Things to do number eight

I missed my train home because I was stranded for five minutes trying to cross a not-particularly busy road. The problem? Every time a gap appeared some muffin would cut me off as they turned in from one or other of two feeder roads. Each time was a near thing because surprise, surprise, not one of them used their indicators to say where they were going.

Especially not the pillock who turned his car left then suddenly reeled it into a right turn. I remember reading about Himmelman Turns in my old Biggles books but I never expected to see one done in a Volvo. Luckily the weather's a bit grim so there was no chance of his diving in on me out of the sun.

When my times comes my response will be quick and efficient. I shall use the brass handle of my malacca cane to smash their indicators as they pass by.

"Your indicator's not working mate!"

I shall cry. Actually, it would be a pretty nifty superpower to be able to zap the indicators and blow the car's whole electrics...

Bikes

The other day Friends of the Earth, who must have something better to do, staged a protest in Manchester to complain that full-sized, non-folding bicycles aren't allowed on the trams. "It is ridiculous that bicycles aren't allowed on the trams," said a spokesperson.

It's also ridiculous that cars, lorries and large steam traction engines aren't allowed on the trams. What are they thinking?

If you're going on a cycling tour of the Peak District or the seaside or something then you'll want to be able to take your bike on the train to get to the place you're going to explore. I've no problem with that and I'm happy to support moves to insist on bike space on trains.

But trams? Oh come on now... we're talking about journeys of half a dozen miles or less. Assuming there's room, of course: most mornings it's a struggle for a body to get on at all. If you're taking a bike on a six-mile tram journey into town you might as well cycle the whole way. What's the point of taking a bike onto a tram just to cycle the last hundred yards or so to work? Or else get off the tram and use Shanks' Pony to finish your journey like the rest of us.

What's the carbon footprint of a bicycle's being used as a handbag on public transport?

Things to do (number seven)

This guy's got the right idea: The Customer Is Not Always Right

Things to do (number five six in an ongoing series)

Back in the old days, dustbinmen had a pretty horrible lot: out in all weathers, dragging big metal dustbins out of people's back yards and manually tipping them into the back of the lorry. These days it's still not a bundle of laughs but with wheelie bins and automated loading vans there's less wear and tear on the dustbinmen. So this should be a golden age of emptying-the-bins servuce delivery, right?

Wrong.

For some reason that I can't fathom, the refuse collection service has become the touchstone of all that is worst in English public sector service delivery, with every prodnose and jobsworth having a ball at the expense of the paying public.

I have a row once a month with my local council, which is how often I put my bin out for collection (single person household, and if I weren't addicted to crisps I reckon it would be once a quarter). By a row I mean that I complain and they ignore me; and yes, I do know the performance indicator targets for customer complaints even if they don't. The problem arises in that they won't empty any bins that aren't "on the edge of the property." Their usual interpretation of "edge of the property" is littering the pavement and making pedestrians, pushchair users and wheelchair users go out into the middle of the road to get by (kerbs and kerbsides being littered by parked cars). Officially, the council tells me that I should push the wheelie bin against the gate and climb over the garden wall to get to work (I wish I were making this up; I didn't have any refuse collections for two months one time when the council decided to dig grave-sized holes next to the front gates of every house down the road).

Elsewhere, a chap in his nineties is told that he won't have his bin emptied because he accidentally put the wrong type of rubbish in it. The bin's bigger than he is, so you can imagine how easy it would be for him to recify his error.

People in rural areas are required to wheel their bins down leafy lanes to the nearest main roads. "We can't spend time going down each and every lane," say council spokespeople. I'll bet the bailiffs would manage the journey to ask for the poll tax to be paid.

Some people have been prosecuted and convicted -- prosecuted and convicted -- for having put their wheelie bins out the night before when they should have been put out between 0700 and 0730. Others have criminal records for having left the lids of their bins slightly agape. In contrast, if you get pissed and kill a few kids with your motor car you get a few points on your licence.

Problem is, I can't think up a suitably appropriate come-uppance for the fuckwits and jackoffs involved. If the time ever came I suppose I'd resort to emptying a town's wheelie bins on the front lawn of the Chief Executive & Town Clerk.

Hypochondria

My bathroom cabinet shocks me.

I'd gone up to get some Fiery Jack to try and sort out a back ache (how did that happen? I'm not even in a relationship) and for some reason I noticed just how full the cabinet is these days. Back when I started this household there wasn't much in there: a bottle of aspirins, a spare toothbrush, a box of plasters (just in case) and a sentimental bar of soap, of which we shall say no more than it's never been removed from its wrapper (I know the way some of you think). These days, it's jam-packed with old man's unguents, anti-histamines, tubular bandages and the like. Who needs nine eye baths? I don't even have nine eyes.

Most depressing of all is the unopened packet of three (still with the Utility mark) that came to the house with me.

Bitter irony

By one of those ironies beloved by authors, the day that the government announced that Greater Manchester will be getting the congestion charge -- to encourage people to use the excellent public transport -- all the trains in and out of Piccadilly were cancelled due to electrical faults.

Optimism

Quite some time ago an Organisational Psychologist, who was doing a team-building programme for a council I worked for, told me that he reckoned I was the most optimistic person he'd ever met in his life. Naturally, I queried this.

"If I had your world view I wouldn't be able to get up in the morning."

I've decided to be more proactive in my optimism, thanks to the 'Pearls Before Swine' strip.

Valediction

Better than me will write mourning the passing of Humphrey Lyttleton but I couldn't let it pass disregarded here.

I shall miss his dry delivery in "I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue," though we should be grateful for such a long and hilarious run. But mostly, I should be most grateful to him for his long-running jazz programme on Radio 2 which introduced me to some glorious music in the years before record companies relased their back-catalogues on CD.

A very civilised man.

More plans...

Things to do number four: The Cyclist

Being a pedestrian, I heartily detest the average cyclist. The hypocrisy of cyclists is most evident at traffic lights: when was the last time you saw one actually stop at a red light?Whilst at once whining about the aggression of drivers and the being victims of random dangers the buggers whizz along the pavement caring not one whit for the safety of pedestrians. Let's make one thing very clear: bicycles are vehicles and have no place on the pavement. No, tell you what: let's make two things very clear:

• Bicycles have no place on pavements and bicycles are required by law to have working bells.

Make the connection?

I have no issue with tiny tots riding their bikes on the pavements: it's a balance of risks I'm happy to live with. Hairy great pillocks in sweat and spandex? No chance.

If the time ever comes, I'll be kicking the back wheels out from under the bastards when they scoot past.

Things to do number five: The Crown Prosecution Service

It occurs to me that should the time ever come, some may think that these blog entries suggest a degree of premeditation on my part. I'd best remember to take out the CPS just to cover my back for a bit.

Planning ahead

I've been mulling things over a lot lately and got to thinking about what I'd get up to should I ever have a psychotic episode. You have to prepare for these things, there's no pointing in wasting the opportunity should it come along. That's why so many nutters do something half-arsed like writing letters to MPs in green biro.

Things to do number one: The Umbrella

Umbrellas, obviously, need to be addressed. I suppose, on balance, I have no problem with people who use them responsibly (having eyes at umbrella spoke level being the issue here). I do have a major problem with people who don't know how to carry an umbrella. The clue is in the word handle but they're too damned thick to realise this. Instead, they hold the umbrella mid-way along its length and then march along the pavement, thrusting the bloody thing in a crotch-level parabola. The ferrule is always pointed backwards so that the inconsiderate bastards can pretend not to realise that they're just short of impaling passers-by. I often have to supress the urge to steal the umbrella from their grasp and shove it up their arse.

Even worse are the piloocks who do this while riding an escalator. C**ts. I have decided, then, that should I have a psychotic episode in the company of this type I shall wrest the umbrella from them and hurl it into oblivion.

Things to do number two: pavement parking

I'm an easy-going sort and don't get too irate when people park with their wheels on the kerb of the pavement. I do get very vexed indeed when they park completely on the pavement.

"Considerate parking"

they bleat, which is to say great for motorists who are still able to bomb along the sideroads of Britain with space aplenty for the scythes on their wheels. Not so good for the pedestrians with a six-inch width path to negotiate. Thank God I'm not in a wheelchair or pushing a baby's pram.

If the time ever comes, I shall decide that "if it's on the pavement, it is the pavement" and I shall walk over the cars in question. Ideally in the company of a big old Silver Cross pram filled with scrap metal.

Things to do number three: trains

It hardly needs saying does it?

Whenever we got another unannounced cancellation I would ring the Chairman of Northern Trains at his home or office (perhaps leaving messages at both) telling him that the train's not turned up and asking when he's coming to pick us up in his car to get us into work on time.

---

I can see this train of thought running and running...

Malice in Commuterland

Went into Manchester today with a mate of mine. They've added a fresh Hell to the Oxford Road Station experience: automatic ticket barriers.

I don't have a problem with automatic barriers in themselves, it's just that these barriers don't accept the local travelcards and season tickets. So while us passing trade slip through the gates the regulars, like my mate, have to queue up to get one of the officials to pass them through with a dummy ticket.

"How will you get back in to get your train home?" I ask.

"There'll probably be a rope bridge and a sudoku puzzle," he replied.

I overheard one of the project implementation team asking station staff how the gates were working.

"Really good. People are getting off at Deansgate instead of here now."

My trip back was not uneventful. I got in with quarter of an hour to go for my train and I looked for it on the board. There are five platforms at Oxford Road Station. My train was scheduled to depart from platform — . Nipping across to the potential platforms wasn't any use: the train didn't appear on any of the announcement boards there. In the end I guessed that "platform dash" was probably platform 5. It turned out to be correct: twenty-four people asking the driver: "which train is this one?" led him to make an impromptu announcement from the engine steps.

That he made the announcement he did is a testament to the man's professionalism.

Noises you don't want to hear...

Your neighbour driving past on his steam roller just when your washing machine's gone into its spin cycle.

I banged my knee running into the kitchen to investigate the trouble.

Black Sunday

I've been and gone and bought a set of black satin bedding for my bed.

I don't know what appals me the most: the decadence or the optimism.

Odd

I don't know why people need hallucinogenic drugs. I've just been channel-hopping and have bumped into a version of The Weakest Link where Roly Mo, Roland Rat and George and Zippy faced Anne Robinson and her twitch.

All that dumb plastic brought to life by the magic of television.

You can do your own punchline.

Designed for dwarf vampires

A trip to London today requires a journey via Virgin Trains, something I've gone out of my way to avoid of late. The services have improved by leaps and bounds as far as punctuality and reliability are concerned, being just quarter of an hour late. In this respect they're almost bearable. The major problem is, of course, the Pendolino Train. Much-hyped and much-loved by people who don't travel on it. A horrible, horrible, horrible train, even compared to the worst of the British Railways Board boneshakers.

What's so bad about it? Well, it's cramped and pokey and claustrophobic and shaky. Its internal design is that of a tube not much more than eight feet in diameter. All the lines within the carriage -- the seat tops; the curving luggage racks, the windows -- emphasise this shape. The windows themselves are small and low so that unless you're actually hunched up beside one you aren't going to get any natural light. The lighting is dim, the air hot and stuffy. All in all, the whole effect is like sitting in a Jetstream aircraft except that the seats are more uncomfortable and there's no hostess service. And it's a very turbulent ride!

Like all else in these trains the toilets are over-engineered to the point of unusability. These were all, like me, seasoned travellers and had emptied bowels and bladders prior to the journey to avoid having anything to do with the toilets. For those of you not in the know: the problem is the door. It takes a few pushes of buttons to get the door open and then the fun begins. How do you get the door to shut and stay shut for the duration of your visit? And don't be fooled by the messages that suggest that you have successfully secured the door: you may still get visitors. And the door may just fling itself open of its own accord anyway. If you must go, I suggest you carry along a modesty blanket and sing in a loud voice.

You will get frequent announcements about the Virgin Train Shop. The Virgin Train Shop experience is your friendly neighbourhood famine. So the most frequent announcement is: "There is no hot water and so hot drinks are not available." I've never been on a Virgin Train where hot drinks were available. You would think that nice Mister Branson could afford to buy them a few kettles. Almost as popular an announcement is: "The shop will be closing because of technical difficulties." Not like them nasty old British Rail buffet cars then.

Is there anything positive about the experience?

Well, the staff are professional in less-than-optimum circumstances.

And the trains do get you from the north of England to London in the same time it used to take in the 1970s.

So that's all right then.