Why Darwin needs a machine gun

I once had a friend of the boy persuasion who had what I considered at the time to be a rather radical, if not actually fascist, world view. Darwin was, he argued, quite correct but he just hadn’t taken things far enough. The world’s resources were stretched and there were a lot of stupid and unpleasant people out there putting further unnecessary strain on them. A man-made ‘survival of the fittest’ program, so “Bob” argued, was the only option – that way all the inefficient, stupid and genetically offensive people would no longer be a problem. We should take all the happy-slapping chavs, rapists and traffic wardens outside, line them up and, well, you get the picture.



Hmmm...


Bob didn’t gauge his audience particularly well at this point. He took my rather aghast expression for dumbstruck awe at this brave new world plan and continued to explore his exciting new manifesto on a more micro-domestic level. It transpired that, should we be lost together in a life-threatening situation, he would kill and eat me to survive (ah, the romance of it). I got the distinct impression that I wouldn’t even have to be in a particularly weakened or injured state for him to do this. I think I eventually got him to agree to wait until I was actually dead, but he was resistant.

Anyway, the point is, increasingly I find myself agreeing with Bob, certainly when it comes to network rail employees anyway. It appears that most of the processes of evolution have simply not happened to employees of the various rail companies in this country. Let me tell you what happened to me the other day. Please do not read on if you are of a nervous (or bi-polar) disposition.

I tried to book a train online to Edinburgh. I have a long, and somewhat checkered, history with National Express and it didn’t surprise me that due to a “fatal error” (fatal is right if they fail me one more time) I was unable to book any tickets online.

So, not unreasonably I think, I decided to walk down the road to the train station to see if I could fare any better. That is, after all, what train stations are for is it not? Call me perverse but I foolishly assumed that buying tickets and travelling on trains was the train station’s main function in life. Not so, it seems.

I joined the queue quietly, no trouble to anyone and, as yet, no signs to suggest that I, or any of my fellow would-be travellers, were homicidal maniacs. So far, so good. Despite there being 5 or 6 ticket counters at Clapham Junction station, there were only three operating. There was a large queue that was not getting any smaller thanks to a rather worked up Irish lady who seemed to be having a problem booking a ticket (funny that). The mood in the queue was what can best be described as passively aggressive, until…

“Oi! We’re all waiting here you know and frankly I’m sick of this. She’s told you three times she can’t help you.”

Irish woman turns around too slowly. Looking into her eyes the gobby confronter realizes that she may have made a rather large mistake. The kind of mistake where limbs could be lost judging by the size of the Irish woman’s wrists.

“Excuse me, but I’m trying to book a ticket here. Would you like to tell me what the fuck you know about it?”

Uh oh. Use of the word fuck – loud – in public – to a stranger. The atmosphere is now officially tense. The confronter (crazy clothing, bad roots, too much makeup) squares up.

“We’re all fucking waiting here.”

Again, the word fuck. Oh dear. Not going well. She looks to the queue for support. She gets none. This crazy bitch is on her own. We’re lambs. We’ll queue unquestioningly for hours if that’s what it takes to avoid a shoeing here.

During this remonstration the lovely ticket lady’s contribution has been to sullenly scowl throughout and to be as unhelpful as humanly possible to the (now VERY irate) Irish lady. Why should she give a shit about train tickets? What do these crazy fucking people think she is? Some kind of train ticket dispensing system? As if.

Meanwhile at counter 1…

Unnoticed, a rather hard looking man has been having difficulty. He’s had a bad day. You can tell. His clenched shoulders suggest something quite interesting is about to happen. He wheels around, my fellow lemming-lambs give a little collective gasp.

“Right you rude bitch”

(He is talking to crazy eye-makeup lady.)

“I’d just like you to know that if I am in a queue and it is my turn and you EVER talk to me like you just talked to that woman, I’ll knock you’re fucking head off.”

He then (rather ingeniously I thought) added for emphasis,

“Head. Off. Got it?”

Jesus Christ. This is like downtown Basra now – everyone is piling in. Crazy lady stares unblinkingly back, says nothing – wise move gobby. She sits there looking sheepish in that ‘I’m trying not to be bothered but I’m actually mortified’ way. It’s painful. And then, suddenly, oh bugger, it’s my turn.

I smile encouragingly at ‘computer says no’ lady. She doesn’t even look at me, just huffs slightly. Here goes nothing.

“I’d like to book a return ticket to Edinburgh for these dates please.”

“When?”

“These dates”

“Huff. Tap tap tap – that’s £156”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to charter a helicopter”

Scowl

“I can get a ticket at the machine for £112”

“What? No you can’t.”

“Yes I can, I just had a look and it said £112”

“Fine £112 then.”

So now it appears that we’re working on a bartering principle. Interesting. I try my luck a bit more.

“Usually I can get them online for about £80”

“No. £112. Depends on availability.”

“So there aren’t any £80 tickets?”

“Dunno. Look online.”


OH. SWEET. BABY. JESUS.

I can understand Ray Winston’s “Head. Off. Got it?” approach now. This woman is going to turn me into a monster. I’m going to be guilty of an unspeakable act of violence any minute now. Lucky she’s got that reinforced glass to hide her indifferent smug snout behind. I realize this woman probably doesn’t have the highest job satisfaction in the world, but does she need to be quite so sullen and unhelpful?

The question is though, what came first? The chicken or the egg? Who do we blame? Do we get Darwin (and his nazi firing squad) round to deal with surly ticket lady, tattooed Ray Winston with anger issues, gobby eye-liner slag or amateur wrestler Irish lady?

In my humble opinion, it is the rude and inefficient staff that have created all these scary manifestations of rail rage. It is these scrapings from the remaindered barrel of life that we need to deal with if we all wish to retain peace, harmony and, more importantly, our sanity. You can argue it’s the system that’s the problem but I blame disinterested, unpleasant, jobs-worth rail personnel.

Personally I intend to totally go for it and trample everyone to death with my great big carbon footprints. I shall fly everywhere from now on. Kind of shits on Bob’s original plan for preserving the fragile balance of our environment, but I don’t care anymore. I am a creation of the world around me. I am the Incredible Hulk! I am Mr Hyde! I’ll rip your bloody arms off soon as look at you. It’s every man for himself. And if anyone’s got a problem with that I’ll rip your bloody head off.

Head. Off. Got it?