‘Hi, good morning, thank you, lovely, hi, good morning, yes,
wonderful, lovely, splendid, fabulous, morning, lovely, thank you, morning...’
These are the kind of ticket collectors I like on my morning commute.
‘Railcard? Okay. Bye.’ These are the kind of ticket
collectors I do not.
And yet, there are dangers to both types. Both possess an equal
amount of power. Both are likely to query even the most logical of ticket-buying
demands. And, of course, as we know, with great power comes...the ability to
put you in a bad mood at any time of the day.
Allow me to explain. I get on the train every day at East Malling,
a tiny village station for those of you unfamiliar with each and every corner
of The Garden Of England’s gardens. What I’d love to do is buy my morning
coffee, perhaps greet the seller who knows me by name with a friendly nod and
order ‘my usual’, whilst the steamy scent of frothed milk and caffeine oozes
from the little wooden coffee hut, awakening my senses and preparing me for the
day ahead. I might even buy a newspaper, which I’d peruse from the platform in
a cosy heated waiting room, chatting to fellow passengers about the lessening
price of rail fares and the comfort of the new memory-foam train seats. Of course,
it goes without saying that I will have already purchased my ticket at this
point, smiling broadly at a flat-capped Southeastern worker with a round jolly
stomach who’d return my grin with unswerving gusto and a cheery wave. If he was
in a really good mood, he might even give me a discount. The train would glide
into the station each day precisely 30 seconds early, and I’d recline in one of
the plentiful seats. The ticket collector would skip from carriage to carriage,
reassuring passengers of that day’s service reliability and complimenting their
choice in outfits. No-one would moan. No-one would snore. All around would be
sighs of contentment.
As I’m sure you’ve now guessed, this is but mere fantasy. The
‘waiting room’ at East Malling station in fact consists of cold wooden benches
slung under a dripping bike shed of a roof. The place has been decorated with a
garish shade of blue in some chirpy rail worker’s attempt to cheer it up a bit,
but judging by the commuters’ faces, this bright idea has had next to no
effect. Instead, one tends to feels like a last-minute extra cast in a
low-budget version of Bear In The Big Blue House, where the Bear’s hooked on
energy drinks and the House bears a remarkable likeness to the grottiest of
public toilets. Even the smell is there. Indeed, the only drink I’m likely to
find at East Malling station is a discarded can of Red Bull or half-empty
bottle of White Lightening.
Tickets? No, of course not. After all, why install a ticket
machine when you can instead confuse barrier guards across London by providing
Permits To Travel that only get printed if you lodge your 5p coin into the slot
at a very specific angle? Oh, and let’s add to the fun every three days by
rigging said machine to flash a ‘No Service’ light- that’ll test their
negotiation skills when disbelief reigns at the other end of the journey.
‘What do you mean it’s not working? It was
working perfectly well yesterday. That’s one penalty fare with added
embarrassment- oh, and do you have your Feeling Like A Cheat card on you,
please Madam?’
But even before you get to these Barrier Warriors, you have
to face the ticket men. I say men, as in my experience, a noticeably high
proportion of the women tend to resemble the opposite sex. It must be in the job description. Now,
these fellas are a force to be reckoned with. Buy your ticket on the train and
you’ll be treated to one of four reactions:
1)
The Reluctant Accepter: ‘No ticket machine at
your station, you say? Ah, well I’ll do it for you this time, but try and buy
it in advance in future.’
2)
The Teenager: ‘Yeah, alright, whatever.’
3)
The
Doubter: ‘Did you really get on there
though? How do I know?’
4)
The Jobsworth: ‘A likely story. I’m going to
have to fine you.’
Number 1 is not a bad find. Yes, you’ll feel like
a crook for the five minutes it takes to purchase your ticket, but beyond that,
it’s pretty much plain sailing. You’ll nod fervently and enter your card
details, knowing full well you’ll never heed the advice because he’ll only say
the same thing again next time and after all, which self-respecting commuter
has the time to bother with advance purchasing at home when there’s sleep to be
had and onesies to be worn?
Number 2 is your best bet by far. The Teenager has only just
started his long and less-than-fulfilling career on the rail network. Tall,
pockmarked and with a noticeably jack-the-lad accent, he’s not really in it for
the Train Fare Banter, only the money to buy his next packet of fags. Besides,
he would be something of a hypocrite to fine the hardworking commuter,
particularly when his own fare-dodging days are only just behind him.
You can probably have some fun with Number 3. Not just a
Doubter, he tends to also be something of a Philosopher, questioning everything
he is told and everything he hears. ‘But why should I believe you? Why do you
think I’m saying this?’ My advice would be to bring up the Meaning Of Life. If
you’re really lucky, you may even get him to question himself. Once that
happens, you’re on the home straight ticket-wise.
Number 4, otherwise known as The Jobsworth, is the one
nobody wants to come across. This lad has been part of the network from the
beginning of Time Itself. He’s seen Big Changes, and is a stickler for rules
and regulations. He knows the lies, he knows the loopholes; he knows exactly
which stations have what. Trust me, nothing will get past him. The trouble is,
he’s not very easily convinced. Permit To Travel Machine not working? Okay,
prove it. You can’t? Fine. Then it’s Penalty Fare Time. End Of Story. There’s
not much that can be done about The Jobsworth. You could try incessant blubbing
or feigning a faint, but it may only antagonise him further. He’s heard all the
excuses before, and he’s not falling for any of them, especially if they’re
true.
I’m sitting on the train today, wondering which one I’m
going to get. It’s a veritable treasure trove of possibility out there, and I
have to be prepared. As my knees knock against a fat man’s rucksack, I rehearse
the reasoning process in my head. I do hope no-one reads this over my shoulder.
But all in all, I’m feeling pretty ready for it. If nothing else, these ticket
collectors are certainly increasing my debating ability. I’ll be in parliament
before you know it. I even took a photograph of the Out Of Service Permit
machine this morning in the vain hope that it’d pacify The Jobsworth. But I
doubt it, if I’m honest. He’ll probably just accuse me of photoshopping.
