chaletian | Entries tagged with london

Jizzy Chrizzy, I can't believe I subjected you all to such an epic essay on my transport decision-making! Ah well.

So, Saturday, eh? Well, I've been at work for most of today, trying to make sense of some foul research data that just made me want to kill people. And then I had a bit of a methodology crisis which I need to discuss with Prof, which made the whole exercise a bit redundant, so boo swizz, basically. Now I'm trying to copy all my music to my new laptop so I can actually sync my ipod. I am also doing some laundry. You can't say I don't know how to live it up.

In other news:

- FT smells of bacon.
- OMG the fig jam I made is SO TASTY LIEK WOAH. Mixed with yogurt, it's my new favourite pudding.
- Fig man was not in Tooting today. Hopefully he will be back on Monday.
-

balooky: you have one birthday present so far.
- It's time for me to hit the board up for money for hosting. Ugh. Hate it.
- I'm actually quite liking Nikita, but I'm struggling with Shane West as Michael - not because he's bad, but because he really reminds me of Austin Nichols, and the idea of Julian as a super-secret assassin is a bit hilarious.
- A confession: I do actually and really love One Tree Hill. Not even ironically any more. (Though I'm hoping Evil!Dan Scott will return, because that's OTH gold, right there.)
- Supernatural Season 6: not quite completely shit. Frankly, that's an post-apocalyptic angel miracle in itself.
- Went to Brownies, which is always a tiny bit hilarious. News from the front: (a) Elves won the quiz; (b) I now know more about Dutch Brownies than I did before.
- The Dutch equivalent of Brownieland is Bambilie.
- I am going to see My Chemical Romance in a couple of weeks. Actually quite excited about it. Na na na na na na na na na na na na na...
- Board meeting on Monday morning. Hopefully it will be good - plenty of reporting done for them, I've done all my action points from the minutes, we've got a new programme manager who might actually be half way decent, we're coming closer to resolving our prison screening situation; things are looking up.
- On account of board meeting, I have been devising a new transport plan. Oh yes. Usually, of course, I just get the 493 as far as Wimbledon, but this time, with my travelcard, I thought I might change it up a bit. 337 to East Putney then the District line to Wimbledon, anyone? Sexy, don't you think?
- I bought Gizzi Erskine's cookbook a few weeks ago, and have already cooked three things out of it (southern fried chicken, salmon and pea spag thing (tea tonight, nomnomnom), and passion fruit pudding - all very tasty) - this may be a recipe book record for me.
- Also made crumble out of some quince, but I think I might've been better just making jelly out of it. It was a bit too aromatic for normal consumption, and also a bit gritty, so I should probably have prepared it more carefully. Still, fairly tasty and an interesting culinary experience.
- FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGS.
- Also, Merlin tonight! With Arthur and Gwen hugging! Be still my shippy heart!
- Downton Abbey. Oh, Downton Abbey. A tiny bit ridic, but I'm rather loving it anyway.
- I have a voucher thing for tea at the Ritz. Must actually book a table. I love tea.

I know how you all like a little London transport story, and boy have I got a doozy for you. Think of Shackleton, or Scott, or Hillary, and then thrust them aside. The Boysown genre has a new hero of brave and daring exploration. And yes, that hero is me. I have never been one to indulge in false modesty.

My story begins some weeks ago, when

pim2005 sent me a plaintive little email asking if I could I do Brownies this Friday, as she was planning to be gadding around somewhere (in what I suspect is a very unheroic fashion). Kindly, I assented. Some might call me saintly, but I would flap a self-deprecating hand at that; one should not go overboard.

The day of Brownies dawned (today, for those who weren't paying sufficient attention), neither particularly bright nor particularly clear, but heroic souls such as myself disregard such unencouraging omens. I merrily took my new route to work (Barnes-Clapham Junction-Balham-Tooting Broadway), and burst into the office with enthusiasm shining from every inch of my happy little face*. And I knew had a task to look forward to that would challenge me in every way possible: to plot a journey from Tooting Broadway (deepest, darkest south west London) to Lee (deepest, darkest south east London). A journey, more over, that had to take place in rush hour on a Friday, between my leaving work and the start of Brownies at 6, and that could not involve zone 1 (my travelcard being confined to zones 2 and 3).

A challenge indeed.

Reader, it would not be true to say I was undaunted by this prospect. Travel between south west and south east, for those not familiar with London's transport infrastructure, is notoriously difficult. The received wisdom is that it is speediest and most straightforward to go in and then out again, as it were. The recommended route between Tooting and Lee would be to take the Northern line up to either Waterloo or London Bridge and pick up the overground train to Lee. A simple journey; TfL's favoured choice on the Journey Planner. But those more eagle-eyed of you will notice the flaw: both Waterloo and London Bridge are in zone 1.

[An editorial note, again for those not familiar with London transport. Zone 1 is like a ticket of doom when it comes to your transport costs. Zone 1 is the single most expensive zone to travel in, because, natch, it's central London and has all the fun touristy-businessy-travel-through stuff going on for it. Travelling through zone 1 on your way somewhere will double your ticket price, even if you don't stop there. Additionally, if you only have a travelcard for zone 2-3, as I do, travelling through zone 1 (a) means having to pay more money and (b) when that travel involves a train, it apparently becomes stupidly complicated and usually requires queuing for three hours.]

Another route was needed. I consulted Journey Planner again. Unfortunately, Journey Planner is pretty much wedded to the in-and-out-again option. Hmm, I thought. What I need is an option to not go through zone 1. On closer examination, Journey Planner does not provide this function (probably, though I am of course reluctant to impute negative motives to such a fine institution as Tranport for London, because the cocks want everyone to go through zone 1 so they can overcharge them). Bum. I could, of course, exclude the train option altogether, but since Lee isn't on the tube, that would mean a bus journey. In London. In rush hour. With a 6pm deadline.

I needed to think this through, before my voyage was scuppered altogether. I needed to gather together every scrap of experience I'd had travelling round south London, every piece of research I'd done on train times, every half-remembered bus map. How, oh how, could I solve this seemingly unsurmountable problem?

I decided to approach it logically. The easiest method of transport would be the tube from Tooting and the train to Lee. If I couldn't get to London Bridge, how far could I get? Elephant & Castle, as it turns out. Conversely, the first station I could catch the Lee train from was New Cross. Well, then, I simply had to bridge the gap between E&C and New Cross. Couldn't be far, I thought. And it turned out it wasn't that far, and there were two buses that did it. Woo! Victory! I wrote down the details on a little piece of paper, much as I imagine whathisname did when planning his route into the African interior.

But then I was inspecting my proposed route on a little map, and I realised something about New Cross station: it was but a hop, skip and a jump from New Cross Gate station. Hmm, I thought. Interesting, I thought. Because I could tell from the trainlines on the map that New Cross Gate was on the same line as Forest Hill, which is on the same line as Balham and Clapham Junction - it does a big loop between Victoria and London Bridge.

Did you notice? Did you feel that little thrill of discovery? Did you pick up on that key name: Balham. Bal-ham. Gateway to the south (oh yes). Balham, which is on my way to work. Balham, which is but two stops from Tooting Broadway. Feverishly, I returned to Journey Planner, cursing its inefficiency as it tried to exclude trains and tubes again. A

And, readers, there it was. There was my route. Tube to Balham. Train to New Cross Gate. A little wander down the road, then picking up the Lee train from New Cross. It couldn't be simpler. I didn't even have to approach central London. I left work just after 4, and was at the church just before Brownies started.

And in theory, the journey home was to be as simple; the New Cross Gate train back to Balham would travel through to Clapham Junction, where I could catch the train to Barnes. The only problem: Lee changed its timetable recently. If you don't catch the 19.40 train, you're waiting there a fucking lifetime. Brownies finishes at 19.30, but they don't all go immediately. And I had to catch the 19.40, or I'd not get a train from New Cross Gate until about 21.00.

I had swiftly** written a quick email to

xanantha, explaining I would have to leave on the dot, to which she was amenable (thank you, darling). Brownies happened. 19.30 came, and I rushed out of that church hall like there were hellhounds on my tail, coat, scarf and bag clutched to my bosom.

And this is where fate intervened. I was nearly at the bus stop by Lee station, when I noticed there was a 202 there. A 202 going to Crystal Palace. Ein minuten bitte (I thought to myself): Crystal Palace is a station between New Cross Gate and Clapham Junction. Taking the word for the deed (or something), I jumped on board, and asked if he was going to Crystal Palace station. He said yes. I asked how long it would take. He said about 40 minutes. I swiped my travelcard and sat down.

Which is the point the man in front of me asked me if I wanted Crystal Palace station. On learning that I did indeed, he informed me that the bus didn't in fact go there. I knew the bus driver had sounded a bit useless. However, in the course of our conversation, I heard the name Sydenham. And Sydenham... well, I imagine you can guess what train line Sydenham station is on!

Actually, the man wasn't sure it quite stopped at the station, and then he got off, and I was left alone in a strange land. Alone, but for my trusty iPhone, because I had a little brainwave. With GPS and a little map, I could see when I came near to a station! Anyway, when it came to it, the 202 did in fact go past Sydenham station, and I caught a train to Clapham Junction, arriving there at a perkily early 20.28. I would easily reach home by nine, which is usually when Katie got home from Brownies when using the in-and-out-again method.

(I didn't: I got off at Clapham to buy plastic white bread for bacon sandwiches and yogurt to mix with my fig jam, and then I got the bus home: still in by 9.15.)

And there you have it. A little transport adventure. Go about your business, and remember this shining tale. As with Robert the Bruce and the spider (whether told in mime or words***), one must try and try and try again if the Journey Planner doens't give one what one wants.

* This is a lie for narrative purposes. It was a Friday morning, I'd had a busy week, with a faffy journey across London and back to look forward to. I was neither merry, enthusiastic or happy.

** This is an in-joke for

katie__pillar. It involves a British spy, a ski resort, a strip club, and an eastern European girl called Anna.

*** This is an in-joke for the Dandelion Bitches.

Current Music: Na na na na na na na na na... etc

Oh, chickie pies, look at this! Nearly February and I’ve hardly shared the fascinating tales of my life with you at all! Actually, it’s a miracle that I’m doing so now, because I had a steroid injection on Tuesday for tendonitis in my wrist and now I am the veriest cripple. Fucking ow is what I said at the time, and I stand by that judgment. Poor darling Katie has had to make dinner twice, now, and make custard (an endeavour barely worth the effort, sadly – fucking Bird’s custard, what’s happened to you?), not to mention practically having to undress me. Oh, it’s been a solemn couple of days at Fangirl Towers.

OK. No. You know us too well. It hasn’t been at all solemn. We have, as ever, been all jokey jokey and then laughy laughy. Good times.

In other news: work is still awesome and still vee busy and I have hopeful hopes of being rebanded up (pay rise!), but we shall see how that goes. Um, what else? Week before last I had a miserable, miserable cold and had to take a couple of days off to cough myself into oblivion in the comfort of my own home. I went to see Helen and hang out round the bus stops at her local Sainsbury’s. Jill came to stay last weekend. We watched quite a lot of TV, topped off by Grease 2, which was a little treat for us all. My brother and his betrothed (lol) are trying to buy a house. My grandmother hid all her money in the safe place, then wrote herself a coded message about the location of the safe place (you can’t say she doesn’t learn from her experiences), then tidied away the coded message, then couldn’t find it. I told her that when she carks it we expect to find the house stuffed full of money and lost Christmas presents past. It’ll be a riot.

Speaking of riots, it’s that time of the year again. ‘What time is that?’ I hear you cry. Wrestling time. Oh yes. Once again, Emma and I are heading to Wembley to watch men ‘wrestle’ (as I have said (humorously) before, ‘I’ve not seen anything that choreographed since I was last at Sadlers Wells!’*). So, that will be fun**. Additionally, this year we apparently have tickets to meet the wrestling stars beforehand. It’s going to be a tough job, trying to stop Emma from molesting AJ Styles, but I will not shirk my duty.

And finally, a small treatise on the 493 bus route. The 493 bus route, for those not familiar with it, goes from Manor Circus in Richmond, past our house, through Roehampton, Putney Heath, Southfields, past Wimbledon (the tennis club), Wimbledon (the village), Wimbledon (the actual town bit with the station), finally shopping up at St George’s Hospital in Tooting (where I work). In terms of my commute, it is very handy. Less handy, however, are ALL THE FUCKING CHILDREN! Oh my God! The 493 is also essentially a school bus route, as it seems to go past half the schools in south west London. And those children… they just clutter up the front of the bus, deaf and blind to the increasingly fervent announcements demanding that they move down the bus, just staring ahead with the kind of ovine malevolence that you know I deplore. I want to blow them all up, frankly. Tragically, that is unlikely to happen. Especially with my dodgy wrist. I weep for the future of our nation, darlings. I weep.

* A lie for comic effect: I have never been to Sadlers Wells.

** Also a lie.

Oh, what a lot of things I have to relate. Well, not that many really. My life is not, after all, so very thrilling. Hmm, let me see. So, the other night,

pim2005 came round for dinner. I cooked curry. It wasn’t ace. I also made some chocolate mousse, ditto. We watched Waiting For God and had a little bitch. It was perfectly charming. Last night, we had pizza (yum) and watched NCIS. Tonight, I am going to

weird_bird’s, and then bopping back home to welcome into the fold Chris, who is using FT as a cheap (viz. free) alternative to a hotel.

Tomorrow, however, will be a beautiful day.

katie__pillar and I are meeting

balooky and

klo_the_hobbit at the National Theatre and doing their backstage tour (OMG HOW MUCH DO I LOVE THE NATIONAL? AS MUCH AS THE SKY!), then going on to lunch in Trafalgar Square, and then rounding things off with the Wodehouse exhibition in Mayfair (or wherever it is; I’m not really sure; I just like the idea of its being in Mayfair). How ace does that day sound? Fingers crossed the weather will oblige, for there’s nothing drearier than tramping round the grey streets of London in the pouring rain (espesh when one doesn’t own an umbrella; or, rather, all one’s umbrellas have mysteriously vanished: I blame Borrowers).

Anyway, further to the tale of last night’s pizza, I was extremely disappointed in the White Hart Lane Sainsbury’s. Six kinds of cheddar and grated cheddar in a bag, but do they have any grated mozzarella to put onto homemade pizza? No they fucking don’t. It’s like the new Tesco in Sheen, which, although full to the gunwales of stuff, never actually seems to have anything. It’s freakish. Every single time I’ve gone there to get something, they’ve never had it, and I’ve had to go to Waitrose. Given that they constructed themselves right opposite Waitrose (where the Woolworths used to be – oh, Woolworths, my lost darling…), you’d think they’d make more of an effort to compete, but they’re rubbish. Anyway, that’s all by the by. Grr – Sainsbury’s – no cheese. Also, apparently a lead-lined box, because I had no phone reception.

On the plus side, however, when I was walking down the Terrace between Barnes Bridge station and the White Hart pub, it was so lovely! The sun was just sliding behind the horizon, and the sunset was glittering off the Thames (high tide), and there were lots of trees and ducks (and, fine, the Mortlake Brewery, which is a bit of an eyesore), and it were all gorgeous like out of yon picture book. We do live in a nice area. *sighs happily*

In other news, I’m a bit late to the party with this, but what the fuck is it with this free Polanski bollocks? Leaving aside the total bizarreness of slebs queuing up to support a man found guilty of inappropriate sexual conduct* with a thirteen year old girl who then fled the country (OMG WHAT PART OF ‘HE DID A BAD, BAD THING’ DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?), this is a man who was found guilty of a crime, fled the country before he could be sentenced, and finally got caught with a view to being extradited. Whatever the whys and wherefores of the case, simple judicial procedure is at stake here: of course he should have to answer to the courts. And then, of course, there is the RAPED A CHILD aspect, which you would think was a no-brainer. Are the people supporting him actually damaged in the head? So fucking what if he’s an ‘artist’? No one should be above the law.

* My understanding of this is that he was accused of rape, and then plea-bargained to unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor (presumably statutory rape by any other name?). And, please. My understanding of thirteen year old girls is that they are unlikely to be mature enough to properly consent to sexual intercourse with old men.

I have (yet another) dreadful tale to relate. You’d better all sit down. Yesterday, I WENT OUT WITHOUT A BOOK. I know. Horrible, isn’t it? I can’t remember the time I made such an awful mistake. Rest assured, it wasn’t deliberate, merely an oversight, but still: tragic.

Anyway, moving on. The weekend: Katie was off at Connotations, so I had the run of the flat which, natch, I managed to trash in approximately 3.7 seconds (a personal best), which meant I had to get up at 6 o’clock yesterday morning to make some vague attempts at tidying. Other things I did over the weekend included watching TV and making egg fried rice. Also, I read Genesis, which was interesting, if a bit mental. It’s odd though, that most of the bible stories I was taught at school, all happen right at the beginning. Anyway, I’m looking forward to Exodus and the all-singing, all-dancing Joseph.

Last night I tottered off to the theatre with Xanthe and Kerry (with whom I went to school) to see All’s Well That Ends Well at the National. And when I say ‘tottered’, what I actually mean is ‘walked all the way from St John’s Wood to the South Bank’ – go me. Along my route (which encompassed, for any who might be interested, Baker Street, Oxford Street, South Molton Street, Brook Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Charing Cross Road, St Martin’s in the Fields and Charing Cross Station), I encountered the former residences of no lesser personages than William Pitt the Younger, Ernest Bevin, George Handel, Jimi Hendrix and Prince Talleyrand. I also saw St George’s on Hanover Square which is where any couple of note in any Regency romance ever gets married (unless they elope to Gretna Green, natch).

Eh bien, the play. For the play, as we all know, is the thing. Oh, William. William, William, William. What am I to say? I mean, I should have known. I’ve seen A Comedy of Errors. I know the hideous depths to which your ‘comedies’ can sink. AWTEW is a ridiculous play. Absolutely absurd. Helena remains determined to have Bertram LIKE A MENTALIST, and Bertram is a cad and a bounder! You know how I feel about the noble Claudio? BERTRAM IS WORSE. They are welcome to each other. Bertram and Helena, I mean. Not Bertram and Claudio. That would be another play altogether and, for all we know, a better one. Anyway, the set was absolutely beautiful, very dark fairy-tale-ish, and worth the trip for that alone, frankly. The acting was so-so – it was mostly very STAND BACK, WE’RE PERFORMING SHAKESPEARE NOW with a lot of random monologues etc which got slightly tedious. Having seen various productions of Shakespeare (the Donmar Warehouse’s Twelfth Night, for one, or the Open Air Theatre’s Romeo & Juliet) where the action and language flow as easily as any modern play, to see this performed in such a pedestrian manner was disappointing. Still, as shit a play as it is, they probably couldn’t have done it much better. It was nice to be back in the Olivier, though – I can’t remember the last time I saw something there.

La. So, that was last night. Tonight, I was supposed to be going to Kathye’s, but I need to prep for my interview tomorrow (if anyone happens to know anything about diabetic retinopathy screening (or, in fact, about any DoH mandated screening programmes), please tell me everything!!), and possibly do some photoshopping for Alexandros’s leaving present, so will have to stay at home and be productive. Also, must remember to wash some tights.

Had a lovely sojourn with Katie to Greenwich Park today to see Donna. We sat in the sun and dined well on picnic food and fizzy pink wine - good times. I then abandoned them to bop around London, and came home. Now. Riddle me this, people: at what point did I think getting a bus home from Aldwych on a Saturday afternoon was a good plan. If I'd just nipped across Waterloo Bridge and got the train, I'd have been home by the time my stupid bus shuddered from a crawl to a stop at Hyde Park Corner, where I had to change because my particular No. 9 had decided not to bother going to Hammersmith. Whatevs. I got home in the end. Comedy moment: chap wearing a Captain Hammer t-shirt in Hammersmith whilst I was listening to the Dr Horrible soundtrack!

( Just taking a minute to be a tiny bit sad. )

Also, the Savoy is still closed. What gives, Savoy? It's been nearly two years! How long can it possibly to take to get restored?

Also, Katie and I came up with a bit of nice SPN fic for me to write (OMG this week's ep not actually shit!!!). So I might do that this afternoon.

♥ Summer is icumen in, people: on the station path this morning, I walked past a little stream of about a dozen Wimbledon ball boys (and one ball girl) in their little uniforms, presumably on their way to ballchild school or summat. Très hilarious.

♥ My current sense of self identity is stumbling. Before half ten, I have been (a) myself (rarely a challenge), (b) Katie, on the phone to British Gas, and (c) one of our patients, on the phone to British Airways. I am wandering blind in a morass of confusion and names…

♥ Currently, I am reading Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster, which is one of my most favourite books ever, and which ALL PEOPLE should read for the awesomeness. I sense I will be reading Dear Enemy in the near future. I am also reading The Resistance, by Gemma Malley, which is the sequel to The Declaration, a vee good book wherein scientists have discovered the formula for eternal life, and there is strict bureaucracy involved in having children. As well as that, I am technically plodding through that new Stephanie Laurens I was whinging about a couple of weeks ago, and this morning I picked up a 2001 edition of my darling Prospect magazine that, as well as featuring an extremely interesting article about how the different series of Star Trek mirror changing American foreign policy and social attitudes, has an essay on the intersection (or not) between political philosophy and the practice of politics. All vee good stuff. What in this world is better that woooords and lang-widge and cul-tcha? What indeed? Let’s have a poll about it, eh?

[Poll #1416973]

♥ I’m really tempted to start the project of going through Waiting For God and adding some of its choicer moments to Wikiquote, but I probably can’t be arsed.

♥ I plan to watch Caprica tonight – quite excited about it.

♥ Given his choices in life, it’s really quite fortunate, when you think about it, that Nick Griffin has such an eminently punchable face…

♥ So. Tube strike. (Although apparently the Jubilee line is sort of running – what’s that about? Am confused.) I made my EPIC, EPIC journey into work. I could have got the train to Waterloo and attempt some sort of bus-related manoeuvre, but I thought, no, do not be so foolish. Every man and his dog will be attempting to get onto a bus at Waterloo. It will be hideous and all the buses will be packed and all will be trag. So, instead – and follow me closely, here – I took the train to Richmond (ha ha! travelling against the flow!) and there caught the overground train to Finchley – woo! Go me! It was about twenty minutes late getting to Finchley, but that still gave me 45 minutes to walk down to St John’s Wood (which would have been more than enough, except I popped into Waitrose to buy a yogurt or summat, except the Finchley Road Waitrose is much bigger than I was expecting and I didn’t know where anything was and OH MH GOD IT WAS SO STRESSFUL so I just flailed a bit then left, and then I went into M&S at Swiss Cottage and found a yogurt but then some random woman WAS BUYING HER ENTIRE WEEK’S SHOPPING WTF WTF? and since it was 9 am there was only about half a person behind the counter, so I had to wait. But heigh ho, I made it to work WITH A WHOLE ENTIRE MINUTE TO SPARE. Woo. \o/ TAKE THAT, RMT!!!

♥ Further to my EPIC, EPIC journey, on the train to Finchley I was sitting next to a woman who looked like Death! Actually like Death, from the comic books! I texted Katie and she warned me against letting myself be reaped (reaped? rept? anyone?), so I was very wary until Brondesbury Park, when she got off, presumably with a different reaping target in mind. So, there was that.

♥ Also, you will all, I have no doubt, be gratified to hear that I appear to have solved my crap scaly complexion problem by the power of MOISTURISING. I know. It’s like a tiny miracle. Who knew that would work?

♥ In other news, I am reading

sarahtales’ book (it’s shaping up nicely, btw), and by page 4 it had an unkindness of ravens. Reader, I LOLed. (Just to confirm, that’s not LOLing in a ‘what a ridiculous phrase! I scorn it!’ way, but in a ‘yes, I know that’s the correct collective noun, but it has an extra layer of OTH-based hilarity’ way.)

When backed into a corner, I will concede that London's public transport system is actually pretty damn good. I mean, the Jubilee Line is more addicted to "signal failure" than I am to my hair, and South West Trains WILL ONE DAY BURN IN A HELL OF THEIR OWN MAKING, and I am still unclear on why it's going to take THREE YEARS to refurbish Blackfriars station, and the reason for the Hammersmith & Shitty Line always having to wait at Edgware Road station for about half an hour remains one of life's great mysteries, but other than that, it's not too bad.

Except, of course, when the RMT decides to strike. Because from now till Friday morning, London is going to be like some hellish medieval Hieronymus Bosch nightmare with people clawing at bus doors, desperate to get on, while City men hurl their own mothers out of taxis, twenty-three cyclists are mown down out of sheer jealousy over their independent transport, and the traffic grinds to a sullen and depressing halt.

I don't really know how I feel about "the unions" generally: I am too young to have been aware of their heyday. In history lessons, they always seem like a fairly good idea: protecting the voiceless workers from the capitalist scum breaking their backs in return for a few shillings. A few years ago, I seem to recall there was a strike on the Victoria Line over safety concerns. I can understand that. That, I said to myself at the time, with a philosophical shrug, is fair enough.

In the current instance, RMT is asking for (according to BBC News) a 5% salary rise and a guarantee of no forced redundancies. FUCK RIGHT OFF, RMT! NO-ONE'S GOT THAT! JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE THE POWER TO FREEZE THE BACKBONE OF OUR TRANSPORT SYSTEM DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULD FUCKING GET WHAT YOU WANT! YOU SUCK!

Also, I bought tickets for the Bad Film Club at the Barbican tomorrow, entirely forgetting that it means we have to get right across London in the middle of the night with no tube. Rah.