Heading out for the evening I got to the Hammersmith and Shitty line just as after a train had left. My heart sank. Who knew how long it would be til the next train on this strange and irregular line.
There was one other man on the platform with me, a short, slight fella in his thirties eating some chips. Suddenly he piped up in an unmistakeable Manchester accent, "Boss, do you know how long the next train is?"
I didn't know if he was talking to me. As far as I know I am no-one's boss and it was doubtful that I had unbenownst to myself been given a position of authority over this wiry chip eating Mancunian. I am also clearly not a London Underground employee so I looked behind me to see if a station manager had just come up the steps to the platform. There was someone there, but they were clearly a member of the public too. I looked back at the chip guzzler and it became clear that he was talking to me, so I replied, "No sorry. I've no idea. It could be days. You pretty much take your chances on this line."
"So you don't know how long it will be?"
"No."
"About twenty or thirty metres," he quipped, but then laughed at his own joke in such a cute and disarming way that I had to smile at him and say "Yeah nice one."
He wasn't content with the compliment and clearly wanted a conversation. He was a bit fidgety and crazy and he resembled a young, slightly less fucked up than he is now Mark E Smith. His face told a story of more than a casual interest in drink and drugs, like he was a character created by an unimaginative stand up comedian who liked Oasis and. "Why don't they have the boards telling you the times of the trains at this station? They have them almost everywhere else."
"That would make life too easy," I told him.
I looked back at my paper.
But he wasn't done with me yet. He dropped some chips on the floor. "I like to leave some for the pigeons," he informed me as if I had asked him why he'd done that, "That's why I do that. Some people don't like pigeons do they, but we're all God's creatures."
"That is true," I lied as I didn't really want to get into a religious discussion.
"Some people think pigeons are a bit manky, but you know, but you know nobody's perfect. There's a lot of people who are manky," said this philosopher of the gutter. I liked him for it, though I suspected he had accidentally dropped the chips and was now trying to make an excuse.
I didn't engage him in conversation. It's not the London way. It's a shame, but I suppose it's because generally the people who want to talk to you turn out to be mental. Though this fella was affable and made me smile he wasn't doing much to dispel this stereotype.
An announcement told us a train had just left Paddington and so I shouted across, "it'll be about eight minutes."
"Nice one boss," he chirruped back. I think he knew I wasn't his boss as well, but if he could convince me that I was, then maybe I would feel obliged to pay him his wages. Perhaps his job was to start philosophical discussions with strangers and make them consider who is the really dirty creature, the pigeon eating chips off the floor or the businessman in his suit and tie paying people in the third world low wages whilst living in a big house. Even if they correctly answer that it's the pigeon, then they have still had their money's worth.
I would like to think if I'd asked him for his business card it would have included the strap line, "The Mancky who says what's manky." But I doubt even if this was his profession that he would have gone to the bother of having cards printed up.
Finally the train arrived and we got on different carriages and I thought that would be the end of it.
As I finally got to Hammersmith and headed for the district line and
was passing the pesticles statue, I found myself walking alongside the Mancky man. He saw me beside him and smiled at me like I was a long lost friend, waved and said, "All right?" We'd had a conversation and in his eyes we were pals now. It's kind of a shame the rest of the world don't see it like that. But we're too busy looking at our papers and not noticing the pigeons, I suppose.
