There are times when you stumble across just the right book for your mood, completely by accident. I’ve been undergoing a saggy period of late, when I’ve been anxious by a number of things and relentlessly beating myself up for being a mopey twat. It’s not healthy.
In the library on Monday I selected a wafer sized novella by an author who I’ve been a fan of for many years. Magnus Mills drives London buses and writes books which brilliantly skewer the inane pointlessness of modern life. He won his most acclaim over ten years ago for the Restraint Of Beasts, but appears to still produce material now and again, and still drives London buses, as far as I’m aware.
His is a very specific type of humour which might be best appreciated by those who don’t take themselves, or any form of authority too seriously.
This novella, “The Maintenance Of Headway” was all about driving London buses – a home subject but not one I’d seen him write about. (Erecting high-tensile fences was an earlier subject). I was surprised to see that this one was published a few years ago but I hadn’t read it before. The Maintenance of Headway is the guiding principle which governs (or governed) the gaps between buses in any service. When your bus stops and waits for no apparent reason, to ‘spread out the gaps in the service’ – as they say on the tube, they are effectively maintaining the headway.
The book’s quirky officious characters inspect the buses and their drivers, constantly ensuring none are too early and headway is maintained. But its quirky, officious characters clearly stand equally for the self-important officious characters who work in practically all sectors and industries. Their importance is always questionable and the random behaviour of people and circumstance will always be prone to upset plans.
However much you might enjoy considering yourself an outside or a nomad, you are always – or at least for the most part, respecting those inspectors and working for them. We shouldn’t take it so seriously, but we do, because we do it day in, day out. All the time. That repetition is critical and makes it seem more personally important than it should be. Nobody knows the general torpid drudgery of our own existence like ourselves.
But Mills is somehow able to inject light and air into this and make us laugh at ourselves, by laughing at the bus inspectors. His commentary is injected by wickedly deadpan dialogue, unfussily delivered. Although my favourite and most obvious gag was as follows.
(Bus drivers on a tea-break)
‘Jason was quite interested in the articulated bus,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s applied for a transfer.’
‘But most of those buses are still in the factory,’ said Edward. ‘It’s going to take a while till they come off the production line.’
‘Maybe he got the sack,’ suggested Jeff.
‘You don’t get the sack from this job,’ said Davy.
‘What about Thompson?’ I said. ‘He got the sack.’
‘Oh yes!’ retorted Davy. ‘You’re always mentioning this Thompson who no one else can remember. Go on then! Tell us why he got the sack.’
‘He lost patience with his people,’ I replied. ‘They were complaining he was late when he was actually early, so he drove his bus into the vehicle wash and switched the water on.’
‘Full of people?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All the windows were open.’
‘Good grief,’ said Edward. ‘No wonder they sacked him.’
The Maintenance of Headway, Magnus Mills. [Bloomsbury 2009]
The book is 152 easy, joyous pages long. Find it.
We all have to numbly adhere to the maintenance of headway because life tends to disappoint. I’m sure I’ll be bored and frustrated and navelgazing and full of self-loathing again in a mere matter of minutes. But for right now, thanks Magnus.
Wednesday 23 March 2011
Tuesday 22 March 2011
Eire 2007
Circa May 2007..
From Rosslaire harbour on the south-eastern tip of the country, a good three hours solid, simple scenic driving took me to Cork. I stopped to refuel, have another couple of dry biscuits and a handful of dates, thinking I was probably now under an hour away from my destination on the westerly side of the country. Shortly after smaller, bumpier roads began persuading me otherwise. They stretched and wound on and on, under the never quite total darkness. As I chased the sun, villages and small towns came and went, sometimes without even a signpost. By 10pm I was growing tired, knowing I was on the right track, yet the road just kept unravelling like a magician’s hankerchief. By 10.30 I began thinking that the Atlantic Ocean was just a cunning ruse and I was sure to hit New York soon any time soon.
Signposts for Bantry, Glengarriff; I was nearing, it was getting close. I was actually on the right road they’d given me directions to by 11.15. There was still, unbelievably a very dim ember of sun which it felt like I’d been pursuing for hours. New York couldn’t really just be over the next hill, could it? I accidentally drove through some oceanic wormhole?
I grew paranoid about overshooting my final destination bar / campsite / hostel / boarding house / whatever the hell it was that I'd booked on a whim without looking to closely. I stopped at an isolated pub to ask two men exiting the building if they knew of the Glenbrook Bar. I needed to listen hard to interpret the man’s words, obscured by accent and alcohol into one punctuation-free dirge of sound. They knew it: 3 miles further on the right hand side. I hadn’t passed it already. Excellent news.
A young man serving at the bar ticked me off my list, handed me my key, and gave what proved to be wholly inadequate directions to my room: out there, round the side, and up the stairs - giving the impression that the room was in the same building. Precise and deliberate in his manner, I presumed that it wouldn’t be difficult and heaved my bags to my shoulders, looking forward to seeing a bed. I looked outside, round the side of the building, the back of the building, the other side of the building, the front of the building. No open doors or anything looking faintly like accommodation. I re-entered the bar again. He came out and showed me, apologising for not showing me the first time. While we walked I asked where could I hire a bike for tomorrow. Ah, they’d stopped renting them out here, I was informed. But, the chap furrowed his brows, stopped walking - as if walking and thinking this hard at the same time was a tall order. He looked down at the floor, concentrating hard. He put me in mind of Father Ted’s sidekick priest, Dougal, his anxiousness not to get the detail wrong. “Right,” he said, like he’d now prepared all his words. “If you go to the next town, Castletown Bere, and a store called Supervalue, ask for Denys. He’ll sort you out.”
With that drama resolved, he pointed me towards a narrow exit through the corner of the back yard, and a small lawn over which I needed to walk. The building itself was the other side with a small light over the front door. He could have told me to take my car from the front of the pub and drive it into the site and up a short drive to the front of the building. How did he think I’d got there?
*
Sure enough, the next morning I drove the short distance further along the sunshine-dappled coast to Castletown Bere. One of the first shops on the main street parade was a Supervalue, opposite which was a car park overlooking the pretty harbour. I parked, went to the store and asked a timid looking eastern European checkout girl if Denys was about. She didn’t understand me so I asked a native (Siobhan, her name badge reassuringly said), if Denys was about. Siobhan gave him a call. Denys arrived promptly and cheerfully, sporting a red face which appeared like it might always look a little drunk. He showed me a short way up the street to a small hut full of bikes, and lifted one out from the mesh of steel and wheels. He handed it over to me, saying was easiest to ride. It looked a fine steed, light and durable. I took it away and kitted up beside my car, swiftly changing trousers for shorts in the driver’s seat, in what I hoped was a swift and discreet style.
The best part of a day’s pleasurable yet unplanned cycling around various parts of coastline, hills and mounts was blighted halfway by my first bout of irritating hay fever this season. Much sneezing, eye-wiping and nostril clearing was relentlessly required. A stunning day, bright and warm, left me with predictably sunburned neck and upper arms where my T-shirt had ridden, a bruised inside left knee – from a precarious rocky hill descent , and a regional back bruise from the edge of something in my rucksack which I lazily never rearranged.
From Rosslaire harbour on the south-eastern tip of the country, a good three hours solid, simple scenic driving took me to Cork. I stopped to refuel, have another couple of dry biscuits and a handful of dates, thinking I was probably now under an hour away from my destination on the westerly side of the country. Shortly after smaller, bumpier roads began persuading me otherwise. They stretched and wound on and on, under the never quite total darkness. As I chased the sun, villages and small towns came and went, sometimes without even a signpost. By 10pm I was growing tired, knowing I was on the right track, yet the road just kept unravelling like a magician’s hankerchief. By 10.30 I began thinking that the Atlantic Ocean was just a cunning ruse and I was sure to hit New York soon any time soon.
Signposts for Bantry, Glengarriff; I was nearing, it was getting close. I was actually on the right road they’d given me directions to by 11.15. There was still, unbelievably a very dim ember of sun which it felt like I’d been pursuing for hours. New York couldn’t really just be over the next hill, could it? I accidentally drove through some oceanic wormhole?
I grew paranoid about overshooting my final destination bar / campsite / hostel / boarding house / whatever the hell it was that I'd booked on a whim without looking to closely. I stopped at an isolated pub to ask two men exiting the building if they knew of the Glenbrook Bar. I needed to listen hard to interpret the man’s words, obscured by accent and alcohol into one punctuation-free dirge of sound. They knew it: 3 miles further on the right hand side. I hadn’t passed it already. Excellent news.
A young man serving at the bar ticked me off my list, handed me my key, and gave what proved to be wholly inadequate directions to my room: out there, round the side, and up the stairs - giving the impression that the room was in the same building. Precise and deliberate in his manner, I presumed that it wouldn’t be difficult and heaved my bags to my shoulders, looking forward to seeing a bed. I looked outside, round the side of the building, the back of the building, the other side of the building, the front of the building. No open doors or anything looking faintly like accommodation. I re-entered the bar again. He came out and showed me, apologising for not showing me the first time. While we walked I asked where could I hire a bike for tomorrow. Ah, they’d stopped renting them out here, I was informed. But, the chap furrowed his brows, stopped walking - as if walking and thinking this hard at the same time was a tall order. He looked down at the floor, concentrating hard. He put me in mind of Father Ted’s sidekick priest, Dougal, his anxiousness not to get the detail wrong. “Right,” he said, like he’d now prepared all his words. “If you go to the next town, Castletown Bere, and a store called Supervalue, ask for Denys. He’ll sort you out.”
With that drama resolved, he pointed me towards a narrow exit through the corner of the back yard, and a small lawn over which I needed to walk. The building itself was the other side with a small light over the front door. He could have told me to take my car from the front of the pub and drive it into the site and up a short drive to the front of the building. How did he think I’d got there?
*
Sure enough, the next morning I drove the short distance further along the sunshine-dappled coast to Castletown Bere. One of the first shops on the main street parade was a Supervalue, opposite which was a car park overlooking the pretty harbour. I parked, went to the store and asked a timid looking eastern European checkout girl if Denys was about. She didn’t understand me so I asked a native (Siobhan, her name badge reassuringly said), if Denys was about. Siobhan gave him a call. Denys arrived promptly and cheerfully, sporting a red face which appeared like it might always look a little drunk. He showed me a short way up the street to a small hut full of bikes, and lifted one out from the mesh of steel and wheels. He handed it over to me, saying was easiest to ride. It looked a fine steed, light and durable. I took it away and kitted up beside my car, swiftly changing trousers for shorts in the driver’s seat, in what I hoped was a swift and discreet style.
The best part of a day’s pleasurable yet unplanned cycling around various parts of coastline, hills and mounts was blighted halfway by my first bout of irritating hay fever this season. Much sneezing, eye-wiping and nostril clearing was relentlessly required. A stunning day, bright and warm, left me with predictably sunburned neck and upper arms where my T-shirt had ridden, a bruised inside left knee – from a precarious rocky hill descent , and a regional back bruise from the edge of something in my rucksack which I lazily never rearranged.
Tuesday 1 March 2011
the wrong man with one leg
She hovered nervously outside the weights’ room, a meek but well-presented old lady. She looked at Tony as he exited, sweating.
“Hello,” Tony said.
“Oh hello, I wonder if you could do me a favour?” she asked, predictably well-spoken.
“Certainly,” Tony smiled reassuringly. “How can I help?”
“Would you mind looking in the changing room to see if my friend is there. His name is John and he only has one leg. Do you know him?”
“I know of a chap with one leg who comes here, yes. I can have a look for you. Message?”
“Oh, yes. Well I’m not sure if he’s even here you see but if he is there could you say Heather is waiting if he wants to go for coffee, like we..” she trailed off.
“No problem at all.”
“Oh thank you so much.”
Tony walked the few paces down the corridor to the male changing room. The one person in the room had one leg. He was slowly drying himself.
“Hello, are you John?”
The oldish man looked up from what looked like a complicated operation. “No. Frank.”
“Oh, I..” This threw Tony. “A lady outside was asking me to check if a man called John with one leg was in here. And here you are: a man with one leg.. But you’re not John.”
“No. Frank.”
“Didn’t think there’d be so many of you around!”
He chuckled merrily.
“Check in the pool. Not sure if there was anyone in the Sauna.”
“Good idea.”
Tony poked his head around the doorway and into the pool area, conscious that he was still wearing his sweaty gym gear. There were a handful of men in the pool and around the Jacuzzi, but they all appeared to have two legs. There was no discernible presence through the door of the Sauna either.
This meant he would have to disappoint Heather. Maybe she’d been stood up by a man with one leg.
He walked back through the changing room and addressed Frank.
“I don’t suppose you want to go for coffee with her anyway? She seems nice.”
He chuckled merrily again, which Tony took as a No.
“Hello,” Tony said.
“Oh hello, I wonder if you could do me a favour?” she asked, predictably well-spoken.
“Certainly,” Tony smiled reassuringly. “How can I help?”
“Would you mind looking in the changing room to see if my friend is there. His name is John and he only has one leg. Do you know him?”
“I know of a chap with one leg who comes here, yes. I can have a look for you. Message?”
“Oh, yes. Well I’m not sure if he’s even here you see but if he is there could you say Heather is waiting if he wants to go for coffee, like we..” she trailed off.
“No problem at all.”
“Oh thank you so much.”
Tony walked the few paces down the corridor to the male changing room. The one person in the room had one leg. He was slowly drying himself.
“Hello, are you John?”
The oldish man looked up from what looked like a complicated operation. “No. Frank.”
“Oh, I..” This threw Tony. “A lady outside was asking me to check if a man called John with one leg was in here. And here you are: a man with one leg.. But you’re not John.”
“No. Frank.”
“Didn’t think there’d be so many of you around!”
He chuckled merrily.
“Check in the pool. Not sure if there was anyone in the Sauna.”
“Good idea.”
Tony poked his head around the doorway and into the pool area, conscious that he was still wearing his sweaty gym gear. There were a handful of men in the pool and around the Jacuzzi, but they all appeared to have two legs. There was no discernible presence through the door of the Sauna either.
This meant he would have to disappoint Heather. Maybe she’d been stood up by a man with one leg.
He walked back through the changing room and addressed Frank.
“I don’t suppose you want to go for coffee with her anyway? She seems nice.”
He chuckled merrily again, which Tony took as a No.
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