I love the Tube. Without caveat. Having used it almost daily
for the past three months, I thought I’d speak up during this temporary cessation in its functioning to confess my unbridled affection for it. A bit
like how you might declare your love for a comatose relative as they dribble
into the pillow. Sorry ladies, but you’re off the radar for now. I've got a
stonking great Tube crush.
I think this infatuation stems from childhood. One side
effect of having been in single-sex education from the ages of five to eighteen
is that I tend to understand the world primarily in terms of excretory metaphors.
In light of this, there’s something pleasantly colonic about the Tube; merrily shunting impacted passengers
through the bowels of the city and defecating them onto the pavement. Yes, it’s
taken a lot of shit over the years, but you can’t fault it: it keeps London
regular.
In addition, since I've only recently set up shop in the
capital, I’m still struck by the Tube’s superiority to all the forms of transport
I used during my younger years (discounting the quad bike I rode during a friend’s
eighth birthday party, because that was off-the-scale
bitchin’). Compared to Manchester’s Metrolink system – a transport network staffed
entirely by drivers who take pleasure in waiting at the station as you
hurriedly stuff your ≈ £17.98 single fare to Piccadilly Gardens into the ticket
machine and then pulling off just before you’re able to get on – it’s a paragon
of speed and convenience. Whilst the Tube is on the verge of introducing a 24 hour service and mobile contactless payments, the only major innovation the
Metrolink has introduced in the last twenty years is the ability to travel to Droylsden.
The wonders of the modern world, eh?
Its sheer efficiency astounds
me. We’re talking fascist Italy levels of regularity. On average, passengers
travelling in Zones 1 and 2 have to wait only two minutes between tubes. Compare
that to the 38 hour wait I’m sure I once suffered at Cornbrook Met station and
you begin to see my point. A few weeks ago my commute to work was diverted due
to a line closure – the cause of which turned out to be a man having thrown
himself under a train. Whilst this faceless individual preyed on my mind and conscience
for the rest of the day, the TFL staff needed only half an hour with the power
hose to completely remove him from the Victoria line. It’s enough to make
Mussolini spin on his meat hook in his grave
Sure, there are downsides – overcrowding and a general lack
of respect for personal space chief amongst them. But bemoaning the presence of
other passengers is like complaining that your favourite obscure band has
gotten too popular. Can’t we all just appreciate the role they play in our
lives? Plus there’s nothing better than the vaguely ambiguous thrill you get
when your crotch is forced up against the central pole during rush hour. Brrrrr!
Which is why I don’t resent the strike – if only for
reminding me how good I normally have it. Actually, I support the strikers. If
this miracle of modern transport is able to keep a 950-strong semi-redundant
ticketing staff on its payroll, in addition to everything else it achieves on a
daily basis, then I say good for it. I’m even a fan of Bob Crow. Partly because
in this age of gormless PR inoffensiveness, he’s not afraid to seem unappealing
in the eyes of the general public whilst serving the interests of RMT members,
and partly because he dresses like a bloody champion. I mean, look at the top
photo. Look at it and tell me that if his wardrobe was being worn by an
ethnically ambiguous Parisian twenty-something it wouldn’t be stickied to the
front page of The Sartorialist until
the end of time. So here’s to you, Bob. And you, central pole. (Call me? X)
