Your ordeal starts innocuously enough. ‘Welcome aboard the south east trains service to London Waterloo. This train will be calling at…’ You settle back in your seat and for a few moments wallow in blissful ignorance of the ruthless campaign of mental torture that is about to be unleashed on you as part of a complete moral and intellectual reconditioning by state agents for anti-democratic purposes.
‘The ticket inspector will shortly be making his way through the train.’ You recognise the silkily patronising voice of Patricia Hewitt but think no more about it. She can’t have had that many offers when Gordon took over, and it’s regular work. Of course, time was when we didn’t need to have the ticket inspector introduced, least of all by the former health secretary. We knew who he was by instinct. Something in the blue uniform and ticket-punching device spoke to us on another level. However, now that human beings are officially classified as idiots, we need to be told. Possibly it also makes the inspector feel valued as a south east trains employee. Before the glorious birth of the intercom device, he would sit in the guards’ room shaking his head moaning, ‘I can’t go out there.’ The buffet-car lady would have to coax him, ‘Go on, Derek. You can do it. Remember your basic training.’ In any case, he presents himself now after a suspiciously short interval.
‘For your safety this train is staffed by travel safety officers who will be making their way though the train.’ The next second, very much as if by south east trains magic, a travel safety officer appears. He’s wearing a yellow fluorescent jerkin and wielding the mind-zapper gun from Star Trek.
‘Do try to keep all personal belongings with you…’ The way she puts the emphasis on ‘do’ makes it clear that she fully expects you to fail.
‘Safety information is displayed in all coaches. If you see anything suspicious please tell a member of staff…’ You catch yourself thinking, ‘I’ll tell the travel safety officer!’
There is a brief pause during which you feel your true self resurface. ‘I was born in Kenilworth, Warwickshire. I like sushi. My favourite colour is green…’
Then: ‘Closed-circuit television and video recording are in use on this train.’
You have been captive for a mere 30 minutes when the heavy stuff begins.
‘If you are travelling to Milton Snoddsbury you are sitting in the wrong part of the train…If you are travelling to Shepton Bassethound you are sitting in the right part of the train…If you are travelling to Chipping Braindead you are sitting in the wrong part of the train…’
They never tell you what the right part of the train is. That would make it too easy.
In any case, it’s not really about the right and wrong parts of the train. If you play the announcements backwards they are actually telling you which way to vote in the mayoral elections and not to make a fuss about genetically modified food.
Once the train gets to the next stop the whole series of proclamations starts again. There is no escape. You resolve to give it another 15 minutes before deciding whether to jump.
You would like to make one last phonecall to a loved one but the window stickers forbid it. You know that people who have used their phones in the Quiet Coach have never been seen again.
You give up. It’s easier that way. When you get off the train you cannot remember where you were going or why you were put on this earth in the first place. All you know is that you must not block the aisle for the buffet trolley. ‘I must keep all my personal belongings with me…’, you mutter to yourself as you search for the street where your life used to be.
And so to the frequently asked question: ‘Why do you pay the congestion charge?’ I offer the following answer: £2,080 a year is a small price to pay to retain the power of free will and avoid the rail companies’ own exquisite interpretation of Chinese water torture.
If they’re not brainwashing you through tedium they’re making absurd claims to disorientate you.
I once heard a train announcement telling passengers that they couldn’t have tea for the duration of the four-hour journey because there wasn’t any water.
A friend of mine heard the following recently: ‘We apologise for the delay to this service. This is due to the train being held at gunpoint at the last station.’ It was all done in a perfectly cheerful way. But it was lies. All lies. Number two agent in the control room was having a field day.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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