On the day:
31/10/2012
On the way:
Hey lady. Yeah you with the headscarf and the double baby buggy. Just because you got little white skulls on your black bandanna doesn't make you a pirate. Now get your galleon out of the channel and dock it.
That's much better.
On the pod:
Straight On - Heart
On the front page:
Sort out airports or risk recovery - Heseltine (The Times)
Wednesday 31 October 2012
Duty gone ashtray
On the day:
30/10/2012
On the way:
When the bus arrives, the young man in the soft brown leather jacket with the Mediterranean complexion and the matinee idol hair takes the last few drags on his freshly started cigarette, steps away from his wheechair-bound smoking companion and boards.
The older man in the black fedora sets his gloved hands to the hand rails of his wheels and rolls over to the open exit doors.
The bus is not keen. It evidently took a right turn to bypass London's Olympic - and, more to the point, Paralympic - summer of love. Or maybe it objects to that fresh ashtray aroma on the breath of its customers. Either way, it hunkers down and closes its exit doors.
The driver's having none of, though, it's the big lug's job to provide transport, whether or not the client has his own wheels and exhaust pipe, and the bus is forced to rise with a hiss. A ramp slowly, reluctantly emerges from below the exit, and finally the doors open to admit the man and his machine.
Once he has been safely stowed away, the ramp retracts, the doors close and the bus drops to its haunches with another sigh, and sets off. With a belch of smoke.
On the pod:
Disturbia - Rihanna
On the front page:
States of emergency (The Times)
30/10/2012
On the way:
When the bus arrives, the young man in the soft brown leather jacket with the Mediterranean complexion and the matinee idol hair takes the last few drags on his freshly started cigarette, steps away from his wheechair-bound smoking companion and boards.
The older man in the black fedora sets his gloved hands to the hand rails of his wheels and rolls over to the open exit doors.
The bus is not keen. It evidently took a right turn to bypass London's Olympic - and, more to the point, Paralympic - summer of love. Or maybe it objects to that fresh ashtray aroma on the breath of its customers. Either way, it hunkers down and closes its exit doors.
The driver's having none of, though, it's the big lug's job to provide transport, whether or not the client has his own wheels and exhaust pipe, and the bus is forced to rise with a hiss. A ramp slowly, reluctantly emerges from below the exit, and finally the doors open to admit the man and his machine.
Once he has been safely stowed away, the ramp retracts, the doors close and the bus drops to its haunches with another sigh, and sets off. With a belch of smoke.
On the pod:
Disturbia - Rihanna
On the front page:
States of emergency (The Times)
Monday 29 October 2012
Flight of fantasy
On the day:
29/10/2012
On the way:
Planes trains and automobiles (which include the omnibus, not so?) are all very well, but you could do much worse than to fly your very own Quinjet, as flown by the Avengers. Or, as we're on the topic of subspace supertravel, the X-Men's Blackbird. Even Wonder Woman's invisible plane. They'd get you into work quicker than the 136 at 10.30am.
But then you may not spot the soaraway offer on the front page of the discarded copy of The Sun on the seat opposite.
On the pod:
Some Nights (intro) - Fun
On the front page:
Glitter's 10-hour sex quiz (The Sun)
29/10/2012
On the way:
Planes trains and automobiles (which include the omnibus, not so?) are all very well, but you could do much worse than to fly your very own Quinjet, as flown by the Avengers. Or, as we're on the topic of subspace supertravel, the X-Men's Blackbird. Even Wonder Woman's invisible plane. They'd get you into work quicker than the 136 at 10.30am.
But then you may not spot the soaraway offer on the front page of the discarded copy of The Sun on the seat opposite.
On the pod:
Some Nights (intro) - Fun
On the front page:
Glitter's 10-hour sex quiz (The Sun)
Sunday 28 October 2012
Can I see the Bill?
On the day:
27/10/2012
On the way:
I know he's there, sitting in the section behind us, facing the same way.
For one thing, I can see his reflection in the glass in front of us. well, his forehead anyway, and his cropped dark hair.
For another, I can hear him. He's talking to his mate, Bill. Bill. Really? Who's called Bill nowadays? I bet he's really Mac or Buddy.
Not that I can see Bill. Nor hear Bill, for that matter. But the conversation continues, convincingly, like a well rehearsed one-man play, one half of a duologue, about his mates and his kid, about going out and his music.
And that's the third thing, the soundtrack, played loud enough for the carriage to hear on a system not intended for public consumption, but making a pretty good fist of it anyhow.
"You'll like this one, Bill," he announces, starting off a bit of contemporary R&B by numbers along with a description of how his son dances at the top of the stairs without any idea of what the music is he's dancing to, the lad. But his not bound to today's chart toppers. He's on to the Ministry of Sound, then "Let's have some Elvis, Bill." It's "Blue Suede Shoes", then Rihanna's "Diamond" - he waves his arms above his head, palms forward, outstretched thumbs and forefingers touching to make the shape of a diamond - and "Cry Me a River" by Michael Buble. He joins in with Johnny Cash to sing snatches of "Ring of Fire", his head bobbing from side to side for Bill's benefit, and that of any other passengers with a view of his forehead and hairline or more. Back to the R&B for Ne-Yo's "Beautiful Monster", "Mr Blue Sky" by ELO, more Elvis in an improvised medley - "Can't go wrong with Elvis, eh Bill" - "Hound Dog", "Too Much", "That's All Right" ...
So yep, he's definitely there, he's made his presence known and fair play to him.
It's just Bill I'm not so sure about.
On the pod:
Miss Atomic Bomb - The Killers
On the front page:
27/10/2012
On the way:
I know he's there, sitting in the section behind us, facing the same way.
For one thing, I can see his reflection in the glass in front of us. well, his forehead anyway, and his cropped dark hair.
For another, I can hear him. He's talking to his mate, Bill. Bill. Really? Who's called Bill nowadays? I bet he's really Mac or Buddy.
Not that I can see Bill. Nor hear Bill, for that matter. But the conversation continues, convincingly, like a well rehearsed one-man play, one half of a duologue, about his mates and his kid, about going out and his music.
And that's the third thing, the soundtrack, played loud enough for the carriage to hear on a system not intended for public consumption, but making a pretty good fist of it anyhow.
"You'll like this one, Bill," he announces, starting off a bit of contemporary R&B by numbers along with a description of how his son dances at the top of the stairs without any idea of what the music is he's dancing to, the lad. But his not bound to today's chart toppers. He's on to the Ministry of Sound, then "Let's have some Elvis, Bill." It's "Blue Suede Shoes", then Rihanna's "Diamond" - he waves his arms above his head, palms forward, outstretched thumbs and forefingers touching to make the shape of a diamond - and "Cry Me a River" by Michael Buble. He joins in with Johnny Cash to sing snatches of "Ring of Fire", his head bobbing from side to side for Bill's benefit, and that of any other passengers with a view of his forehead and hairline or more. Back to the R&B for Ne-Yo's "Beautiful Monster", "Mr Blue Sky" by ELO, more Elvis in an improvised medley - "Can't go wrong with Elvis, eh Bill" - "Hound Dog", "Too Much", "That's All Right" ...
So yep, he's definitely there, he's made his presence known and fair play to him.
It's just Bill I'm not so sure about.
On the pod:
Miss Atomic Bomb - The Killers
On the front page:
It's a tragic number
On the day:
25/10/2012
On the way:
Buses, they say. They're like police officers. You wait around for one for 20 minutes on a rainy Thursday morning for one to come and then three turn up at the same time.
Three buses.
Three.
That sounds less like police officers to me and more like agents of the Department of Urban Disruption.
On the pod:
It's No Good - Depeche Mode
On the front page:
Woman medic shot dead on patrol (London Evening Standard)
25/10/2012
On the way:
Buses, they say. They're like police officers. You wait around for one for 20 minutes on a rainy Thursday morning for one to come and then three turn up at the same time.
Three buses.
Three.
That sounds less like police officers to me and more like agents of the Department of Urban Disruption.
On the pod:
It's No Good - Depeche Mode
On the front page:
Woman medic shot dead on patrol (London Evening Standard)
Thursday 25 October 2012
A league of your own
On the day:
25/10/2012
On the way: There it is, on a washer-dryer in the laundromat looking out on to the bus stop, the ultimate contact number: JLA 0800 264667.
If you've got a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, you can call... not the A-Team. Let's face it, indiscriminately destructive renegade militia groups of dubious allegiance are a dime a dozen nowadays, from the Expendables to the Lord's Resistance Army.
But if you really wanted big-hitters, wouldn't you go for a team that could boast, like, the brute strength of Superman, the scheming brain of Batman, the speed of the Flash, the versatility of a Green Lantern and, come on guys, the hooters of Wonder Woman? (Sorry, that's the testosterone talking, but what can you expect after namechecking teams that include Mr T with his bad attitude, Sly Stallone with his bad diction, and Joseph Kony with his bad everything else.)
I mean, if you require dictators to be toppled, mad scientists to be shut down, aliens to be repelled, the Justice League of America are your go-to guys. It's just that knocking on the front door of a satellite in synchronous orbit above the Earth, or even an embassy in New York, was always a challenge in itself.
But now all you need to do is call the number, and hope it hasn't been outsourced to a call centre in New Delhi via an automated system, to an excessively alliterative second-string team ... for Martian Manhunter press 5, for Blue Beetle press 6, for Guy Gardner press 7, for Rocket Red press 8...
On the pod:
December African Rain - Juluka
On the front page:
Double-dip set Britons Back £1,800 every year (The Times)
25/10/2012
On the way: There it is, on a washer-dryer in the laundromat looking out on to the bus stop, the ultimate contact number: JLA 0800 264667.
If you've got a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, you can call... not the A-Team. Let's face it, indiscriminately destructive renegade militia groups of dubious allegiance are a dime a dozen nowadays, from the Expendables to the Lord's Resistance Army.
But if you really wanted big-hitters, wouldn't you go for a team that could boast, like, the brute strength of Superman, the scheming brain of Batman, the speed of the Flash, the versatility of a Green Lantern and, come on guys, the hooters of Wonder Woman? (Sorry, that's the testosterone talking, but what can you expect after namechecking teams that include Mr T with his bad attitude, Sly Stallone with his bad diction, and Joseph Kony with his bad everything else.)
I mean, if you require dictators to be toppled, mad scientists to be shut down, aliens to be repelled, the Justice League of America are your go-to guys. It's just that knocking on the front door of a satellite in synchronous orbit above the Earth, or even an embassy in New York, was always a challenge in itself.
But now all you need to do is call the number, and hope it hasn't been outsourced to a call centre in New Delhi via an automated system, to an excessively alliterative second-string team ... for Martian Manhunter press 5, for Blue Beetle press 6, for Guy Gardner press 7, for Rocket Red press 8...
On the pod:
December African Rain - Juluka
On the front page:
Double-dip set Britons Back £1,800 every year (The Times)
Up, up and away
On the day:
24/10/2012
On the way:
Stop the press: Clark Kent has quit the Daily Planet. Sick of writing Superman stories, it would seem.
Fair enough. DC Comics periodically refreshes its Superman scribes too. But what now? How is he going to fill all those empty hours?
Well, Scott Lobdell - one of them writers - reckons Clark might turn his attention to blogging, and I would welcome him into the community, even give him a few tips.
He's hardly going to horn in on the public transport niche, is he? Can't see him standing around at a bus stop for 15 minutes on a Wednesday morning.
Init.
On the pod:
Hospital Food - Eels
On the front page:
24/10/2012
On the way:
Stop the press: Clark Kent has quit the Daily Planet. Sick of writing Superman stories, it would seem.
Fair enough. DC Comics periodically refreshes its Superman scribes too. But what now? How is he going to fill all those empty hours?
Well, Scott Lobdell - one of them writers - reckons Clark might turn his attention to blogging, and I would welcome him into the community, even give him a few tips.
He's hardly going to horn in on the public transport niche, is he? Can't see him standing around at a bus stop for 15 minutes on a Wednesday morning.
Init.
On the pod:
Hospital Food - Eels
On the front page:
Angry bird?
On the day:
22/10/2012
On the way:
The clouds have dropped. A light veil ghosts the bridge from a distance but closer to, the walkers are clearly defined, definite, determined.
He leads, his wide mouth open, his tongue hanging out to the side, his leash taut. She follows, her mouth set resolutely, her eyes narrowed behind rectangular spectacles, stiff waves of blonded brown hair escaping from her Angry Birds hat to. bounce against her shoulder blades.
And you just think, isn't it funny how people start to look like their hats.
On the pod:
Five Colours In Her Hair - McFly
On the front page:
Panorama: 'BBC misled its viewers over Savile' - The Times
22/10/2012
On the way:
The clouds have dropped. A light veil ghosts the bridge from a distance but closer to, the walkers are clearly defined, definite, determined.
He leads, his wide mouth open, his tongue hanging out to the side, his leash taut. She follows, her mouth set resolutely, her eyes narrowed behind rectangular spectacles, stiff waves of blonded brown hair escaping from her Angry Birds hat to. bounce against her shoulder blades.
And you just think, isn't it funny how people start to look like their hats.
On the pod:
Five Colours In Her Hair - McFly
On the front page:
Panorama: 'BBC misled its viewers over Savile' - The Times
Saturday 20 October 2012
Cock of the walk
On the day:
19/10/2012
On the way:
He struts up and down his promenade - the fried chicken outlet, the charity shop, the post office, the local supermarket and the new cheap furniture store that optimistically opened in the premises where the previous cheap furniture store went bust six months ago.
Up and down. Up and down. Where else would he be on a Friday morning? Here he's the cock of the walk, the rooster scratching up dust in front of the hen-house.
His sky-blue Tee-shirt hugs his carefully crafted chest, puffed out with pride and hours of attention in the gym. Crisp blue jeans cling to the legs of this neo-Narcissus and his sneakers sparkle white.
His chin is lifted, jutting cocky, a pound-shop Cristiano Ronaldo, even when he raises his 10.30am energy drink to his lips.
And there's the walk, the twitchy strut that says, "See this? You want this? You can't have this, 'cos its mine." At least, that's what he thinks it says.
Not, "Yikes, these jeans are pressing on my bladder, I should have stopped after two cans."
Certainly not that.
On the pod:
Calm Like You - The Last Shadow Puppets
On the front page:
Leaked Savile e-mail puts BBC's defence in doubt (The Times)
19/10/2012
On the way:
He struts up and down his promenade - the fried chicken outlet, the charity shop, the post office, the local supermarket and the new cheap furniture store that optimistically opened in the premises where the previous cheap furniture store went bust six months ago.
Up and down. Up and down. Where else would he be on a Friday morning? Here he's the cock of the walk, the rooster scratching up dust in front of the hen-house.
His sky-blue Tee-shirt hugs his carefully crafted chest, puffed out with pride and hours of attention in the gym. Crisp blue jeans cling to the legs of this neo-Narcissus and his sneakers sparkle white.
His chin is lifted, jutting cocky, a pound-shop Cristiano Ronaldo, even when he raises his 10.30am energy drink to his lips.
And there's the walk, the twitchy strut that says, "See this? You want this? You can't have this, 'cos its mine." At least, that's what he thinks it says.
Not, "Yikes, these jeans are pressing on my bladder, I should have stopped after two cans."
Certainly not that.
On the pod:
Calm Like You - The Last Shadow Puppets
On the front page:
Leaked Savile e-mail puts BBC's defence in doubt (The Times)
Thursday 18 October 2012
Short shadows
On the day:
16/10/2012
On the way:
They come on foot, out of north, following the iron road southwards. The late morning sun sends shadows slithering over the rails to their right, stuttering over stones and sleepers in between.
Their leader wears a white plastic helmet and carries in his right hand a metal rod, indeterminable from distance but doubtless dangerous. His companions follow, one step, two steps behind and to his left, apparently unarmed but an air of menace carries far beyond their short shadows.
For they number three, all wear orange overalls and disruption is their business by hook or by crook or by leaf on the line. If not here, if not now, then further down the track.
On the pod:
Time After Time - The Beloved
On the front page:
16/10/2012
On the way:
They come on foot, out of north, following the iron road southwards. The late morning sun sends shadows slithering over the rails to their right, stuttering over stones and sleepers in between.
Their leader wears a white plastic helmet and carries in his right hand a metal rod, indeterminable from distance but doubtless dangerous. His companions follow, one step, two steps behind and to his left, apparently unarmed but an air of menace carries far beyond their short shadows.
For they number three, all wear orange overalls and disruption is their business by hook or by crook or by leaf on the line. If not here, if not now, then further down the track.
On the pod:
Time After Time - The Beloved
On the front page:
A leg up
On the day:
18/10/2012
On the way:
Balanced, one thigh up against the padded perch next to the door of the Tube carriage, he stands, one foot on the ground, the other suspended above an oxblood leather bag.
He reads from a tablet in a worn leather holder as he idly thumbs his stubbly goatee. Following that movement, you eye might light upon his rectangular silver watch with a black face and silver hands - solid, not showy - on his left wrist with its sparse crop of wiry black hairs.
You might admire his sturdy, treated canvas coat and its unusual shade of dark, dark green, or is it blue?
And when he glances up you may notice his soulful Idris Elba eyes, with all the actor's potential as much for philosophy as for violence.
You may be less likely to notice the built up sole of his right shoe - maybe as much as an inch - swinging gently with the rocking of the carriage. And if you don't, maybe that's as it should be.
On the pod:
All I Wanna Do - Sheryl Crow
On the front page:
Households to be put on cheapest energy tariff (The Times)
18/10/2012
On the way:
Balanced, one thigh up against the padded perch next to the door of the Tube carriage, he stands, one foot on the ground, the other suspended above an oxblood leather bag.
He reads from a tablet in a worn leather holder as he idly thumbs his stubbly goatee. Following that movement, you eye might light upon his rectangular silver watch with a black face and silver hands - solid, not showy - on his left wrist with its sparse crop of wiry black hairs.
You might admire his sturdy, treated canvas coat and its unusual shade of dark, dark green, or is it blue?
And when he glances up you may notice his soulful Idris Elba eyes, with all the actor's potential as much for philosophy as for violence.
You may be less likely to notice the built up sole of his right shoe - maybe as much as an inch - swinging gently with the rocking of the carriage. And if you don't, maybe that's as it should be.
On the pod:
All I Wanna Do - Sheryl Crow
On the front page:
Households to be put on cheapest energy tariff (The Times)
Returning next week will be...
On the day:
17/10/2012
On the way:
"The next train at... ... ..."
Pause for effect.
"Platform two... ... ..."
Now that's an unfamiliar voice. Is this a cause for concern?.
"Will be the 10.14 service to... ... ..."
Wait for it. Wait for it. Oh, the suspense. What could it all mean?
"Sevenoaks, calling at... ... ..."
Well, that's just business as usual. What's the deal with the pregnant pauses? It's a new woman in the box. It must be - she sounds different. The previous one must have been promoted to somewhere more glamorous, such as Peckham Rye. Or even Balham, playing in the big leagues.
"Shortlands... ... ..."
Or maybe she's become the first casualty of the floral uprising - there can't be much space to run or hide from FARC (Floral Army for Revolution and Conquest) cadres in that little box - put to the sward, if you will...
"Bromley South... ... ..."
The new woman in the box has a slightly weightier quality to her voice, a deeper tone. But that's not the only difference.
"Bickley... ... ..."
Unlike her predecessor, she has clearly been trained at the Strictly Come X Factor school of announcing.
"Petts Wood... ... ..."
Oh, get on with it, will you. The train will have come and gone by the time you've finished. There's no revelation involved here. We all have a pretty good idea of what stations are on this route. It's reassurance we want, not drama.
"Orpington... ..."
It's not as though the station with the lowest number of votes will have to leave the route, will it. Will it? Unless... Unless its an austerity measure, or another licensing bungle, and the Government is trying to break it to the public in a format they are familiar with.
"Chelsfield... ... ..."
No no, on second thoughts, don't rush it. This could get exciting.
On the pod:
Time Again (live) - Asia
On the front page:
Now Gove rewrites the ruless on A levels
On the subject: http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/sward-drawn.html
17/10/2012
On the way:
"The next train at... ... ..."
Pause for effect.
"Platform two... ... ..."
Now that's an unfamiliar voice. Is this a cause for concern?.
"Will be the 10.14 service to... ... ..."
Wait for it. Wait for it. Oh, the suspense. What could it all mean?
"Sevenoaks, calling at... ... ..."
Well, that's just business as usual. What's the deal with the pregnant pauses? It's a new woman in the box. It must be - she sounds different. The previous one must have been promoted to somewhere more glamorous, such as Peckham Rye. Or even Balham, playing in the big leagues.
"Shortlands... ... ..."
Or maybe she's become the first casualty of the floral uprising - there can't be much space to run or hide from FARC (Floral Army for Revolution and Conquest) cadres in that little box - put to the sward, if you will...
"Bromley South... ... ..."
The new woman in the box has a slightly weightier quality to her voice, a deeper tone. But that's not the only difference.
"Bickley... ... ..."
Unlike her predecessor, she has clearly been trained at the Strictly Come X Factor school of announcing.
"Petts Wood... ... ..."
Oh, get on with it, will you. The train will have come and gone by the time you've finished. There's no revelation involved here. We all have a pretty good idea of what stations are on this route. It's reassurance we want, not drama.
"Orpington... ..."
It's not as though the station with the lowest number of votes will have to leave the route, will it. Will it? Unless... Unless its an austerity measure, or another licensing bungle, and the Government is trying to break it to the public in a format they are familiar with.
"Chelsfield... ... ..."
No no, on second thoughts, don't rush it. This could get exciting.
On the pod:
Time Again (live) - Asia
On the front page:
Now Gove rewrites the ruless on A levels
On the subject: http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/sward-drawn.html
Monday 15 October 2012
Keep it in the closet
On the day:
14/10/2012
On the way:
The milk of human kindness still flows through the arteries of the public transport system.
Take the lady of late middle-age who took the hand of the blond boy and guided him down the stairs and onto the train to leave the little mum's hands free to manage the pram containing his little sister. Not only that, but the older woman then sits with the young family, entertaining the lad with pictures of her own brood's holiday in the snow.
"Snow," he gasps. Then: "Wow, how did they get there." He's made a friend - one of those rare grown-ups who seems genuinely interested in the child - and she has gained an admirer.
And when the pram is secured and the baby settled, it's the women's turn for women talk - families, kids, men... Not that he's ready to give up his pal so easily. So he listens, waiting his opportunity to get involved
"... it's a man thing," concludes his mum.
"It's a man thing," concurs their companion.
"It's a man-thing," he confirms, "in the cupboard."
"Huh?"
Oh dear. And we had such hopes for this friendship.
On the pod:
Abducted - Cults
On the front page:
Top scientists launch attack on 'mindless' badger cull
14/10/2012
On the way:
The milk of human kindness still flows through the arteries of the public transport system.
Take the lady of late middle-age who took the hand of the blond boy and guided him down the stairs and onto the train to leave the little mum's hands free to manage the pram containing his little sister. Not only that, but the older woman then sits with the young family, entertaining the lad with pictures of her own brood's holiday in the snow.
"Snow," he gasps. Then: "Wow, how did they get there." He's made a friend - one of those rare grown-ups who seems genuinely interested in the child - and she has gained an admirer.
And when the pram is secured and the baby settled, it's the women's turn for women talk - families, kids, men... Not that he's ready to give up his pal so easily. So he listens, waiting his opportunity to get involved
"... it's a man thing," concludes his mum.
"It's a man thing," concurs their companion.
"It's a man-thing," he confirms, "in the cupboard."
"Huh?"
Oh dear. And we had such hopes for this friendship.
On the pod:
Abducted - Cults
On the front page:
Top scientists launch attack on 'mindless' badger cull
Sunday 14 October 2012
Something beginning with'celeb'
On the day:
13/10/2012
On the way:
It's him, that bloke off the TV. You know the one. He sells insurance to that other bloke off the TV, you know, with his two little children - the little girl in the straw sun hat with purple flowers and matching purple gloves, and the blond boy - playing I Spy.
No no, he sells insurance on TV AND SEPARATELY he happens to be on the train, this very train, with his two little... Oh forget it.
On the pod:
To Lose My Life - White Lies
On the front page:
MS drug rebranded - at up to 20 times the price (The Independent)
13/10/2012
On the way:
It's him, that bloke off the TV. You know the one. He sells insurance to that other bloke off the TV, you know, with his two little children - the little girl in the straw sun hat with purple flowers and matching purple gloves, and the blond boy - playing I Spy.
No no, he sells insurance on TV AND SEPARATELY he happens to be on the train, this very train, with his two little... Oh forget it.
On the pod:
To Lose My Life - White Lies
On the front page:
MS drug rebranded - at up to 20 times the price (The Independent)
Thursday 11 October 2012
Cammo chameleon
On the day:
11/10/2012
On the way:
Her trousers are grey cammo, so that should make her invisible in an urban environment. Her grey, white and red check shirt, her bronze-brown windcheater and navy blue satchel will likewise disappear under their influence. She'll be able to carry out undercover ops across the southeast London public transport system, appearing as if out of nowhere, then fading away into the concrete jungles of Croydon and Lewisham, undetected. Mission accomplished.
And then there is another aspect to here inconspicuousness - her three companions. They stand together: three women, one man; two black, one Asian, one white; two long-haired, two short. Disguised by demography.
The little group stands at the bus stop - what better way for a foursome to vanish - no more than four inches between their heights; neither fat nor thin; no distinguishing marks. It's a perfect cover.
Maybe just too perfect.
Maybe not perfect enough. Because I've got her number, and it's not 99. So why am I surprised when, as the bus pulls out, she approaches with her handheld reader, powered by a unmistakable battery pack hanging from her belt, and asks to check my travel card?
You may well ask. But if I told you, I would have to kill you.
On the pod:
No Sound But The Wind - Editors
On the front page:
Cameron: My aim is to spread privilege (Metro)
11/10/2012
On the way:
Her trousers are grey cammo, so that should make her invisible in an urban environment. Her grey, white and red check shirt, her bronze-brown windcheater and navy blue satchel will likewise disappear under their influence. She'll be able to carry out undercover ops across the southeast London public transport system, appearing as if out of nowhere, then fading away into the concrete jungles of Croydon and Lewisham, undetected. Mission accomplished.
And then there is another aspect to here inconspicuousness - her three companions. They stand together: three women, one man; two black, one Asian, one white; two long-haired, two short. Disguised by demography.
The little group stands at the bus stop - what better way for a foursome to vanish - no more than four inches between their heights; neither fat nor thin; no distinguishing marks. It's a perfect cover.
Maybe just too perfect.
Maybe not perfect enough. Because I've got her number, and it's not 99. So why am I surprised when, as the bus pulls out, she approaches with her handheld reader, powered by a unmistakable battery pack hanging from her belt, and asks to check my travel card?
You may well ask. But if I told you, I would have to kill you.
On the pod:
No Sound But The Wind - Editors
On the front page:
Cameron: My aim is to spread privilege (Metro)
Wednesday 10 October 2012
Meet the beetle
On the day:
10/10/2012
On the way:
It's not his stubby dry hands, a frosted brown as though there had been a minor icing sugar incident before he scurried for the bus, although that might have contributed to the hunted look in his eyes - "if you're going to just spill stuff, I'll never get this cake done. Why don't you just go out or something?"
Nor is it the fact that he is dressed all in black - trainers, trousers and shiny plastic windcheater. No, those are just incidental details to help build a complete picture.
Nor even the position of his legs - splayed at the thighs, bent at the knees - as he sits, nor his lack of a neck. Although they do contribute.
It's more the high collar smoothing the line from his shoulders to his rounded head, accentuated by a skull-hugging salt and pepper haircut. And the puffiness of his jacket that rounds out his already stocky frame.
That's what makes him look like a large, baffled beetle, blown in by the breeze.
On the pod:
So Serious - Electric Light Orchestra
On the front page:
Time to 'do or decline', Cameron tells Britain
10/10/2012
On the way:
It's not his stubby dry hands, a frosted brown as though there had been a minor icing sugar incident before he scurried for the bus, although that might have contributed to the hunted look in his eyes - "if you're going to just spill stuff, I'll never get this cake done. Why don't you just go out or something?"
Nor is it the fact that he is dressed all in black - trainers, trousers and shiny plastic windcheater. No, those are just incidental details to help build a complete picture.
Nor even the position of his legs - splayed at the thighs, bent at the knees - as he sits, nor his lack of a neck. Although they do contribute.
It's more the high collar smoothing the line from his shoulders to his rounded head, accentuated by a skull-hugging salt and pepper haircut. And the puffiness of his jacket that rounds out his already stocky frame.
That's what makes him look like a large, baffled beetle, blown in by the breeze.
On the pod:
So Serious - Electric Light Orchestra
On the front page:
Time to 'do or decline', Cameron tells Britain
S'not the way to behave
On the day:
09/10/2012
On the way:
When the snort comes, thick and fruity, it comes from an unexpected source.
Not the too-large man bulging out of the only single seat on the lower deck of the bus (perhaps, indeed, the whole bus, if dim memories of the upper tier serve) that is constrained on either side by orange metal bars, his grey store coat wrapped tightly like a brown paper package tied up with strings, his bald head dotted with beads of moisture where the sun beats down through the back window.
Nor from the fleshy blonde girl in the cerise puffy coat, large floral print shirt hanging to her thighs and plastic-look black leggings, who wheezes when she walks.
Nor even from the pale, floppy, long-faced boy with the replica Brazil football shirt, and heavy-lidded eyes supporting himself with a rail by the exit door, who sucks in drying winter air through his mouth over a crackly, dangling lower lip.
No, it comes from the round-faced, delicate-featured, caramel girl in the shaped, double-breasted red felt coat with black buttons (mercifully, not toggles) and loose black slacks, who is comfortably ensconced in the back, left-hand corner. So when the heads turn, they just turn back again. Unbelieving? Forgiving?
The second time it comes, though, she is lifted bodily from her seat, carried off at the next stop (the one opposite the Turkish supermarket, as it happens), tied to the lamp post next to the bus shelter by the strap of her fake designer handbag (it's no shame, most girls have one) and left behind, to teach her a lesson about how to behave in a civilised society.
On the pod:
I'm With Stupid - Pet Shop Boys
On the front page:
Osborne refuses to budge over his austerity package
09/10/2012
On the way:
When the snort comes, thick and fruity, it comes from an unexpected source.
Not the too-large man bulging out of the only single seat on the lower deck of the bus (perhaps, indeed, the whole bus, if dim memories of the upper tier serve) that is constrained on either side by orange metal bars, his grey store coat wrapped tightly like a brown paper package tied up with strings, his bald head dotted with beads of moisture where the sun beats down through the back window.
Nor from the fleshy blonde girl in the cerise puffy coat, large floral print shirt hanging to her thighs and plastic-look black leggings, who wheezes when she walks.
Nor even from the pale, floppy, long-faced boy with the replica Brazil football shirt, and heavy-lidded eyes supporting himself with a rail by the exit door, who sucks in drying winter air through his mouth over a crackly, dangling lower lip.
No, it comes from the round-faced, delicate-featured, caramel girl in the shaped, double-breasted red felt coat with black buttons (mercifully, not toggles) and loose black slacks, who is comfortably ensconced in the back, left-hand corner. So when the heads turn, they just turn back again. Unbelieving? Forgiving?
The second time it comes, though, she is lifted bodily from her seat, carried off at the next stop (the one opposite the Turkish supermarket, as it happens), tied to the lamp post next to the bus shelter by the strap of her fake designer handbag (it's no shame, most girls have one) and left behind, to teach her a lesson about how to behave in a civilised society.
On the pod:
I'm With Stupid - Pet Shop Boys
On the front page:
Osborne refuses to budge over his austerity package
Hunting in pairs
On the day:
04/10/2012
On the way:
The two little girls march up the road, nine or ten paces behind the mum and the pram. Skinny legs in white pedal-pushers swing in step with each other, each has matching corn rows resolving into a coiled plait on top of her head, and their matching red raincoats are covered in black and white hearts, with the taller girl's arm companionably around her sister's back. As one.
Until the bus appears passing the top of the road.
Mum spins round. "Catch the bus."
No way. It's too far.
One becomes two, legs pump, arms flail, topknots bob, and mum is left behind jogging with the pram.
Across grey paving stones and tar Macadam they fly, round the corner, and they've reached the main road. The vehicle's lead has been sliced.
Eyes burn, nostrils flare, breath comes fast through open jaws revealing white teeth, the velociraptors have scented their prey. The old routemastersaurus stands no chance.
On the Pod:
Seven - James
On the front page:
04/10/2012
On the way:
The two little girls march up the road, nine or ten paces behind the mum and the pram. Skinny legs in white pedal-pushers swing in step with each other, each has matching corn rows resolving into a coiled plait on top of her head, and their matching red raincoats are covered in black and white hearts, with the taller girl's arm companionably around her sister's back. As one.
Until the bus appears passing the top of the road.
Mum spins round. "Catch the bus."
No way. It's too far.
One becomes two, legs pump, arms flail, topknots bob, and mum is left behind jogging with the pram.
Across grey paving stones and tar Macadam they fly, round the corner, and they've reached the main road. The vehicle's lead has been sliced.
Eyes burn, nostrils flare, breath comes fast through open jaws revealing white teeth, the velociraptors have scented their prey. The old routemastersaurus stands no chance.
On the Pod:
Seven - James
On the front page:
Monday 8 October 2012
Passed by
On the day:
03/10/2012
On the way:
She's a pretty young woman, dark grey eyes and long strawberry blonde hair reaching past shoulders covered by a coral cardie, sleeveless to reveal two silver bangles on her right wrist and a girl's name tattooed on the inside of her left wrist along with a little heart and two simple daisies.
Her face, lightly made up ("nude" but for a faint orange glitter on her eyelids), is animated as she chats and laughs with the middle-aged woman next to her in a braid bob and a brown and turquoise Seventies-style psychedelic shirt.
She's all smiles, talking with her mouth, her eyes and her hands, which weave gracefully, flat-palmed, as her bracelets on her arms and the ring on the middle finger of her right hand pick up the morning light flickering through the window - except when she gazes out wistfully at the world as it passes by, and says, "Oh, I'd do anything to go back to school..."
On the pod:
Breaking Us In Two - Joe Jackson
On the front page:
Please let April come home to us
03/10/2012
On the way:
She's a pretty young woman, dark grey eyes and long strawberry blonde hair reaching past shoulders covered by a coral cardie, sleeveless to reveal two silver bangles on her right wrist and a girl's name tattooed on the inside of her left wrist along with a little heart and two simple daisies.
Her face, lightly made up ("nude" but for a faint orange glitter on her eyelids), is animated as she chats and laughs with the middle-aged woman next to her in a braid bob and a brown and turquoise Seventies-style psychedelic shirt.
She's all smiles, talking with her mouth, her eyes and her hands, which weave gracefully, flat-palmed, as her bracelets on her arms and the ring on the middle finger of her right hand pick up the morning light flickering through the window - except when she gazes out wistfully at the world as it passes by, and says, "Oh, I'd do anything to go back to school..."
On the pod:
Breaking Us In Two - Joe Jackson
On the front page:
Please let April come home to us
Ferret buzz
On the day:
02/10/2012
On the way:
The lean old man with the white bristles stands at the door to the train, his cream and brown furry friend in his folded arms.
He's sporting a green harness (the ferret, not the man; the man is in grey shade cammo trousers and a blue Disney hoodie with a tasteful embroidered Tigger in lieu of a breast pocket, and his customary peak cap advertising a local plumber) but shows no sign of wanting to explore further than the shoulders and arms of his human. And when he is weary of his adventures, he curls up his long torso in the crook of the man's arms for a nap.
It's true friendship.
Not everyone's first choice companion, of course - "You know those ferrets, they're 'orrible little things," comments one disgusted commuter to his wife from the safety of the station platform, with all the righteous authority of a resident of Tunbridge Wells. "They bite and they piss all over you."
Perhaps. But on the bright side it doesn't waddle around passing gratuitous judgements about the toilet habits of it's fellow commuters. However much fun that would be.
I can tell yeh.
On the pod:
Losing Touch - The Killers
On the front page:
Miliband in £1bn pledge to focus on apprentices
02/10/2012
On the way:
The lean old man with the white bristles stands at the door to the train, his cream and brown furry friend in his folded arms.
He's sporting a green harness (the ferret, not the man; the man is in grey shade cammo trousers and a blue Disney hoodie with a tasteful embroidered Tigger in lieu of a breast pocket, and his customary peak cap advertising a local plumber) but shows no sign of wanting to explore further than the shoulders and arms of his human. And when he is weary of his adventures, he curls up his long torso in the crook of the man's arms for a nap.
It's true friendship.
Not everyone's first choice companion, of course - "You know those ferrets, they're 'orrible little things," comments one disgusted commuter to his wife from the safety of the station platform, with all the righteous authority of a resident of Tunbridge Wells. "They bite and they piss all over you."
Perhaps. But on the bright side it doesn't waddle around passing gratuitous judgements about the toilet habits of it's fellow commuters. However much fun that would be.
I can tell yeh.
On the pod:
Losing Touch - The Killers
On the front page:
Miliband in £1bn pledge to focus on apprentices
By royal appointment
On the day:
21/09/2012
On the way:
Can someone please check whether the flag is flying above Balmoral or Buckingham Palace. Cos if not, I've just seen the Queen - or at least a flesh and blood version of the Kipper Williams rendition - outside our local Tesco Metro, complete with big shopping bag, smooth cream coat and pink and red floral pattern doek (headscarf), waiting patiently and scanning the traffic through narrowed eyes for a chance to cross the road.
Which shouldn't come as a great surprise - it's quite a walk to the nearest Waitrose for a lady of her years.
On the pod:
Leafeater - Lithium
On the front page:
21/09/2012
On the way:
Can someone please check whether the flag is flying above Balmoral or Buckingham Palace. Cos if not, I've just seen the Queen - or at least a flesh and blood version of the Kipper Williams rendition - outside our local Tesco Metro, complete with big shopping bag, smooth cream coat and pink and red floral pattern doek (headscarf), waiting patiently and scanning the traffic through narrowed eyes for a chance to cross the road.
Which shouldn't come as a great surprise - it's quite a walk to the nearest Waitrose for a lady of her years.
On the pod:
Leafeater - Lithium
On the front page:
Belly acher
On the day:
18/09/2012
On the way:
How do you ensure you stand out from the madding crowd on a busy commuter train into London on a Tuesday morning? Here's how.
Stumble into the carriage like a bear that has just gorged itself on the mash from an illicit Tennessee backwoods still, clutching an open can of beer, crash into a seat and growl: "Faahkin' people awways lookin at you." They'll notice that all right.
It would help to be thickset, heavy built with a stubbly head - the very model of a certain species of Police Review thug - with an attitude to match: "Foreigners everywhere I go I don't hear an English accent no more."
He carefully places his beer on the floor and lowers his head. "Gonna be sick," he confides to himself but, failing that task, he contents himself with spitting on the floor.
It's not enough to settle his troubled tummy, so he tries another tactic, and politely asks for the window to be opened, failing to notice the orange headphones over the slick dark hair and light brown ears of the man in front of him. And is disappointed to receive no response.
Rebuffed, he returns to his grumbles and mumbles, something about "New world.. Old world... 1960s... 1970s..."
Then the dog barks. It's a small dog, half a carriage away, the kind of pooch you' might strap to the end of a broom handle to clear cobwebs from those remote corners high above the stairs and behind the throne of porcelain if it weren't so cute. Some might do so anyway.
He is probably one of those. And if he wasn't before, he is now. His train of thought has been derailed, bringing him back to 2012, and he's not letting that go. So he barks back bigger and badder. Twice. That'll learn it. Heh heh.
Maybe he'd have added a third bark if the train hadn't stopped. A gentleman stands up in the seat in front of him, smoothes down his smart black coat, steps into the aisle and makes for the door, passing the hunched figure nursing his his aching belly and any number of grievances.
"Dickhead," he declares. Then, satisfied with his assessment settles back to roll a cigarette, retrieve his beer and philosphise: "Pretentious pleasantries that daahn't mean nothing... They'll get off the train then slag you off... In China."
Mate, you behave like that, they'll slag you off right here... In London.
On the pod:
Want You More! - Duran Duran
On the front page:
18/09/2012
On the way:
How do you ensure you stand out from the madding crowd on a busy commuter train into London on a Tuesday morning? Here's how.
Stumble into the carriage like a bear that has just gorged itself on the mash from an illicit Tennessee backwoods still, clutching an open can of beer, crash into a seat and growl: "Faahkin' people awways lookin at you." They'll notice that all right.
It would help to be thickset, heavy built with a stubbly head - the very model of a certain species of Police Review thug - with an attitude to match: "Foreigners everywhere I go I don't hear an English accent no more."
He carefully places his beer on the floor and lowers his head. "Gonna be sick," he confides to himself but, failing that task, he contents himself with spitting on the floor.
It's not enough to settle his troubled tummy, so he tries another tactic, and politely asks for the window to be opened, failing to notice the orange headphones over the slick dark hair and light brown ears of the man in front of him. And is disappointed to receive no response.
Rebuffed, he returns to his grumbles and mumbles, something about "New world.. Old world... 1960s... 1970s..."
Then the dog barks. It's a small dog, half a carriage away, the kind of pooch you' might strap to the end of a broom handle to clear cobwebs from those remote corners high above the stairs and behind the throne of porcelain if it weren't so cute. Some might do so anyway.
He is probably one of those. And if he wasn't before, he is now. His train of thought has been derailed, bringing him back to 2012, and he's not letting that go. So he barks back bigger and badder. Twice. That'll learn it. Heh heh.
Maybe he'd have added a third bark if the train hadn't stopped. A gentleman stands up in the seat in front of him, smoothes down his smart black coat, steps into the aisle and makes for the door, passing the hunched figure nursing his his aching belly and any number of grievances.
"Dickhead," he declares. Then, satisfied with his assessment settles back to roll a cigarette, retrieve his beer and philosphise: "Pretentious pleasantries that daahn't mean nothing... They'll get off the train then slag you off... In China."
Mate, you behave like that, they'll slag you off right here... In London.
On the pod:
Want You More! - Duran Duran
On the front page:
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