Driver H. Potter's Wombledon Park Picture Page

Folks,

This was going to be headed "a note for hardened anoraks." But then I started to wonder how exactly one would get a hardened anorak. Depending on how the readers mind works, one could speculate that a Hardened Anorak would be some sort of millitary-grade rainwear, 'hardened' meaning amoured in order that one could take snaps of trains whilst exposed to enemy fire. After all there are certain dedicated individuals for whom bullets hold no fear: the photo is everything, I must spot that last elusive loco/unit/wagon/tank/bullet/missile launcher. Perhaps the SAS have an elite battle-hardened enthusiast regiment with blacked-out lunch boxes and stealth notebooks...?

 

Even as I write this I realise that it's starting to read like an editorial in Loaded magazine or other such soft-core porn and advertising fodder, so I'll stop right now. The other angle I was going to take on "hardened" had to do with things either being stiff through lack of cleaning or crisp due to... well, you can work it out. Anyhow, I'll behave myself and get on with the real reason for this post. It's time to take the VEP to the Seaside, folks! Please find below the running details of the move from Eastleigh to Bournemouth West, and then Bournemouth West to Swanage. Unlike last year there will be two seperate moves - sensible Southern stock runs on its own, and then all the evil oil-burning marine diesels-on-wheels will follow on behind.

 

 

And the rest arrive a little later on...

 

Once upon a time, back when this Blog was funny and I wasn't worried about writing large amounts of knob gags (in other words before I knew that both my mother and managing director read it), I questioned the sanity of those at South West Trains. You might remember - they were offering me the chance to drive trains on the mainline. Well, that was then and this is now. Now I know better than to question their sanity, and for two reasons: firstly, because South West Trains has been replaced by South Western Trains. And secondly because, whatever the company name, I have finally gained irrefutable proof that they've all lost their marbles.

 

Yes folks, it's time to stop travelling by train. I'm to be a mainline driver.

(THINKS: Even as I write this I can hear hundreds of people thinking "I wonder if there's another way to get to London apart from Waterloo...?")

 

I've had the interview, and passed it. Remember the last one, loyal readers? Yes - of course you do. Because Potter opened his gaping trap and shoved both size eights into it up to the knees. But not this time! Oh no, folks! Potter has finally learned that keeping ones Big Yap shut is a good idea. So much positive chat was had, and frankly the two people who took the interview couldn't have been better. I perform far better when I'm at my ease. They were friendly, I opened up and the interview coasted by. Some kind soul had warned me that role-play was going to form the other part of the assessment day. I was quite pleased about that. I turned up in my best doctors outfit, carrying a large medical bag and the HUGE syringe only to be told that "No, Mr Upton, Doctors and Nurses isn't quite what we meant."

Bugger.

Thinking back it's probably a good job I didn't open the bag while I was there. The doctors outfit nearly got me thrown out of the building: I fear that the black latex gimp suit and Selection of Rubber Implements For the Discerning Customer would have resulted in being throw out of the building from the fifth floor*. Anyhow, the role-play went very well (despite the lack of latex) and thus I finished the day feeling fairly pleased with myself. The journey home offered time to reflect on the day, and I felt that I'd given of my best (even without the latex). The telephone call from the Recruitment Department, taken on the following morning by a Potter who had been awake for the sum total of the time it had taken to wake up and find the mobile, was glorious. "Well, Steve, we'd like to offer you the job." Magic. After the nightmare that the first interview attempt had been, I honestly thought "if it doesn't happen this time then it's not going to happen at all." The relief, and the sense of achievement, were immense.

 

Of course that wasn't the end of things. Today was spent attending my medical. One of the niggling conditions of the job is that I shouldn't die whilst on the footplate, and whilst passengers are happy for drivers to wear blue if the driver actually goes blue then they get nervous. So I underwent an hour of various pokes, prods and other tests (still no latex) at the hands of a very pleasant nurse named Eileen. Thanks to expert medical opinion, I can now tell you all that I am "cuddly", alive and in possession of working ears, eyes and heart and "not dead yet." Oh, and they asked me to pee into a cup.

Now I scored on two fronts here:

Firstly, I didn't manage to pee all over my hand, my trousers, the toilet rim, the wall or any of the other things than men seem to be able to hit when told where to aim. This is a big deal and women everywhere, not that many of them read this, should take heart. It can be done - make sure the target is less than half an inch away from his dick and your chap will be able to hit it every time!

Secondly, I was able to pee on demand. I hate having pee tests; I've always either had nothing to drink of the past 12 hours and nearly end up passing one of my own kidneys through straining to produce urine, or worse yet I've drunk x-gallons of water and none of it has filtered through until half an hour after I've left the toilet.

But not today. Today, my friends, everything from my arrival to my departure went exactly to plan. And my bladder was utterly co-operative.

 

So, that's it. The tale of Potters Protracted Pursuit of Promotion** is done.

 

October is the month mentioned in despatches for the start of training. I'm not under any illusions as to how much work is involved. All sunny "isn't this fun" wibblings aside, it's going to be tough. Going back to school is no joke. I'm not guaranteed to pass, nor yet to have a job to fall-back on if I fail. I have places I want to go within the company, and that is going to require concerted effort. So the way to make that happen is not to fail. Between now and October, aside from a certain amount of silly fun at Swanage and weekends away with my good lady and various chums, it's going to be work as hard as possible to make the money while I can. The mucking about has to take a back seat. Hard work is just around the corner.

 

* Added to which is the thought that me wearing a black latex gimp suit would give the same overall appearance as a vacuum-wrapped walrus. With glasses.

** Who said the English degree was wasted?

I would be remiss if I didn't pay tribute to Humph, one of four men who have given me some of the longest and loudest laughs of my life. I didn't know him as a jazz musician - jazz has never been a great love of mine - but I knew and adored him as the chairman of "the antidote to panel games", I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue. I have never heard anyone who could deliver a line loaded with innuendo with such innocence. His exploits with the lovely Samantha (smashing girl: a great bee keeper - and you wouldn't believe her 38 bees) were the stuff of legend, although, bless him, Humph never quite understood the fuss. The laughter following such lines as "Samantha has got to go now as she's meeting her Italian gentleman friend who's taking her out for an ice cream. She says she likes to spend the evening licking the nuts off a large Neapolitan" was a joy to listen to.

 

So what else is there to say?

 

Not a lot, folks. Buy The Times if you want a decent tribute to the great man. I just wanted to say "Cheers Humph."

 

I'm going to go now. Samantha is at a loose end, so we're going to go and browse around some second hand record shops. She likes nothing more than to peruse old records and she particularly enjoys a rewarding poke in the country section.

 

PS:

A joke that made me laugh so much I cried.

Q: "How do you catch squirrels?"

A: "Have a one-night stand with a hollow tree."

 

 

 

 

 

It's been a great week or so if you're a cynical bugger. It's been an even better one if you're a cynical bastard but since those of a delicate disposition read this (and they buy me birthday and Christmas presents) I'm not about to admit to such things on here. I've not often thought "I'm glad I'm not in charge of the BAA." To be fair, I've never thought "Gosh, I wish I was in charge of the BAA" either. In terms of the mindset required, Potter would rather be in charge of, say, a 12VEP fast to Bournemouth with 90mph+ on the clock. Or he'd like to have a piece of paper marked "bank balance" with more than 9 figures in it written in black and his name at the top. So ordinarily, I'd rather be doing just about anything other than running several airports. But, folks, this week especially the BAA is not a place I'd like to be working. From what I can see, the Daily Mail/Express/Scum-Gutter-Toilet-Rag-Of-Your-Choice have managed to get their "We Hate the Railway" and their "We Love Airlines" fuses muddled up, and  it's all down to that gargantuan glass monstrosity called Terminal Five.

 

Almost every newspaper article and television feature has been critical of it; although in fairness managing to lose eleventy-million bags in a week probably constitute some sort of a record. And it all started so well. Nigel Rudd, BAAs chairman, was full of happy sound bites when the place was opened:

"Terminal Five marks the start of a new beginning for Heathrow, for BAA and for our millions of passengers.  It is by any standard a triumph of ambition, commitment and collaboration. It will breathe new life into Heathrow, allowing us to continue our transformation of the rest of the airport and will put Heathrow and BAA back where they belong - at the leading edge of global travel."  I fully expect to see poor Nigel nominated for the 2008 "Bet You Wish You'd Kept Your Gob Shut" Award. Mind you his counterpart at British Airways, Willie Walsh, must also be wishing all those journo’s had been looking the other way when he was espousing the virtue of the new building. "Terminal Five is a fantastic facility and our customers will really enjoy the space, comfort and convenience it offers. With the opening of T5, BA and BAA have an opportunity to make air travel, both into and out of the UK, once again a calmer and much more enjoyable experience." Hear, hear Willie! Well said. What good luck it's such a spacious and comfortable building, that way when the passengers are sleeping in their cardboard boxes overnight at least they'll have plenty of room to stretch out. And we wouldn’t want your fare paying passengers uncomfortable, would we?

 

Oh, by the way, chaps - if you're looking for 'a triumph of ambition, commitment and collaboration' you need to get a taxi to St. Pancras International. It's notable for many reasons, not least the lack of passengers sleeping in cardboard boxes. But the best bit about St. Pancras, the best bit of all, is that it doesn't eat luggage or stop when it bloody snows. Whereas Terminal Five is what happens when you get a greenhouse drunk and then let it shag a B&Q warehouse.

 

Oh yes, the snow. I knew there was something else for me to wave my finger righteously about. Snow. It's a well known non-fact that "everything stops when it snows." Well, that's odd. I made a point of checking the mass media for signs of the railway stopping, or the roads. In fact, from what I could see, the only part of the country that didn't work properly when it snowed was Heathrow airport. (Oh, and in case you missed it last it doesn't work in fog either - 2-0 to St Pancras) But fortunately our enlightened government, you know, the venal pocket-liners with the John Lewis accounts, are pushing ahead with their sustainable transport policy by digging up more villages around Heathrow and Stanstead and incidentally squeezing the railway industry of every penny and creaming road tax to pay for - well, new sofas and coffee tables I suppose. All this whilst Greengauge 21, Atkins  and Network Rail are waving studies under the DfTs nose saying "look how much high speed rail could be worth to the country." And if you were wondering, that could be in excess of £60 billion against a build cost of approximately £30 billion. £60 billion. Sneak up beside Alistair Darling and whisper "£60 billion" in his ear and he'd fired his own underwear across the room in excitement - and he wouldn't even have to remove his trousers first. £60 billion. That's enough to buy 13 Terminal Five's and have enough change left-over to pay for the all the vans to carry lost luggage to its respective owners. So there you go, folks. Britain can cope with snow and what's more it provides a wonderful argument as to why Britain should be trying to catch up with the rest of Europe.

And failing everything else it’s given me another chance to poke fun at Terminal Fun.

 

Right - enough of that, onto matters of a more parochial nature. I'm sorry to report that the Swanage Railway Beer Festival may not go ahead in the form that some of you may have hoped for. That is to say, it may not go ahead in the form that I had hoped for. Put another way, there's a chance that 3417 might not attend. It's nothing to do with her being either unwanted or broken. In the first instance Buckie has taken his obsession with all things VEP to new heights (when it was snowing he was seen by persons unnamed wrapping the buffers in blankets and asking "if Daddies favourite little slammer was cold" - I worry about that boy) and in the second instance my compatriots at Wimbledon Park continue to do sterling work ensuring the old lady is kept clean, dry and rust-free. It is in fact down to the track. Namely a short stretch of track at a place called Furzebrook in Dorset which currently has what has been described to me by a friend who works for Network Rail as "a bloody great big 'ole in it, Harry." Bugger. Well, not on the track so much as next to the track we'd like to be running over and as you may be aware trains tend to react badly to socking great holes opening up in the track. Network Rail are at this moment (this very moment, folks - such topicality) pontificating as to whether to allow trains to run past said  bloody great 'ole: I am told that all may not be lost, since there are ways around such problems provided the hole doesn't get any bigger. So if you're reading this, Hole, (everyone is on the Net these days) kindly stay the same size that you are now because I'm looking forward to my weekend at the seaside. I've also paid a deposit for the B&B, so be good and don't get any bigger.