Sunday, 2nd March 2008, 8:23pm

For the past three weeks, having commuted around London via the DLR and tube services, I had no real complaints. Sure, it was a bit tight for space in the rush hour, but nothing I wasn’t expecting. I’d had no delays, no breakdowns, no over-amorous buskers, nothing.

Until yesterday evening.

Friday evening, the end of the week. I usually go straight home after work via the bearpit that is Euston. The moment your train appears on the board with a platform number, it’s like a crack squad of marathon runners with briefcases have all been unleashed, as they sprint for the train with a determined air about them – they know that if they can beat all the other plebs then they will gain that ultimate honour – a seat on a Friday evening train.

This Friday, however, Sunin was in town, so I was heading back to Scott’s instead. This involves several changes of transport to get from Angel to the East End, including a tube to Bank and then a couple of DLR trains. I was on the second DLR service as we pulled into Limehouse, and a fight erupted on the platform. There were raised voices on the platform, and raised eyebrows in the train. We sat at the platform for twenty minutes while half the East End’s police arrived to break it up.

I should have known this was a bad omen. Still, with a good night’s sleep inside me, I gamely set out for home on Saturday morning. I knew the DLR was closed for engineering, so I caught the bus to Trafalgar Square. No problems there. I then got on the tube to Euston.

The Northern Line is not the most glamorous of all the tubes, particularly not the Charing Cross branch, which I’ve always seen as something of a poor relation to its City-bound cousin. The 1970s look of most of its stations probably doesn’t do a lot for its image, to be fair.

The train that pulled in was relatively empty, and I got a seat near the door. As we departed the station, a man from a seat further down the carriage got up as if he had wanted to get off there, and made as if he was going to force the doors open. Of course, he couldn’t, so kicked at the door and then lingered in the doorway for a while. I assumed he’d missed his stop and that he would simply get off at Leicester Square and go back one station.

He didn’t. Each time we departed a station, he would attack the doors again, much to the consternation of the other passengers. The lady sitting next to me was getting quite upset by it, particularly when he began shouting at nobody in particular. This being London, most of the other passengers acted like this was completely normal, and ignored him.

It all came to head as we left Goodge Street. Not satisfied with trying to dent the doors and put his fist through the window, he embarked on another loud and incoherent rant, then pulled the passenger alarm. Not a great start. The train promptly screeched to a halt and the driver spoke to the carriage over the loudspeaker. He had to come back through the train to reset it, a t which point he told the weirdo to calm down and that he’d arrange help at the next station. As we got moving again, people were doing the whole “Don’t look at the loony” act, some more convincingly than others. Thankfully, it was shortly my stop.
Euston Station was suspiciously quiet. What was even quieter was the departures board. No train was going further than Watford Junction, which was rather worrying as Coventry is quite a distance from there. A message on the information screen exclaimed “Make sure you keep all your baggage with you.”

Helpful.

Eventually it was replaced with the rather less important information that due to some sort of incident there were no Virgin or London Midland services going anywhere. Seeing as how those are the only operators serving Coventry, I was a bit stuck. Thankfully, a helpful member of staff on the platform suggested I head for Marylebone and get a Chiltern service instead.

With a heavy heart (and a heavier bag) I headed for Euston Square, thanking my own foresight for having bought a travelcard, so as not to be charged extra for this detour. At Marylebone I discovered that this was where the usual throngs which clog Euston had gathered. A long queue of confused tourists lined the ticket hall awaiting information, while people with large suitcases and guitars sprinted up the platform towards the Snow Hill service.

There was one slight issue with this train. It was doing a passable impression of a Northern Line service approaching Moorgate at 8:30am on a Monday morning. To say it was full would be an understatement. People’s limbs were sticking out of the doorways at various angles as the human Twister game inside played itself out. It was almost as if somebody was having a “How many people can you fit in a 4-car Clubman” game, and surprising themself with the answer.

Having no chance of getting on with my large heavy holdall, I stepped back onto the platform to join the next service instead. At least this meant I got a seat. By the time we departed, the train was again full and standing, and the guard was making various announcements along the lines of “If you don’t want to be squashed in, wait for the next train.”

To be fair to Chiltern, there wasn’t a lot they could have done. At some point I assume Virgin and London Midland could get some sort of shuttle service going with buses, but this being our wonderful privatised railway system, I somewhat doubt it.

Postscript:
I eventually went via Leamington and Birmingham New Street, and got home six hours after leaving East London. Next time I'm bloody well driving.

Comments

Travelcard? TRAVELCARD? Get an Oyster card already. Fool.
Tom

I did - it was a travelcard on my Oyster.
Moogal