Metrolink Revisited
Feorag
I never learn.
This weekend saw my SO and myself in Manchester for the Ancient and Sacred
Rite of Being Introduced To Mother (and also the far more important task
of meeting Cassandra Bastet -- the dark, feline love of my life).
The journey from Watford to Manchester was remarkably peeve-free. The train
left on time and arrived several minutes early at about 9.30pm. It wasn't
too crowded and our fellow passengers were quite civilised -- no brats
playing with their Game Persons at full volume, or posers getting incoming
calls on their mobile phones every couple of minutes.
Peeve: People being well-behaved and civil when I'm craving something to
peeve about.
My mother lives very close to a Metrolink station. Metrolink is Manchester's
new toy - a sort of combined tram/train thing joining Bury and Altrincham via
the city centre. Admittedly it is based on a good idea. Prior to Metrolink,
the two suburbs were served by trains which went to different stations and
getting across Manchester involved a short walk or a cheap bus. The trains
were about 30 years old and beginning to get a bit grotty, so "they"
decided to replace them with a fast tram system and join the lines up.
In reality, this "light rapid transit" system is no quicker than the trains
were and fares have doubled.
My loved one had never been to Manchester and was quite looking forward to
visiting it -- it has lots of weird attractions and arty places as well as
a number of spectacularly good hostelries (with beer prices considerably
cheaper than anywhere else in the country). I assumed my last brush with
Metrolink was a one-off, an aberration (peeves passim).
Wrong!
My last visit was during peak hours, when there are (theoretically) trams
every six minutes. Unfortunately, the Rest of the World and myself have
radically different ideas about transport needs. As previously mentioned,
the station is a windtunnel. It wasn't as cold as it was first thing in
the morning, but the wind was wet whis time. There were a good number of
people waiting, and the build up of dust around their feet was worrying.
We stood around and read the information boards several times. Nowhere was
there any indication of what times the trams ran except "every twelve
minutes". Even this is no help. There is only one line involved here, with a
branch to Piccadilly (where we were), so you would think that providing
adequate information on the system wouldn't tax the brain of your average
chocolate mouse. Metrolink do not employ chocolate mice to provide information.
We gathered that the trams ran alternately through the city centre and along
the branch line. Unfortuantely nobody thought to mention whether "every twelve
minutes" meant both routes had such a service, or that one tram would go one way,
and twelve minutes later another one would go along the other route. I think
we worked it out.
When a tram eventually turned up, in a strange twist of fate, it was going
in the right direction for us. I headed for the front doors, the SO stayed
put, trusting to an uncanny talent which causes any form of transport to
stop so that the door is opposite. This worked. It always does. I settled
down somewhere near the front and began to wonder where the light of my life
could be.
In an attempt to stem the tedium while we waited, I had pointed out our
destination on the map and I am fortunate to be in love with one of those
rare people who isn't cognitively-challenged. So eventually a familiar shape
shambled over to join me.
It is often commented that British public transport sysytems are designed by
people with flash sports cars, or huge Range Rovers, who never set foot on a
train in their lives. We had a large backpack each -- not unreasonable for a
cross-country journey. Metrolink has no luggage rack of any kind; the seats
are very closely packed and designed to prevent anything being placed underneath
them.
There was the traditional loud, old drunk on board, and a few "Sharons" (*).
The tram creaked out of the station and made its way through the city. I was
able to point out a few of the attractions to my companion, as it skirted the
gay village/red light zone (effectively one and the same area, though there
may be a few yards' difference). Then it stopped. For ages. Long enough to
watch the lowlife of Manchester evolve a little.
After the tram had satisfied itself that there was nothing in Newtonian
Physics which prevented it from moving, it edged its way through the city
centre proper. There is a strange species of pedestrian in Manchester which
seems to believe it will come off best in a meeting with a several ton tram.
Either that or "chicken" has replaced soccer as the region's favourite game.
According to my mother there have been a number of deaths already, including
one BDI female driver who thought the tracks were good for driving along.
Having negotiated the collective brain cell of the city, the tram chose to
stop yet again -- in the middle of nowhere. The Traditional Drunk had been
getting a little louder than delicate English ears can cope with, so a
friendly neighbourhood constable has been summoned from whichever pit of hell
they inhabit. They proceed with a double act until the officer decides to
remove the drunk from the vehicle a couple of stops down the line. Once off the
tram the drunk clocks the policeman with unbelievable strength and accuracy!
One for Class War (***), methinks.
The rest of the journey was uneventful.
Part Two to follow...
bb
Feorag
NOTES
-----
(*) A Sharon is a loud, obnoxious teenage girl out on the trap (**). They
have no clue as to the seductive arts whatsoever, believing that a
full-length dress left unbuttoned up to the navel is a sure-fire thing.
The other traditional dress is a white, tight mini-dress, worn with
white stillettos. They invariably have curly perms and bleached
highlights (I need not elaborate on the mess this leaves the hair in).
The male of the species is known as the "lad" or the "Kev".
(**) Trans: "looking to get laid by anything faintly male"
(***) Class War is an newspaper promoting a particularly violent form of
anarchism. One of its more popular columns is the "Hospitalised
Copper" page. The paper frequently rants on about the evils of the
middle classes although its editors are a pair of university-educated
teachers. I suspect they're having a joke at the expense of certain
elements of our genteel society. As a sidetrack, and referring to
other threads on the merits of voting, during the elections last year
my window sported a Class War cover "Vote for a hung parliament" with
an illustration of the party leaders dangling from a gallows. Fools!
It should have read "hanged" when referring to capital punishment.
I can see why the government are concerned about the standards of
English teaching in our schools.
--
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