On the surface it would appear as though the supposedly ‘world famous’ London Underground system is far superior to Manchester’s tram system which is well known throughout the majority of the Greater Manchester area. The latter has the rather unwelcome aroma of Strongbow and piss coupled with the reliability of a geriatric’s bladder, that is to say, if you miss your desired tram then there is no guarantee that another one will come, ever. Despite this, new development of the system (which must have originated as a typo somewhere in Westminster as the Tory’s seem reluctant to develop anything north of the Thames) has given the city swanky new banana-coloured trams which hum up and down the line like something out of a sci-fi film, it is also extending the line to Rochdale, which makes less sense as there is very little in Rochdale, and has never formed the set of any sort of sci-fi film.
Now I know that just because the trams are a new colour and the adventurous Mancuanian now has easy access to south Lancashire it does not make them ‘world famous’ or ‘a cultural icon’ like London’s subterranean railways. But I would also like to point out that the Underground should not be considered as a similar mode of transport as the Mancuanian metro, or the Sheffield trams, or whatever the Geordie’s use to get to their fake tan parlours nowadays, because the tube is not a mode of transport at all, but rather a completely different world and a completely different way of life to those commuters who travel above ground.
Your passport is of course the Oyster Card (I naturally assumed this would also get me discount in Oyster Bars, but was wrong), and entry to the Underground with your passport depends on how much money you have. Only proper. Passport control in this contrived allegory incidentally are the collection of motley attendant’s (much like Jack Sparrow’s crew in Pirates of the Caribbean but with less monkey) who look disappointed every time somebody successfully gets through the barriers, and seem to glow when they turn somebody away to top up their little card. Once through the barriers you are in, no more checks, no more swiping of cards and no more blue sky as you descend into the network of tunnels and escalators, the city above held up by a combination of Victorian brickwork and discarded Evening Standards.
Once in the Underground, there seem to be different rules which apply. With no phone signal its easy to forget about where you have to be and when you have to be there, also, if you happen to get on the wrong tube (as I discovered foolishly thinking that Tottenham Hale would be near Tottenham Court Road), you could easily spend hour upon hour down there, hopping from tube to tube, delighting at the different coloured lines and the array of made-up sounding stops, (if it aint on the Monopoly board, I don’t give a shit).
Added to the fact that this underground world (keeping this metaphor going regardless) is one in which you can wander round for hours, with no connection to the outside world (much like Wales), there seems to be a different social etiquette as well, different rules of what’s acceptable and what’s not, rules which I was apparently completely unprepared for. Firstly, when first riding the tube I thought it might be the Underground world’s equivalent of speed dating, you get on at Clapham have until Waterloo to suitably impress the person sitting opposite you, and if she is not impressed, you get another three stops to impress whoever gets on to replace her. Now I don’t know if its my terrible conversation techniques or the aforementioned etiquette on the tube, but it seems to be getting me no where, as far as I can tell once you step on the tube, its iPod in (regardless of battery life if I’m talking to you) and you might as well be on the train by yourself. Secondly, all concepts of personal space are apparently disregarded as soon as you wave your Oyster card at the attendant, and the next thing you know you’ve got your face buried in some bodybuilders armpit and an elderly Chinese lady has decided that your crotch is the perfect place to bury her handbag. If this had happened anywhere else, in any other situation than the bodybuilder would have punched me, and I would have punched the elderly lady, (joke).
However, such is the etiquette of the underground, it is accepted (by everyone else, not by me) that you are going to have to put your body through a testing time for the duration of a trip, and if you pause to let somebody on the tube before you, then it’s unlikely that you will be getting on after her. It’s social Darwinism at its finest, not survival of the fittest, ‘cuz I could’ve taken that old woman if I had to, but survival of the most ballsy, the most tube savvy, and if my first two weeks in the capital have taught me anything it’s that my balls just aint up to the job.
It could take months, or years for my balls to grow as much as the Chinese lady’s, it may never happen, but as a result of this, she will get to places on time, but will have terrible perspiration by the time she gets there. I, on the other hand, will arrive late, but smell only of myself. I’ve even heard of people fainting on the tube in the summer when it’s too hot or busy, something which I can completely understand, but why use a mode of transport with which you run the risk of fainting? No one’s ever fainted on the Manchester trams, they’ve pretended to to get out of paying for a ticket, but the danger has been limited. I’m not saying that I prefer Manchester’s metro, or Sheffield’s equally delightful tram system to the Underground, all have their pro’s (Rochdale/colourful lines) and their con’s (chav’s playing shit rap music on their phones/not being able to see the sun) but I will say that nowhere in Manchester is there a blind ‘busker’ making an absolute fortune by whistling chart tunes on the station platform. Makes it all worthwhile.
