The Long, Bad Monday

A pleasant September morning, en route to Leeds, and I am busy contemplating castration. Not mine, I should emphasize, but castration as it relates to the debate on the relative merits of East vs West Civilization. Mr Hobson is very enthusiastic about castration, especially the Chinese type, and points out that a Chinese eunuch, Cheng Ho, was not only made an Admiral, but led fleets of Chinese treasure ships round the World in epic voyages of discovery that made Vasco De Gama's seafaring look like a trip to the local mall. More evidence of the supremacy of Eastern Civilization, Mr Hobson declares. I'm outraged, because I happen to know that here in the West, we also castrated huge numbers of young boys, mostly so that Vatican Mass not only looked great but sounded awesome as well. Not only this, but the USA is STILL castrating people, thus conclusively proving that as far as castration goes, we in the West are at least as civilized as the East.


At Selby, the train stops for longer than usual, and the delay gets confirmed by an announcement that the train will now discontinue and coaches will replace it. It appears that the cable between Selby and Leeds (all thirty two miles of it) has been stolen, and the train cannot proceed. We are all to alight, mindful of the gap, and await coaches. A gaggle of about 100 passengers, obviously day -trippers, holiday makers and other occasional users, catch up with the Transpennine staff just as they are about to enter a room on the station platform labelled "Staff Only". I can hear Pete, the conductor, saying "No", "Nothing we can do", "I do'nt know" and "Passenger's Charter" in between trying to get his breath back. . It was a close race.

The remaining 60 or so, hardened veteran commuters all, pass the Transpennine's supplicants, and rapidly head for a place in the queue on the road outside the station. We are, mostly, undismayed, even though, to us, it is obvious that someone has blundered. 59 cellphones flash in the sunlight as employers are called, and for some, I can hear the explanation of traindelays is beginning to sound like an excuse. "No, no no, really, I'm standing at Selby station waiting for a coach - I took photos, I'll show you when I get in" I hear this phrase, and variations thereof, from phones to the left, right and behind me.

I am conspicuous in having no cellphone, the only person in the UK not to possess one of the infernal devices. A fellow train warrior, next in the queue, offers his telephone so I can call Icksy, and on completion a conversation ensues. David has travelled to Leeds daily for the past month. I know this because he usually sits opposite me. However, on a "normal" daily journey, we follow the rules of commuting assiduously, and completely ignore each other for an hour, starting at 7.33am. In cases of interrupted journey's the unwritten rules allow conversations, so, after establishing to our mutual satisfaction that the other is not gay, or unemployed, and agreeing that at least "Its not raining" we chat happily.

We also speculate on whether, as TransPennine allege, the "cable" has been stolen, or whether this is merely a story. "Cable theft" seems such a frequent delay-causing occurrence that Cable Barons must rival Drug-Lords and People Smugglers for pole position in the League Table of Bad People that our statistically obsessed Government undoubtedly publishes (semi-annually). Personally, I am undecided on how I view the cable theft. The Eurocentrist part of me can see how its a good example of how enterprising and innovative us Europeans can be. The resource was there, we exploited it in a new, innovative way. Mr Hobson would undoubtedly see a different perspective. When I eventually arrive in work, Icksy does'nt care. He just tells me that I've got to work an extra two hours to make up for the time TransPennine have lost me.

The Days of Our Lives

The Empire Strikes Back : Part Two:Interlude.

Regular train reading is currently "The Eastern Origins OF Western Civilization" by John M. Hobson. Mr Hobson's work represents one extreme of an argument between Eurocentrists and people I can only describe as Probably Enthusiasts of the non-Eurocentric Equal Area Projections (PEEP). Mr Hobson is definitely a PEEP.

Eurocentrists believe that the current state of World Civilization, namely a Global Civilization dominated by "The West" is entirely along the lines of the natural order of things. The West is dominant, they explain, because of our values, resources, inventiveness, socio-economic and political systems, not to mention the heroic actions of a few select historical figures. What if it had all gone horribly wrong, they hint darkly, and one of the Eastern Powers had risen to World Pre-Eminence in the last thousand-odd years? Imagine a world dominated by one overpowering culture, power rested firmly in the hands of self-interested cat-obsessed family dynasties, where strangely robed High Priests' speak for the Gods. A world of luxury and power for the few, while the masses struggle to live, sending their young men to fight in wars they do'nt understand, their daily struggle enlivened only by the occasional seaside holiday, the dazzle of illustrious celebrity and the semi-legal drugs that the powers-that-be quietly sanction. A truly horrible vision.

The PEEPs present a different perspective. The West, they argue, is currently, temporarily, Numero Uno, only because of Western tendencies that lie in the direction of opportunistic theft (of ideas, resources and land), piratical trading methods, and biological warfare caused by the regrettably low standards of personal hygiene that are prevalent in the West. Indeed, the PEEPS allege, it wasn't really until they had conquered the World that Westerners felt relaxed enough to have a good daily bath. We would have all been better off, they argue, disappearing into Himalayan caves for a few years and studying Confucius. Besides which, Mr Hobson claims, the Chinese invented everything from steam engines to writing, at least 500 years before the Europeans, and only failed to achieve world domination because on the eve of colonising America in 1421, became fascinated with the contemplation of a particularly complex snowflake, went back to the cave and decided to think about it for a few hundred years. The World would have been infinitely better off, Mr Hobson seems to imply if we'd all been able to wear silken robes to work, even if it meant the extinction of the tiger 200 years before it looks as if it is just about to happen.

While insufficiently researched in the subject to assert any conclusions yet, I can report that while proximity to fellow commuters on the 7.33 Turbobooster does seem to support the notion that daily washing among Westerners is still not ingrained as a habit, equally, reports (from a Chinese friend) of the ring roads of Beijing sound more like a description of Dante's Hell than a Contemplative Paradise.

A Day In The LIfe (just could'nt resist it).

It is Friday, and a familiar pattern is emerging. In the morning press, new sensations are rehashed in the tragic case of a British couple who's child disappeared in Portugal four months ago, and sharing the front pages, Prince Harry was late to meet his girlfriend at the airport.

Later on, in work, I remind Icksy of my request to leave work 15 minutes earlier so that I can catch a train that will get me home 1 1/2 hours earlier than my usual time. My contracted quitting time is 5.30pm which is actually an hour earlier than I usually can leave, so by having a 15 minute lunch on Friday, I will have worked 4 1/4 hours more than my contracted weekly hours and I figure that I'm not stealing anything if I can get away. Icksy, by the book as usual, goes to "check if its ok"with the office", gets distracted on the way, forgets to check and comes back to me at 5.15 with a new piece of work that he wants to start now. I remind him of my request and he has "a think" about it, grants me permission to leave (its now 5.25pm) and I race across Leeds to the station to try and catch the 5.38, only to find it has been delayed by 15 minutes.

On the way back to Hull, the train is delayed by another half hour because, Transpennine Express tell us, vandals have stolen signalling equipment outside of Selby. This delay puts me back on the same schedule as if I had'nt "bothered" Icksy at all. Passengers take advantage of the delay to open the doors, thus releasing the smell of the malfunctioning toilet.

On the ride home from Hull Station I stop at a local market to get lots of beer for the evening. As I'm in the line-up for the tills, a man walks in, and in a similar tone to someone ordering a pizza, says "Can someone call the Police, there's two lads beating Seven Shades out of eachother outside". I glance up and sure enough, outside, there's blood everywhere. Curiously for Britain (cellphone ownership at 58 million and rising), no-one seems to have a phone, and I really do'nt, so I figure it is now SEP (Someone Else's Problem).

In the early days of our return to the UK, I intervened in one such incident, unsuccessfully because the fighters just totally ignored me. I was quite insulted, as the adrenalin was pumping and the least I expected was to become innocently embroiled in the dispute, perhaps end up in hospital and make the papers as a "have-a-go-hero" but alas, the boys just kept punching past me, as if I was not there, until I had to walk away. Later, I realized that street fighting isso common in Hull ( this is a correction from my earlier claim as a friend has reminded me that there's very little street fighting in Heswall) that interference would be a clear breach of the Prime Directive, so now I just do what everyone else does, and try not to let it make me late for appointments.

I walk outside, replace my bike seat, lights and front wheel, unlock the frame, the back wheel, and the front forks, trying not to get blood on me, and manoeuvre past the pugilists, now with a considerable weight in my pack as the titanium locks, cycling cape, books, phone directory, notepad, pencils, wet weather gear and tub of peanut butter have been joined by four bottles of "Old Speckled Hen". A policeman strolling towards the fight scene, who I think I saw attending a streetfight earlier on in the week, stops me and reminds me to turn my lights on.

Nel has made a nice tea, but something has happened today that has really upset me, so I dive outside for a walk with the cats to calm down, and ponder the situation. I'm really upset because in work, Andy kept repeatedly calling me "Scouse", and I'm fed up with it.