A Bleak Winters Journey

As the two friends boarded the train at Heaton Chapel they prepared themselves for a journey that neither of them would believe. It was bitter cold that was biting their ears, and heavy rain that fell all around. The puddles were becoming lakes so quickly that Cunard were setting up business alongside them. There were no idle passers by, only people leaving for a purpose.

The first steps of any journey are usually the easiest, and the train rolled into Piccadilly on time, as expected. The sight that met our travellers though as the doors opened was a huge crowd of people all trying to leave the platform in one direction as fast as they could, but something was appearing to prevent them from doing this. It was a sight like the end of a football match where the hordes of supporters try to clamber out of the stadium by any means possible. There were elbows being pointed, and minor affray at every point. This was possibly the first sign that evil spirits were in the air, and that they should turn back before worse magic would unravel.

Once through the throngs of people at Piccadilly, (it turned out to be some ticket inspectors choosing Saturday afternoon to check 500 peoples tickets as they left the platform) a swift transfer to the other side of Manchester was necessary before catching the next train. This was swifter than first planned, and needed a mild jog for the last 5 minutes to ensure that no disappointment would follow. Whilst the rain and wind blew around them like a scene from Twister. It had metamorphosed into the day that people walked around with inside out umbrellas and dogs flying in the air like kites.

Manchester Victoria was reached in a record time by foot, and through the corner of my eye I could see Roger Bannister weeping. The two journeymen purchased tickets from the Victorian ticket office at Manchester Victoria from a girl called Victoria that looked like Victoria Beckham crossed with Queen Victoria. They reached the train and the conductor was called Sue.

A forty minute ride to Hebden Bridge was the next step, and so the passengers relaxed into the carriage, took the weight off of their feet, and remembered that it was 1pm and that lunch had been missed. A couple of chewing gums did not fill the void in their stomachs, so they began to eat fellow passengers, starting with the fattest and cleanest. By the time Hebden Bridge appeared in the steamy windows there was no other soul on board, just a pile of shoes and a News of the World.

The two travelling companions departed the carriage to find themselves on the platform of a station that looked like the kind used in American Werewolf in London. It was deserted and the station itself had not been changed since circa 1920. It was a classic station with one track in and one track out, and it needed Poirot to shuffle along to fully complete the scene.

It was so bleak that it inspired one of the travellers to quote, “There is more colour in Russia.” A phrase that should be emblazoned on every tourist information poster in the area. Finally the third train arrived to take our trusty guides to their final destination. A small backwater, in the bowels of the North West of England where time forgot to move on. It was still 1958, and peoples haircuts proved it. It was named after the witch hunt ritual of burning anyone called Lee. However, if I was called Lee and I lived here then I would be passing a box of Swan Vestas to the angry mob of farmworkers.

In search of some light refreshment, our heroes ventured to enter a local hostelry that had some friendly types outside the main entrance, only to discover a big blackboard outside stating in a “No Blacks” kind of way, “No Away Supporters”. As this was the only place to go before the stadium then the decision was made to journey on to the stadium. Often a good travelling technique when one finds that all other avenues are closed.

One compliment that has to be given to the population of Burnley is that they do not do things by half. If the decision is to keep the town looking like it did 50 years ago then this is what they do. A consistent portrayal of the era is echoed into every last detail, and so once inside the stadium the theme continued. The tannoy system was connected by bean cans and tight string, and only worked if the wind stopped, which it didn't for long. When finally the weary men sat down in their seats, there was a feeling that they had sat where many men have sat before. Literally, as they had not cleared away their dead.

The onslaught that then ensued was of biblical proportions. The brothers in arms stood together in the trenches, settling themselves and taking stock of their surroundings. The first long range missile came over the barricades, and a direct hit... kazamm... half the army were wiped out. Secondly, a fumbled hand grenade dropped right at the feet... boom... the rest of the army were decimated. Finally, a volley and a strike and… poww... the rest of the stragglers were floored.

That was it. Eleven minutes in total. Not a soul survived.

Gradually though, a miracle developed. As if from a zombie film, the dead army began to awaken. They came back stronger and more determined. Two attacks hit the opposition right where it hurts, and a third would make it level. The masses were shouting, “We're going to beat you 4-3, we're going to beat you 4-3”, and a renewed optimism was present.

It was short lived, however, and the travelling armies had another bleak prospect on the horizon. They would soon have to leave this shelter, and venture back into the land that time forgot. Not knowing what surprises would face them on the way.

The crowds left the pile of rubble and bricks, that local people call Turfmoor, and headed back to the homeland. Our two protagonists resembled Napoleonic soldiers returning from Russia, defeated, hungry, wet, and cheesed off.

When eventually the anachronistic skyline, of modern juxtaposed with old, silhouetted against a murky grey backdrop, the two travellers revelled in the warmth of the homecoming. As they departed from the train they had deserved a heroes welcome, a fanfare and parade. Instead, they were ignored and brushed aside, average people mistaking their battle scars for tramp-like dirtiness.

The pair trudged out of the Victorian station, passing the Victorian ticket office, long after Victoria had gone, looking forward to a cup of tea and a Victoria sandwich.

The Ambulance Preservation Society

As the sirens were heard, and the common sound of an emergency went wailing through the night, the ambulance weaved its way through the relatively quiet streets on its way to the hospital once more. It had made the journey many times but every trip promised new adventures for the fixtures and fittings. Perhaps this would be the journey when the defibrillator was used, or maybe the airway un-blockers that hang over the bed.

The men and women that make the life changing drive throughout the day are always very calm and professional. They save lives continuously, and I have often wondered whether they even realise anymore that they make more difference on a Tuesday evening than most people make ever. It amazes me that they can be party to abuse and assault from our ever greatening thick population. Eventually they will all change their tune and understand the vast difference that these people make, but sadly this will often follow a tragedy, or a narrowly avoided tragedy.

We must really appreciate the impact that this service provides and the huge steps that it has taken to improve our safety and care. I had never appreciated the amount of professionalism and speed to which these people operate. Multi-tasking at its very best. They must talk to the hospital and alert them of an arrival stating any issues and an ETA, explain to the driver where to go, communicate effectively with the significant loved one sat often in shock on the make shift passenger seat, fill in a form asking questions of a comprehensive nature, and ... oh by the way, save someone’s life as well. Seriously... if you or I was ever to try and jump in and do that then it would go pear shaped in a jiffy.

Well, as is our life, I was a significant passenger again last Tuesday night. As always, I was trying to keep rational and calm and answer questions as quickly as I could, whilst trying to talk to my little girl and try to reassure her that everything was going to be alright. It is a deeply enlightening experience and if it wasn’t so terrible then I would recommend it to everybody. You will never think so clearly and focused about one thing, apart from maybe a Tibetan monk that has spent years trying to perfect sitting on a leaf.

At these moments occasionally something will pop into your head that you would not normally think. Extreme lateral thought. This kind of thought happened to me last Tuesday night. I wondered if it was possible to live in an ambulance.

They’re like Tardis’ but without the aliens (they do have Doctors though... aah, you like that). An ambulance is the cool crash pad for twenty somethings that cannot afford a rung on the property ladder. “Moving” or “stationery” can be your choice. But bear in mind that “moving” would make you into a Gypsy, which isn’t necessarily the market I was looking at.

Let us have a look at the wonderful attributes that an ambulance possesses. A bed, a power source, more cupboard space than you can shake a stick at, two chairs for guests, a ramp to ride your bike in and out (especially useful if you go for the stationery model), communication ready, disco lights for those outside barbecues, and a big cab at the front. My tip would be to convert the front cab into a chemical toilet and then knock through to widen the living space. You will then have a completely functional pad and for a snifter of the price of a traditional studio flat.

What’s more, here are some more ideas to personalise your Ambul’ouse. Give it a cool paint job to make it look less like the type of vehicle that people will run to if they need help. Rip out the interior fittings, just keeping the cupboard space and other fixtures. Replace with some choice contemporary furniture, and go for a nice, chic dark wood effect. The shape of the van itself is a classic symbol of popular culture, which would be instantly recognisable and sought after by other medical profession obsessive’s.

It appears to me to be a win-win, and a solution to a much pondered problem. We save the landfills getting filled up with decrepit machines that no longer have a use, whilst housing young people and enabling them to move away from their family seat.

I must admit now though, that this idea is not new, and that I have blatantly plagiarised it from another point in history. The classic Gypsy caravan that everyone knows and loves, the type that was commonly seen on the Flake advert in the 1980’s, is in fact no more than a revamped Sky television van from the 17th century. Oh, well, it’s far enough away that I can’t be sued now.