Thursday, 8 July 2010
Car Sales of Tunbridge Wells...
Raedwald has just mentioned that Speaker Bercow is an annoying little chap, and I tend to agree, but there again, anyone would have been an improvement on the last one.
As usual a story goes with it...
From Cannon Street Station, there used to be some particularly good trains in the seventies, which shot southwards at a rate of knots and sometimes took off near Tonbridge, and scared the living daylights out of everyone.
The trains arrive so well lined up in rush hour, that short queues used to form where every door would stop, and each compartment would have it's own little commuterati of bankers, lawyers, insurance brokers etc.
I was always late arriving at Cannon Street, having to get away from St James's Park at the end of the day, and scamper across to the City to get one of these fast trains home at the end of the week, so that I could enjoy a passionate weekend with the future Mrs S, and have a few pints, as one does.
But one little cult used to bug me considerably, for no other reason than there was a dapper little man who was always there first, and he'd get pole position at the track side, and wait, standing all of 5'3", with his back to the track, waiting for his mates. As all his chums arrived, one by one, there'd be the usual squeaky banter of 'deals' done, things happened etc.
And they all had coded names for other commuters, just like the fifth form would, so there was 'Car Sales from Tunbridge Wells', or 'Paint Brush from High Brooms'. Most of these were derogatory, and although I couldn't really care very much as I'd often crash out to sleep soon after boarding, woe betide you if you were caught up in a seat which interfered with this normal course of conversation for the next hour or so, because you were almost certainly an outsider, and made to feel unwelcome, (unless you were a pretty lady, when they'd all giggle, fidget, blush and go very quiet...)
The funny days were when there was a different number on the train engine, and it meant that the doors would all line up differently. But Little Man rumbled this and as quick as a flash, would execute a 'passe doble' and arrive at a new spot about three feet to the left, with a smug expression on his prematurely wizened face.
I'm now utterly convinced that this little chap is an offshoot of the Speaker's family, and the only reason why my anger was assuaged back then, is that he turned up as a member of the oppostion at a rugby match, and I gave him an extra hard time when he happened to be playing hooker right opposite me in the front row...