The Crazy Rants of Samantha BurnsA Night On The Town
Introduction by Sam: This week I have the opportunity to provide my readers with a breakaway from my usual style of writing, a week-long running article by Welcome to Mildew Hall, which is more along the lines of a story than my typical moaning, whining, and griping.
So, please enjoy, A Night On The Town, which I will schedule for 10 am PST daily.
Article contributed by Welcome to Mildew Hall.
Standfast
One of the great things about living close to London is that the Big City is close enough to go by train for a night out. One of the not-so-great things is that most trains stop running at midnight, so when my date turned from a quick drink to an evening of deep and meaningful conversation, my journey home took a turn for the worse. This is my story.
Main Story
I'd only met my date, Irene, once before at a colleague's leaving party. We'd talked briefly and a group of us had somehow ended up at a local pub where we'd had a discussion about whiskey. Irene had extolled the virtues of Scotch while I argued the case for the far superior Irish variety: fire-water versus Irish Mist. From then on I knew that I had to challenge her to a return match and I would introduce her to the One True Spirit. With that in mind I'd arranged a "whiskey tour" in which we'd attempt to sample my personal favourite, Bushmills, in a real Irish bar in London. Some research revealed that a bar in Holloway Road was the place to be and I set about organising an itinerary. There was only one problem - Irene was moving to London that day, practically as far West as she could get and that meant an extended tube journey. No matter, it was still in London. No problem!
Well, our whiskey tour went very well, and though we didn't actually find any Bushmills to sample we ended up talking and sipping other (lesser) whiskeys late into the night. So late in fact that neither of us was watching the time and the magic midnight hour came and went, which in London means that public transport all but stopped running. Yes, even in the 21st Century, Britons are not supposed to stay out after the witching hour and this was the government's way of telling us that. Did someone say curfew?
Panicking (although trying not to show it) I managed to get us both to within one tube stop of Irene's new apartment and she thankfully made it back home safely. I, on the other hand, the true gent (chivalry in the UK is not dead, it's just well hidden) was marooned in West London, with little chance of getting a train back to my home in rural Hampshire. In short, I was stuffed! A helpful London Transport guy at the tube station suggested that I might get one of London's (in)famous Night Buses back into the city and from there, well, I could figure out what to do next. So I sprinted out of the tube station and into the night air, feeling slightly self-conscious in my best suit: this was a seedy part of London where jeans and tee-shirt were the preferred uniform. The TFL Night Bus service is the government's attempt at moving people around the capital all through the night at economical rates, which it does admirably. It also has another role, which I'm coming to shortly. The night bus is just as much a social service as transport.
Night Bus approaching
I only had to wait around 10 minutes and the familiar red London double-decker bus sped into sight. In fact I was quite unprepared for the speed at which it arrived: normally these buses take their turn in the caucus-race that is London traffic and progress is at a sedate pace. If you've ever seen those old horror films in which the hapless passenger is being driven at breakneck speed by a possessed driver, then you'll have some idea of the pace. I paid my $3 fare and took a seat near the front of the bus. This particular one was heading back toward Liverpool Street Station where I would surely get a train. I settled back into my seat, zoned out to some hard house on the 'Shuffle and enjoyed the ride.
There weren't many other passengers on board at this stage as most Night Bus users come out of the city to the 'burbs. It was down to a couple of fast-food workers going home, a random scattering of party people going who-knows-where, and me. The one thing we had in common was that no-one spoke, and no-one wanted to look at anyone else, at least not consciously.. Risky business in London that.. The bus driver in his plexi-glass safety cage continued to propel us through the night suburbs at the same pace as before, coming up close against the occasional straggling car. In the rural countryside this would be known as "sheep worrying", but "tailgating" is probably a more familiar term. Needless to say, after midnight the Night Buses rule the streets and you don't want to get in their way. We stopped every so often to disgorge a few passengers and take on some more. The way the bus stopped I couldn't help wondering how long the brakes would last.. As we started to travel through the more affluent areas such as Chelsea, the mainly residential areas gave way to retail and a few clubs. It was now 0130 and many of the clubs were tipping out. Large crowds of rowdy drinkers were massing outside famous-name venues, incensed that they were being thrown out at such an early hour when they still had money to spend: welcome to 21st Century British nightlife. As it was Chelsea though, no-one was catching the Bus, which sped on into the night.
Picking up passengers
Still nearer into the city though, we started to pick up passengers. This time it was a large group of youngsters obviously moving from one party to the next: call me old-fashioned but I don't remember having this much freedom to travel when I was that age. I could see the driver visibly wince when he had to accept cash for a fare - although it wasn't much, cash is rapidly becoming a no-no in late-night London, and in fact on a couple of occasions people rode for free rather than the driver accept a note. The preference now is for the prepay "Oyster Card" which one would simply touch against a pad mounted near the driver when entering the bus. As we neared Liverpool Street Station though, the bus rapidly filled up and before I knew it not only were the seats all full, there was no room in the aisle either. Quite a few mellow drunks had now joined our bus and I was quietly praying that no-one was feeling ill enough to throw up: there would be no escape from blowing chunks in a bus that crowded. Within a few minutes though, our chariot of fire had arrived at Liverpool Street Station and everybody disembarked into the dark morning. Without a flicker of emotion our driver checked to make sure we were all out and sped off into the night again. Think Total Recall's Johnny Cabs without the chat.
To be continued...
