24Jun2004

The Routemaster buses in London have been around for years. Before Churchill and the Battle of Britain. Long before England became world rugby champions for a week. Sad news is that the Routemaster bus, just like the rugby team, is on its way to oblivion. London transport has decided that their day has come. One by one they’re being consigned to the used bus yard. You could pick one up for $24,000.00. A snip at that price. The Routemaster provided a daily platform for a slice of real London life like the incident I witnessed last week. I was on my way to Paddington Station. I saw the double-decker No. 13 pass the end of my street. I knew that if I ran after it I stood a good chance of hopping on the back platform when the bus stopped at the next set of traffic lights. My calculation was just right. I swung aboard. The conductor yanked the bell and we were off. I sat there recovering my breath from my sprint. “You are not in great shape are you Guv? Need to lose some of that corporation. Look at me I’m 45. People tell me I’ve got the body of a fit 30 year old”. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he looked about as old as the bus he was in charge and his nose was about the same shade of red as his bus. “Thanks for the compliment” I replied. “I’m going on a diet.” With that the Routemaster, as it often does, stopped unexpectedly. Standing on the curbside were two massive figures. One as tall as a lamp post. The other as broad as the bus. Both carrying the biggest suitcases I’ve ever seen. The broad one’s broadness was accentuated further by the fact that all he was wearing was a pair of short shorts and sneakers. Notwithstanding their obvious strength they struggled to get their cases on to the platform. The entire back space – the domain of the health advising conductor – was taken up by these giants tall and broad and their luggage. The result was no one could get on or off the bus. My conductor was too busy up the front to see them come aboard. The bell clanged. The bus moved off. As he turned and saw the new arrivals the rest of his 45 year old face turned the same colour as his nose. “Ere you can’t bring that luggage on ‘ere. This isn’t a taxi. It’s a bus.” The broad and the tall just nodded. I detected they might be of eastern European origin. “Stop that nodding. You understand what I’m saying? This is not a taxi. It’s a bus”. More nodding. Now things were turning ugly. The bus stopped again. Passengers trying to get off, having to climb over the cases. At the same time passengers trying to get on were striking the same immovable obstacles. The conductor tried once more to make himself understood. Showing his other skill – that of a linguist – he shouted at the impassive giant “You’ll have to move this stuff. COMPREY HENDAY VOO”. And then for good measure he added “IVAN”. The use of the “IVAN” confirmed my earlier prognosis. They were Eastern European. Probably Russian. It is was obvious that neither of them comprey henday voud. They just continued nodding. A stand off of cold war proportions was developing. The conductor sought a compromise. “OK Ivan, singularly referred to both of them, you get that stuff upstairs and you can stay on”. The Ivans clearly understood this directive. They then proceeded to inch their massive suitcases up the Routemaster’s narrow stairway towards the upper deck. The cases became jammed in the narrow opening and as a consequence not only were the passengers on the lower deck captive but those on the upper deck now had no means of escape. At this point the conductor exploded verbally in a mixture of Russian orthodox French and plain cockney. It was time for me to leave. I climbed over the first case and swung down off the back step onto the pavement. My last look was the bus moving off to the chants of the volcanic conductor. The two Russians and their cases stuck in the companion way. And thirty two passengers hijacked. Sad they’re getting rid of the Routemasters.

03Jun2004

As I reported last week, I made it into that hallowed ground the home of cricket – Lords. I recalled the editors injunction to me “you're not there to give us a ball by ball commentary. You're being sent there to find out what goes on behind the stands...”

My first impression on arriving was of an elaborate fancy dress party. Or a movie set. It was like a scene out of 'Four Weddings and a Funeral'. There were the delightful elegantly dressed women but not many of them. They were earnestly chatting with hundreds of Hugh Grant look-a-likes. You know the sort. Stripped blazers. Trousers with razor sharp pleats. They all had shocks of untrainable hair. Constantly being swept back from their high foreheads by hands heavily burdened with gold signet rings. And in the other free hand available to them a glass of PIMMS. Lots of heavy chortling from the men. Nervous chirping from the women who were likewise partaking of the PIMMS. The air was aloud with the clinking of ice. All this and it was only 1130am. Suddenly the milling PIMMS drinking throng's camaraderie was shattered by a red cricket ball landing in their midst. This was just the first of a series of Chris Cairns sixes that had come over the top of the stand. The PIMMS drinkers recovered their composure as quickly as they had lost it. Great what a public school education does for one.

The scene was full of colour. Against the backdrop of off-white marquees were the dark suits with chalky stripes, blue, green and striped blazers. And everyone but me was wearing a tie. And every tie was of the same colours. Burnt orange and a lemony green. The official colours of the Marylebone Cricket Club, affectionately known as the MCC. I eavesdropped onto one of the conversations.
“Did you hear the sad news about Rupert and Jocasta, Geoffrey?”
“Poor show I was never all that keen on her.”
“She always seemed to be more interested in what make of car a chap was driving rather than the chap himself.”
“I knew as soon as Rupert swapped the BMW for that Japanese 4WD there was going to be trouble.”
“And he only did it to please the kids – not for himself. He was an unselfish blighter.”
“He may have to sell 'Thropmorton' to pay her out. If that happens that's the end of our regular Sunday cricket matches. The wicket at Thropmorton was one of the best.”

Geoffrey nonchalantly brushing the unruly shock of hair I earlier spoke of from his brow responded “We'll be all right. Sebastian Chippendal-Wigmore has just bought a fabulous estate near Godalming. He's putting in a pitch, bringing the clay down from Yorkshire. Ten truckloads of it. We'll be playing there before the end of the summer.”
“How's your drink?”

Before Geoffrey could answer the ball from another Cairns six dropped just short of the group.
”These colonials are nothing but sloggers. That's the fourth six that blighter Cairns has hit this morning Let's move over to the champagne marquee. It will be more peaceful there.”
And it was. But it wouldn't have mattered. A loud roar had just gone up from the stands. Cairns attempting six, number 5, had been caught on the boundary.