X68 bus this morning. Same routine. Nonstop, express, from West Norwood to Waterloo.
As opposed to the 68, which stops. This morning there was no announcement of the X-status of our bus. The notification, for the unaware, came when the bus turns towards Brixton instead of towards Camberwell.
A middle-aged Asian woman was unaware. At Tulse Hill she made enquiries to the chap reading his paper opposite.
‘Doesn’t this stop?’ she asked.
‘Not until Waterloo,’ he said, with a touch of severity. No one likes a novice. He advised her, with a generosity of spirit which eludes me on a morning, to speak with the driver.
She did so, and came back empty handed, and the bus continued to make smooth progress towards Brixton. This was the same driver who let a punter off earlier in the week. When mercy is in your hands, it is not easy to be even-handed. Perhaps the driver was an aesthete and didn’t like a middle-aged woman wearing Nike Air trainers with her winter coat.
The woman tried for information from a couple sat near the exit. ‘Does the bus stop?’
‘At Waterloo.’ At which point she muttered something to herself and gave it up.
I have to report that I was glad at this woman’s misfortune. I objected to the trainer and smart clothes combo, even for commuting on a wintry day. I objected to her not knowing. And I enjoyed the schadenfreude. As I suspect did a few other passengers on our happy, elite, bus service.
Showing posts with label West Norwood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label West Norwood. Show all posts
Friday, 8 January 2010
Thursday, 3 December 2009
The Horns Tavern, West Norwood
Coming off the x68 at west Norwood yesterday, it was pouring with rain. So, I did the wise thing and bobbed into Tesco for some Bran Flakes while it passed. I bought them and a few other bits and came outside. It was raining harder than ever and I had left my brolly at work. It was raining so hard that I took evasive action and dived into the Horns Tavern.
Sitting opposite West Norwood Station, it is well-located for me to go in for the odd pint. But in two years, I haven’t been in there. I know this sort of place. I come from Essex.
In I went. I felt the eyes of the men upon me. The regulars. Putting the hours in to make the place their own. Not encouraging of passing trade, of chaps coming in out of the rain.
The distinction between myself and the men was clear. They were dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots. I had on my new three-quarter length black-and-white coat from River Island that tapers to accentuate my slender frame. There were looks to my Tesco carrier bag. You don’t bring your shopping to the pub; you get your missus to go shopping.
I ordered a Guinness from the rotund woman behind the bar: the only woman in the Horns. Guinness always helps to placate men who see my somehwhat effete appearance as an affront to their masculinity. They look at me and think, ‘who’s this cunt!’ Then they see the Guinness, and somehow it acts as a tough mate, saying, ‘he looks like a poof, but he’s not; he’s drinking Guinness.’
The Horns has plenty of entertainment to keep the men amused. Like all pubs of this sort, there are tellies everywhere. There are two big screens at either end of the bar, plus a couple of small TVs, with some sort of online poker game on them. There are little control panels for people to play if they want.
A fruit machine makes its garish appeal to the drinkers. A jukebox plays rigorously heterosexual 70s rock (The Who, The Clash). There’s a pool table.
I take a seat at a table at the back of the pub, below one of the pull-down screens. As I sup my Guinness and read my book, a few details come alive. One of the men is wearing a high-visibility jacket. I’ve done plenty of jobs where you wear these jackets, but I always love to see a man asserting his manual worker status by wearing the thing to the pub. It’s a sort of perverse fashion statement.
The Horns does food. There’s a large chalkboard in the front bar, with but one offer: ‘pizza and beer £6’. An interesting concept, perhaps half-remembered from a trip to Wetherspoon’s. The only food I see consumed is pork scratchings.
One of the blokes playing pool showed the full extent of his descriptive powers. “Who’s that cunt?” he says, trying to remember someone. And then to flesh out the description he adds, “That person.” It wasn’t enough, no one knew and the conversation moved on.
When the football came on, I’d finished my drink. I had the money for another pint but decided the lure of watching Man City v Arsenal in the Carling Cup was not for me, and so wove past the pool players and the pitcher drinkers and left. It had stopped raining and I walked home merrily.
Sitting opposite West Norwood Station, it is well-located for me to go in for the odd pint. But in two years, I haven’t been in there. I know this sort of place. I come from Essex.
In I went. I felt the eyes of the men upon me. The regulars. Putting the hours in to make the place their own. Not encouraging of passing trade, of chaps coming in out of the rain.
The distinction between myself and the men was clear. They were dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots. I had on my new three-quarter length black-and-white coat from River Island that tapers to accentuate my slender frame. There were looks to my Tesco carrier bag. You don’t bring your shopping to the pub; you get your missus to go shopping.
I ordered a Guinness from the rotund woman behind the bar: the only woman in the Horns. Guinness always helps to placate men who see my somehwhat effete appearance as an affront to their masculinity. They look at me and think, ‘who’s this cunt!’ Then they see the Guinness, and somehow it acts as a tough mate, saying, ‘he looks like a poof, but he’s not; he’s drinking Guinness.’
The Horns has plenty of entertainment to keep the men amused. Like all pubs of this sort, there are tellies everywhere. There are two big screens at either end of the bar, plus a couple of small TVs, with some sort of online poker game on them. There are little control panels for people to play if they want.
A fruit machine makes its garish appeal to the drinkers. A jukebox plays rigorously heterosexual 70s rock (The Who, The Clash). There’s a pool table.
I take a seat at a table at the back of the pub, below one of the pull-down screens. As I sup my Guinness and read my book, a few details come alive. One of the men is wearing a high-visibility jacket. I’ve done plenty of jobs where you wear these jackets, but I always love to see a man asserting his manual worker status by wearing the thing to the pub. It’s a sort of perverse fashion statement.
The Horns does food. There’s a large chalkboard in the front bar, with but one offer: ‘pizza and beer £6’. An interesting concept, perhaps half-remembered from a trip to Wetherspoon’s. The only food I see consumed is pork scratchings.
One of the blokes playing pool showed the full extent of his descriptive powers. “Who’s that cunt?” he says, trying to remember someone. And then to flesh out the description he adds, “That person.” It wasn’t enough, no one knew and the conversation moved on.
When the football came on, I’d finished my drink. I had the money for another pint but decided the lure of watching Man City v Arsenal in the Carling Cup was not for me, and so wove past the pool players and the pitcher drinkers and left. It had stopped raining and I walked home merrily.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
The pleasures of south London commuting
Some people hate their commute. Really hate it. They wake up in the morning and think, ‘not that again’. I can’t face another day of this. Miserable London, too many people. Moan moan moan.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
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