10/05/2012
On the way:
The speaker splutters, like a disc crackling as the needle drops.
The familiar morning DJ starts her companionable patter: "Welcome aboard this Southeast train to...Gillingham."
Habitually disinterested commuters surface with a start.
She's got their attention now: "Calling at... Charlton, Woolwich Arsenal, Abbey Wood..."
No, that's not right.
She warms to its subject: "Greenhithe, Gravesend, Higham, Strood..."
No no no. That's not where we're going. It's not what it said on the platform. I can't go there. I've got other places to go. I'll never get to work in time. I've got a meeting. What'll the boss say? Who'll open the shop? I'll lose my job. We'll lose the house. My wife will walk out. My husband hasn't worked in months. Who'll feed the kids?
Implacable she forges ahead: "Rochester, Chatham, Gillingham..."
Nooo, let me out, let me out, let me out.
You can almost hear her rub her hands together, that sneering, smug, self-satisfied tone: "The next stop will be... Blackheath"
Wait a minute, that's where the train's come from. She's just put the wrong record on, the cow.
Hang the DJ.
On the pod:
Rock and Roll - Led Zeppelin
On the front page:
End of the line for hate preacher (Metro)
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