doesn't need to be a management edict to ensure that staff give up their seats when customers are standing (although I believe there is already a rule governing this) - it's simple good manners and all staff should understand that the customer comes first.
I think it's akin to having a client in the office and only one teabag left. You might really want a brew, but the paying customer has to take priority, surely?
However, what is not acceptable is for a train to be at standing-room-only point, with all vestibules full of people, and for 4 Third Rate Western staff to be happily occupying 4 seats and having a nice chat and a coffee on their way, one presumes, to a training course in Bristol. There doesn't need to be a management edict to ensure that staff give up their seats when customers are standing (although I believe there is already a rule governing this) - it's simple good manners and all staff should understand that the customer comes first.
I think it's akin to having a client in the office and only one teabag left. You might really want a brew, but the paying customer has to take priority, surely?
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