Room at the Top

Bad news for Merseyrail: the House of Orange has fallen.  On January 1st Maarten Spaargaren gave up his position as MD of the railway company, bringing an end to the Dutch rule over Liverpool's railways.

Before Maarten, there was of course Bart Schmeink, who I ACTUALLY MET at a Christmas party Merseyrail generously invited me to once.  They didn't invite me again - hopefully nothing to do with all those JD and Cokes I knocked back, or me telling the man behind the Merseyrail map that the city centre square was "fucking shit" (I should say he agreed with me) - but I did attend Bart Schmeink's leaving do.  I arrived too early, skulked around at the edges eating vol-au-vents because that was easier than talking to people, and left without managing to speak to the great man himself.

I was happy when Bart was replaced by Maarten, because having a Netherlander ruling over Merseyrail seemed to work.  Customer satisfaction went up, punctuality went up, the trains and the stations all started looking a bit lovely.  They imported the M to Go concept from the Low Country, which worked, and the Bike and Go concept as well, which didn't quite as much.  Maarten has left Merseyrail for the sake of his children's education, which is appallingly selfish of him.  What about ME?

Now there's a man called Alan Chaplin running the company.  What sort of a name is that?  There's the correct number of vowels in it.  There's no satisfying "sch" sound.  It's far too English.  Alan is on a secondment from Northern, where he's more usually the Deputy MD, and I'm sure he's a lovely and very capable man.  I'm sure Merseyrail won't plunge into an abyss of horror but, just to be safe, I think Alan should attend work in an Ajax shirt and waving some tulips about.  While smoking a joint.

So instead I'm transferring my loyalties to Northern Rail in the "FavouriteManaging Director" category.  They don't have a Dutchman in charge there, either, but I'm willing to overlook that because they have Alex Hynes instead.  Alex is actually northern, which I like; admittedly, listening to him speak, he's not full on "ey up, down t'pit with me whippet" northern, but that's ok.  I like the idea of the rail operating company being run by someone who's actually got experience using it.  I bet some of the southern franchises are run by men who haven't left their air conditioned Jaguar since 1986.

Also, if I can be unashamedly shallow for a moment, Alex is a little bit sweet.  I like his teeth, and his ears: my fondness for Russell Tovey must have given you a hint that I have an inclination that way.  And now Tim seems to have left the Northern Twitter feed, Alex has moved to top spot in the Northern Rail Totty Stakes (apart from that guard on the Yorkshire Coast Line who was built like a small house and who caused me to have minor heart flutters).

I mean, GOOD LORD.

Another fact in Alex's favour: he is always travelling around the network.  I don't think he even has an office.  I think he just installs himself on the first train he sees and goes out and about.  Northern is such a weird franchise, and I'd hate to think he was just commuting in and out of Leeds on the frequently served, well maintained lines and thinking that was all his franchise was about.  I recently spent a couple of hours trying to work out how I was going to visit the stations between Pontefract and Goole, which get only three trains a day, one in the morning and two in the evening; a good MD knows about the backwaters and has seen them for himself.

But Alex's greatest asset?  He's as nerdy about travelling over Northern Rail as me, as evidenced by this from his Twitter feed:

We're clearly kindred spirits, Alex.  Give me a ring.  I'll buy you a pint.

Bittersweet Goodbye

The Liverpool Empire on a Thursday night.  I could only be there for one reason.

Of course not.  Ray Quinn as Danny?  Can you imagine?

No, I was here for a far more interesting reason.  A party.

I wasn't looking forward to it.  I never do.  I am, at heart, deeply shy, deeply antisocial, and deeply awkward.  I'd doped myself up with my special uppers (they're prescription pills, before you write in) but I could still feel my stomach twisting itself into a Möbius strip in my belly.  If I'm honest, listening to Ian's Midwinter Moon on the way there probably didn't put me in the party mood.  It's a lovely tune, but it's not exactly Do You Wanna Funk?, is it?

I couldn't say no, though.  Sally from Merseyrail had contacted me and very kindly invited me to this special occasion: Bart Schmeink's leaving party.  Refusing wasn't even an option.

I came into the party behind a load of people who'd made the trek from Rail House, so I wandered over to the bar and got myself a beer.  They'd put on a great spread for Bart: sandwiches and quiches and chicken satay, and tiers of Merseyrail cupcakes.

I was seriously tempted to steal the marzipan train from the top.  In addition there were Bart Schmeink dollar bills as party favours; you can bet I robbed one of those.

A projector beamed moments from Bart's tenure onto the ceiling of the Empire bar, which mainly seemed to be him dressed up for Children in Need and Comic Relief over the years.  I started to feel sorry for him, actually.  He's a serious businessman but once or twice a year he's required to put on a frock and arse around in Liverpool Central.

My fellow guests were lovely to me, even though I was, let's face it, an interloper.  They involved me in their conversations, said nice things about the blog, asked me how many stations I had left to go.  A lot of them asked me what I'm going to do next, to which the answer is, "erm, I dunno."  I wasn't exactly a sparkling presence, put it that way.

After a while I retreated to a corner with my beer and watched the party.  There was a Merseyrail employee tinkling on the theatre's piano, very ably in fact, and I listened to him play while people chatted around me.  I felt very out of place.  This was a works do, after all; I was an invited guest but I wasn't one of them.

I thought I should go and speak to Bart, say my goodbyes, say nice things, but he was the star of the show - there was always someone round him.  I didn't feel confident enough to wander up and interrupt.  Then the barman recognised what I was going to order before I even reached the bar, and I thought maybe it was time to go.

So I went to the party but I wasn't a hit.  Sometimes my anxiety wins, and this was one of those occasions.

Good luck to you anyway, Mr Schmeink.  Liverpool's loss is Amsterdam's gain.  Maybe I'll nip into GVB headquarters next time I'm in the Netherlands.

Room at the Top

Merseyrail have announced their new boss, and I for one welcome our new railway overlord.  His name is Maarten Spaargaren, and he looks like this:

I have to be honest - there was a part of me that was worried that the departure of Bart Schmeink would mean the orange influence on Merseyside would disappear.  I nervously anticipated the appointment of a "Bert Carr" or a "Sean Druckett" or a "Philomena Mellencamp" and we'd go all boringly English.  But no: with the arrival of Maarten we have a man whose name is so Dutch it should come with a free bunch of tulips and some pornography.  I couldn't be more pleased.

Sad though I am to see the great Mr Schmeink leave, I look forward to the arrival of the Spaargaren Regime at the end of the month.  I'm available for a pint of Grolsch any time, Maarten.

All Change

Honestly, I go away for a week and Merseyrail goes mad.  First of all, the good news: £40 million to upgrade the underground stations, including £20 million just for Liverpool Central.  It's about time, let's be honest: there has been diddling around the edges for years, with the MtoGo and new floors, but Central needs a lot of work.  The Northern Line's island platform is grossly unsuitable, and quite scary on a Saturday afternoon.

We're also going to get a new look ticket hall, with a glass roof and walls.  This will help it to tie in with the under construction Central Village scheme.  There will be a direct link into the station from the new development, so it makes sense to get it done while there's building work all around.  Hopefully they'll build a little roof for the lift access, so disabled people don't have to get rained on every time they come up from the platforms.

The downside is that Central's going to be closed for four months over next summer to accommodate the works.  That's a bit of a nightmare for commuters and shoppers alike, who'll presumably be either made to use Moorfields or who'll wrestle with replacement buses.  Just keep telling yourself: it'll all be worth it in the end.  (Of course, if they built my fantasy station at Chinatown, this wouldn't be such a problem, but unfortunately Merseytravel don't have access to the imaginary worlds in my head).

When the Gods give, they also take away, and so we're also going to have to bid farewell to my CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND Bart Schmeink.  Bart is leaving Merseyrail to go and run GVB, the Amsterdam transport network.  It means that he's going to be around if and when the Noord/Zuid Lijn gets opened in the city, the lucky bugger.

Obviously I'm distressed by this news.  Not only because he's done a damn good job in his four years at the head of Merseyrail.  He's a really nice guy who's embraced Liverpool life and been a part of the city, not just a faceless businessman.  I had the good chance to meet him earlier this year, and he was charming and funny, and not at all scared by my disturbing blog obsession with him and his railway network.  I'd have run a mile, personally.

Bart doesn't leave until the 1st of December, so we've time to have a whip round.  I'm hopeful that his replacement will be another nice Dutchman with a brilliant name.  And that he'll give me a free Railpass.

24 Hour Party Person

I crossed the Pier Head and looked up at the glowing white lights of the Ferry Terminal. Deep breaths. Calm. I'm going in.

It's safe to say I'm not a party person. I've had just one birthday party in my life, when I was five. The anxiety of it was so much - I was convinced nobody would turn up - my mum effectively put a stop to them for my own health. And today, as a fully grown adult, I prefer to loiter somewhere at the back, hidden away, generally with a drink or six. Or I just don't go.

"Don't go" was my first instinct when I got the following e-mail:

Dear Friends and Colleagues,

Merseyrail New Year Reception 2011

The Merseyrail management team and I would like to invite you to join us for our annual New Year Reception on Thursday 27th January 2011...

I mean, good God no. A party full of people I don't know? People I respect? Bart Schmeink? What am I going to do there? The Bf intervened at this point, however, and practically forced me to accept. "It'll be good for you," he said. And, after just the one panic attack, and doped up on my anti-depressants, I was walking through the door into the party and accepting a champagne cocktail and thinking, "how bad could it be?".

The invite had promised "entertainment". I wasn't sure what that would be. My only knowledge of corporate entertainment comes from Showgirls, where Nomi dances on top of a boat in a sparkly dress and then gets sexually harassed by a sleazy Asian businessman. Merseyrail have a different concept of the term; they had pupils from the Archbishop Beck Catholic High School playing the Theme from the Muppet Show on a trumpet. Hopefully none of them were molested by a skeezy man in a suit later in the evening.

I did a couple of rounds of Matou, clutching a Jack Daniels and Coke, before I found a suitably tucked away corner and installed myself there. I was almost instantly leapt upon by two men, who turned out to be Rudi and Matt; the publicity mavens of Merseyrail. That's the problem with sticking your face all over your blog - people tend to recognise you. They were really nice, however, welcoming me to the party, offering to get me a drink, and not mentioning the fact that I was turning bright crimson throughout.

After a little chat, I went on another wander, and I found a seat at the back of the restaurant. Great. I could relax a bit. Which is when another man turned up and said, "Excuse me. Are you the Merseytart?"

Suddenly I wished I'd chosen a less daft name.

This guy turned out to be Ian from Merseytravel, who again had read my blog. "When are you going to finish it?" he asked, leading me to bluster about "enjoying it too much", which is a polite way of saying, "no idea". Ian then called over his colleague, Emma, who's responsible for the Art on the Network programme. I was reminded of a quote I read the other day, about blogging being all power and no responsibility, when she said "I understand you're not keen on the Grant Searl artwork?"

I managed to hold my own, I think, and I said that I really didn't like its positioning on Platform 2 - it competes and fights with Dream Passage. I did also say that I loved the other artwork, and the whole Art on the Network programme in general. Ian also explained about the riddles, hidden inside each painting; when all five are complete, the answer to the riddle will become clear. He said the actual solution is inside a safe at Merseytravel HQ right now, and I made a mental note to break out my leather all in one catsuit and burglars tools when I got home.

As we were talking, the speeches began, but sadly I was too far away to hear any of them, so I went out on the balcony for a bit of air. When they built the new Ferry Terminal, I remember thinking it was the wrong way round; the balcony was at the back, not overlooking the river. When I was up there though, I suddenly understood it. Firstly, there was hardly any wind, despite it being a blustery January night - the main block of Matou shielded it perfectly. Secondly, the view was beautiful. The three buildings of the Pier Head, high above me, glowing in the light (well, two of them were; the Cunard Building's currently covered in sheeting). It was awe-inspiring.

The speeches had all finished by the time I got inside, and a comedian was up there, telling jokes I couldn't hear instead. At that point, someone else introduced themselves to me. "Hello, I'm Mark. I'm the man responsible for the square loop on the map."

I don't know what went through my head at that moment, but I'm sure the word bollocks was in there somewhere. I wanted to just crawl away and die.

Fortunately, Mark was a very nice bloke, and he explained the rationale behind the square: there's a surfeit of tourists getting on at Lime Street, thinking they can go round and round the loop, and ending up in Birkenhead. The square was his initial suggestion as a way of making it clearer, but as he said, he's an engineer and he planned it out on Excel; he assumed the design team would make it look great. Instead, they just shoved a square on the map. He wasn't happy with it. Phew. Plus he's the man responsible for the line diagrams that are all over the place, which I love.

We had a good old chat, actually, about different design standards for the network, and the influence of Harry Beck's Underground diagram. I recommended he get Mark Ovenden's Metro Maps of the World, and actually I'd recommend it to anyone - it's a great read, and not too geeky.

Rudi came over again, and said he liked the blog, then Matt asked me how I felt about being mentioned in Bart's speech?

"Eh?" I replied. Yup, apparently, HRH Bart Schmeink had actually told the room that I was there, but I hadn't heard it because I was at the back. Thank God, is all I can say, because I probably would have become the first person to cringe themself to death otherwise.

And then I was recognised again, by Steve, who manages the guards on the Wirral Line. I was actually starting to enjoy it, like the big old fame whore I am. It was nice to have other people making the effort to talk to me, because otherwise I'd just have hidden away and been silent all evening, and everyone was very complimentary about my blog. It was also nice that people seemed to read the blog for its entertainment value, not just in case I said something rude about Merseyrail. Steve and I had a chat, and he introduced me to Natalie, who's a newly appointed internet wiz; we talked about how she wants to really increase the web presence, and embrace social networks, and all sorts of exciting sounding things.

It was getting towards eight o'clock, and the party was thinning out, and I had to go home and get some dinner. There was lots of lovely looking finger food on display, but my tense stomach had twisted itself into a figure eight and there was no way I'd be able to swallow food. I just had one more thing to do: meet Bart Schmeink.

For the first time that evening, I went up to someone and introduced myself. And he recognised me! Really, by this point, I was starting to feel like Angelina Jolie, but without the breasts. Or Brad Pitt, unfortunately. What followed was a bit of a mutual appreciation society - we both said nice things about one another, we had a bit of a talk, he offered to buy me a drink - it was all very pleasant. And then he gave me his card, which was a silly move on his part. It's a bit like From Russia With Love, where Bond unknowingly invites Grant into his cabin on the Orient Express - he seems nice, but he's actually a raging nutcase underneath. (Please note: I'm the stalking nutcase in this scenario).

Well, nothing could match up to that, so I made a swift exit, behind two ladies. One of them turned to me and said, "I hope you're going to write nice things about us!" and I burbled some kind of reply through my blushes.

When I got outside, and I was halfway across the Pier Head, I just stopped and laughed. Really laughed. It was one of the strangest nights of my life but I'm glad it happened. I can't say I've overcome my party fears, but heck, I had a good time. That's something at least. Thanks to Merseyrail for the invite, and for being so nice. You didn't have to but you did, and you just went up about twenty notches in my estimation. (Yes, I'm that easily bought).

Corporate Whore

Here's a little New Year viewing for your Bank Holiday. It's a Merseyrail corporate video, plugging their general amazingness to all and sundry. It's a pretty interesting ten minutes. My thoughts can be summarised thus:

1) Pretty overhead shots!
2) Bart Schmeink! Bart Schmeink speaking! Bart Schmeink being as wonderfully Dutch as I hoped he'd be!
3) Mention of the popular Christmas Cracker promotion. Whoops.
4) Footage from the Merseyrail New Year's party. Where was my invite, eh?
5) Lots of shots of pretty ladies going to the races, if you like that sort of thing.

With thanks to Robert, as is usually the case for this sort of thing...

Round Up

***beep beep, beep beep, beep beep, beep beepity beep***

That was me doing an exciting news theme. It still needs a little work.

There's been a few exciting Merseyrail related news stories floating around the last few days, so I thought I'd do a quick rundown, interspersed with my usual ill-informed comment. Just for your delectation.

1) Four Trains an Hour to Chester

It's been a long time coming but yes, from December 13th, there will be a train between Chester and Liverpool every quarter of an hour. That is of course a doubling of the service, and means there's a whopping six trains an hour between Hooton and Birkenhead once you add in Ellesmere Port.

To squeeze in the extra services, they've had to cut something - and that poor victim is Capenhurst. The little station with the big nuclear plant will still have half hourly services, with the trains running through it on the other services. Bache was also rumoured to be skipped at one point, but fortunately for students of the Mandy Richardson University of Chester, that hasn't happened. Good news all round!

Of course I'd have been a lot happier if they'd brought these extra services in eight years ago when I worked in Chester, but apparently Merseyrail don't do their timetables just for my convenience.

Even more excitingly, you can win a weekend break to celebrate it. Whoo-hooo indeed.

2) No More Christmas Crackers

They giveth, and they taketh away. This year there won't be a Christmas Cracker promotion - the £1 fare on Thursday nights and Sundays. The reason, according to Bart Schmeink, is that the promotion was introduced to encourage people to use the network. Now apparently, everyone's using the network, so the £1 fare just causes overcrowding and a lot of hassle.

I can see their point. There was many a time when I forgot the promotion was on and ended up with my head rammed in someone's armpit on my way into town (and not in a good way). Liverpool's changed, as well; Liverpool ONE's given us late night shopping every night, not just Thursdays.

But I bet there's an awful lot of people who won't use Merseyrail, and will instead drive into the dozens of new parking spaces in the city to do their shopping instead. Shame.

3) Central Station

This isn't strictly news, because it's been planned for yonks, but a video has surfaced on the net for the new Central Village development. This is the plan for new shops and leisure facilities to be built on what was the railway lands behind the old Central Station, rendered defunct with the opening of the Link and Loop in the Seventies.

I can't quite get my head around the fact that there's a whole load of prime real estate sitting behind Bold Street that's untouched, but there you are: it exists, and it's slowly coming to life with a multi-storey car park under construction at the top of the development even as we speak.

The next part to be built will take in the old Lewis' building and will incorporate Central itself, with escalators up to the development. It's right at the start of the video:

Exciting, innit? And I like that the new M to Go building has taken into account the positioning of the escalators, to hopefully minimise inconvenience and stop the whole thing from having to be reconstructed again (though there's bound to be some hassle).

Apparently funding is in place so construction could start very soon. Fingers crossed.

4) Electricity

This has been covered elsewhere by railway writers far cleverer than me, so I'll just say: electrification, yay! Quicker services to Manchester, Preston and, er, Blackpool, yay! Higher train fares, ya- oh shit. Still at least we'll get lots of new trains for our services. Hmmm.

THAT WAS THE NEWS. I should do this full time. I'd teach Bill Turnbull a few tricks.

A Golden Day

The recent foray into the old maps of Merseyside's railways got me thinking about the history of the network and, more particularly, what's been lost. Liverpool and the Wirral have always been blessed with train routes; it's one of the reasons we still have a good network today. It hasn't stopped the closure of some lines however.

Principal among these was the West Kirby to Hooton line. Opened in 1886, this line curved up along the west of the peninsula, taking in the likes of Parkgate and Heswall on its way to the terminus at West Kirby. Unlike its brother line on the east coast, this meant it passed through a lot of rural communities, small places without much of a commuter base; it also failed to reach any major destinations, and almost inevitably it closed completely in 1962. Almost nothing remains of the line; it's been turned into the Wirral Way, though a station has been preserved at Hadlow Road, which I visited years ago.

I was curious to see what remained of the terminus. At West Kirby, the Hooton branch had its own station, just a single platform off to one side of the electrified lines, with a goods yard separating the two. I thought, as it was a nice April day, I'd take a trip out there to have a poke around.

West Kirby was one of the first stations I did, three years ago, and I was curious to see how it was getting on. I'm pleased to say that it's a very pretty little station, with a nice glass atrium area at its centre. The last time I was here the shop units were vacant; now there's a toy shop, and a stripped pine and frappucino coffee shop with outdoor seating spilling over into the station area. Pleasingly, the cafe is accessible from the street and the station itself, giving the building a little dose of activity and life. Out on the pavement the Victorian building looked good, just as a small town terminus should, though I'm forced to ask - exactly how difficult is it to fix a clock? A good station clock in such a prominent place should be maintained and loved. Surely these days it's not too difficult to do? We can put a man on the moon, etc.

Stopped clock or not, it's still a lot better than its neighbour. After the station closed, and the goods yard went too, the council took over the unused land and built a civic centre there. A council office, a library, a health centre, a leisure centre and a fire station were all put onsite. To tie these disparate buildings together, they decided to stick with one architectural style. That style was "breathtakingly awful public convenience".

It's a marvel, isn't it? It's like someone saw the Royal Festival Hall and decided to copy it on a local authority budget. Then ran out of cash halfway through. West Kirby is a very pretty town, and the stained white tiles of the Concourse building are incredibly jarring. I have a kind of grudging admiration for their brutality and ugliness, but the idea that they may soon be replaced and rebuilt doesn't fill me with sadness.

I skirted the building, heading south along Orrysdale Road, which was created when the old railway went. I was heading for the railway bridge at the throat of the line, which used to host a junction which enabled traffic to move between the two branches (but was in reality barely used). From there I could get an idea of just what a huge site had once been devoted to the railways.

Everything left of the current station was given over to trains. Walking round the quiet town now, it's amazing to think that such a vast quarter of it had once been busy with steam engines, timber yards and industry. It's like Stratford Upon Avon used to have a nuclear power plant at its centre; it doesn't seem feasible.

I headed back into town through a green space which had once been a trackbed. There's very little remaining of the old station, a few walls, some contours in the ground. The trees planted here with the redevelopment have matured and were just starting to bud alongside a bank of daffodils. I paused; perhaps the Concourse would look better when viewed through nature in this way?

Yeah, maybe not.

The West Kirby to Hooton line came at the site from the opposite direction to the Birkenhead trains, so I crossed the road and headed for the Wirral Way. A nice signpost and information board pointed the way into this little oasis of green. I stepped onto the path and it almost immediately fell silent; so strange how sometimes you can move away from the town with just the slightest movement. The houses along here would once have been buffeted by noise and chaos from the trains - now they had trees, and greenery out their back windows. I bet there were a fair few householders who saw a sharp rise in their investment when they sold on.

It being a spring day in the Easter holidays, I wasn't alone on the footpath. There were families out strolling, dog walkers, cyclists - even a couple of horse riders at one point. I was being stalked by a woman on a bike, which was a bit disconcerting because she clearly could have overtaken me if she wanted, but for some reason she refused to. Perhaps she just liked staring at my arse.

The path passed through Ashton Park, and I walked underneath what once would have been the only connection between the two sides of the railway line. The tennis courts on one side and the lake on the other were separated by the railway; with its closure, they had been allowed to grow together again, and the trees and bushes had smeared the division between them. The bridge had been made redundant as the park's users formed their own muddy footpaths as they crossed from one side to the other. It did provide one key service now: somewhere for the local teenagers to hang out, looking sullen and pretending they were bored. Why do teenagers always have to hang out somewhere? I mean, they never just pick a random wall in the middle of an avenue - they always cling to a landmark, like a bridge, or a tree, or a corner. I used to loiter round a green BT junction box when I was growing up. Teenagers are like the human equivalent of pigeons.

I had no intention of walking the length of the Wirral Way. I had things to do, for starters, and besides which, it goes for miles. Instead I came off at the next bridge, which had once been home to Kirby Park station. Kirby Park was about as simple a station as you can get; a platform with a ramp going up to the street, and a coal siding. There was only one track here, though they optimistically built the road bridge big enough for two. Fat chance. Again, there's practically nothing to see, apart from the gap in the fence at the road level which was once the route to the platform.

I had a meander back into town ahead of me now, but I didn't mind. It was a lovely day, really bright and fresh, and I was glad I'd left my coat at home (I wasn't so glad when I got back that evening and realised my door keys were in my coat pocket, meaning I had to sit in the garage for an hour and a half waiting for the Bf to return). I did at one point consider going back to conscript a couple of those teenagers though:

Come ON, youth of West Kirby - a simple application of magic marker and you can make that "Maddona [sic] Drive". Where's your drive to commit acts of petty vandalism? Why aren't you altering road signs to commemorate pop legends? I suppose you're all studying for GCSEs and having part time jobs and being productive members of society. Kids today, tch.

Growing up in the Home Counties, I never really saw the sea; it was something reserved for special days out to Brighton (we couldn't afford holidays, either). It still comes as a surprise to me to realise how close I am to water. The Dee estuary grew larger as I followed Sandy Lane to the parade and the Marine Lake, and there was the diamond glint of the water in the sun, and the rugged peaks of Wales across the other side of the bay. The low tide created a vista of golden sand pockmarked with pools. I love my home, and I wouldn't move for the world, but looking out at that view I became envious of the householders who woke up to that every morning.

I relaxed my walk, taking "promenade" literally, and strolling alongside the lake towards the town proper. Again, there were families crowding round me, little girls wearing heelies scooting ahead, toddlers trying out their bikes with stabilisers. Pensioners had installed themselves on the benches and in the shelters, sitting beside one another and not needing to speak as they watched the light dance on the surface of the lake. There were a couple of windsurfers, but there wasn't much of a wind, so they moved idly around, seemingly as lazy and quiet as the rest of us. I gained a strange pleasure from watching people just enjoying their surroundings - they weren't here to go to the arcades or the funfair or any of the other cheap amusements you get at the "seaside". An ice lolly on a bench is about as exciting as West Kirby gets. It's a coastal town where the coast itself is the prize, and I love it.

Back into town though, past a cafe called Lattetude (I can't decide if that's awful or genius); past the famous branch of Boots where Glenda Jackson used to work (can you imagine trying to return an item without a receipt and finding her behind the counter? One Elizabeth I glare and you'd be scuttling back behind the Lemsips). I had a scout round Linghams bookshop, but to be honest I'd been put off by the display on the environment in the window which featured a book called Global Warming and Other Bollocks. Plus, it failed the Fleming Test, where I go in and check how many James Bond books they have instore; all they had was Devil May Care, the terrible Sebastian Faulks novel, so I turned on my heel and left without bothering with their local book section. I continued on to the Dee Hotel, a Wetherspoons pub which I can safely declare is one of the finest drinking establishments in the UK. Not only is it clean and tidy, not only do they have leather sofas, not only do they have free wi-fi, but most importantly, the barmaid asked me if I was over 18. When you reach your thirties, you'll take what you can get.

For once, I wasn't drinking alone. As payback for supplying me with all those signs, I'd offered to give Jamie and Chris a respite from the powdered eggs to buy them a drink. Not only are the two of them rail enthusiasts - making me look like a rank amateur, to be frank - but Chris actually works for Merseyrail. Indeed, Chris is the voice of recorded system messages in the stations: if a bomb goes off in Hamilton Square, it'll be Chris' honeyed tones that guide you to the exits (assuming you still have any legs). He's worked on the railway for over thirty years, and was able to regale me with tales of Merseyrail past and present. They suggested that I could cut a load of time off the Merseytart project by wandering up the stairs in their house, which apparently is covered in station signs, and Chris spoke of his ambition to have a signal in his back garden (Jamie's face at this point strongly indicated that this will happen at roughly the same time our robot overlords put us to work in the spice mines). Most important of all, they have met my hero, Bart Schmeink, and confirmed that not only is he very Dutch and very nice, but he's also roughly eight feet tall. Fantastic.

It was a great afternoon, and the conversation took in a lot more than just Merseystuff, some of which isn't suitable for publication on a family blog. Finally it was time to go home, and they presented me with a gift:

My very own Merseyrail mug! I was ridiculously excited, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Now I can finally have Merseytea. On the back there's a handy rundown of Merseyfacts, which I presume was put there as an aide memoire for staff every time some wanker turned up to complain about "Miseryrail". Even I was cynical about some of the facts but Chris assured me, yes, they're all true (or at least they were when the mug was fired).

So in short, I had a look at some old train stations, walked down a country path, paraded along the coast, and topped it off with a few pints in good company, culminating in my own souvenir of the network. Life can be awful sometimes, and the world can be a horrible place, but it's not all bad. There are plenty of nice bits left.

Bi-Curious

Today is the 2nd anniversary of this blog.  Yay blog!  Frankly I didn’t think it’d still be here two years later.  I thought either I’d have lost interest and found something else to do with my time, or else I’d have collected the whole of the Merseyrail map and have started a new blog (I’m thinking Round the Maldives We Go – two years trying out the various beaches). 

Instead I’m still plodding along, and I’m pleased.  Pleased I had the staying power to blog all this time, and for that I have to thank you, Faithful Readers.  There’s a lot of pleasure in writing, but there’s just as much pleasure in being read, and I’m always happy when people comment, praise and correct my railway terminology (yes Robert, I mean you).  So thank you.

I’m also pleased that the project isn’t complete yet, because I’m really enjoying it, as both a physical and a metaphorical journey.  It’s been fun, and it’s been fascinating, and at times it’s just been bloody bizarre.  And there’s still more to come!

I’ll stop now, before this turns into a Halle Berry Oscar speech.  I was thinking I’d celebrate the biannual birthday with a bit of tarting but, as I mentioned in my last post, I’m actually off work sick at the moment, so I couldn’t get out there.  Instead I’m going to celebrate with a list of five Merseyrail related things I have enjoyed over the past two years.  These are mainly oddities that I’ve wanted to mention previously, and haven’t been able to slot into the blog. 

1)  Judgemental Religious Posters

I’m a committed atheist, and have been for years.  I have absolutely no problem with religious people, of whatever faith, so long as they don’t try and convert me or condemn me to the pits of damnation or anything.  Whatever floats your boat.

However this has left a little void within me.  The problem with being an atheist is you don’t get any theatre: no christenings, no weddings, no Nativity of the Theotokos.  As a result I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with certain bits of the religious world.  Nuns, for example; there is nothing which cannot be improved through the addition of a nun – no street scene, tv programme, or film.  Nuns are great.  I also love crucifixion statues, particularly very bad ones; and I like religious posters.  There’s a particularly magnificent one at Leicester Square tube station which I could stare at for hours.  Merseyrail can’t compare with that glorious insanity, but fortunately the Trinitarian Bible Society give us the next best thing.

Love it.  I like a bit of wrath of God on my commute; this was on the Wirral Line at Liverpool Central. 

This one – slightly blurred, thanks to Beezlebub jogging my arm as I took it – was at Lime Street underground, and cheered me every morning, though it’s a bit wishy washy.  I might write to them and request a REPENT SINNERS OR WE’LL DELAY THE ELLESMERE PORT TRAIN at Moorfields.  That would be ace.

2)  Neurotic next train indicators that blatantly lie

“Oh dear, I’ve said that the next train at Birkenhead Park will be in three minutes, and it’s late.  That will annoy everyone on the platform when I change to say five minutes.  What I’ll do is tick down to two minutes, and just leave it there.  I won’t count down any further.  Then, after it’s said ‘two minutes’ for ages, and the people are getting antsy, I’ll change it to ‘Here’ just as the train comes round the curve.  They’ll all be so pleased to see the train, they’ll completely forget my fib.”

3)  The new line diagrams

These have showed up on the walls at the underground stations, along with a load of attractive grey and yellow signs, and they’re something I’ve been dying for Merseyrail to have for years: a simple diagram showing the stations the train will call at.  Merseyrail have actually improved on the London Underground model though, by showing you how many minutes it’ll take to get to your destination.

When they first appeared, the Bf, deeply cynical soul that he is, doubted the timings on the poster.  I’m pleased to say that they were spot on, and our trip from James Street to Birkenhead Park did in fact take seven minutes.  I’m even more pleased because he was then forced to buy chips for doubting me (I can be very harsh).

4)  M to Go

I’m guessing these haven’t gone down as well as the bosses at Merseyrail would have liked: combined shops and ticket counters at Moorfields, Hamilton Square and Southport.  This is apparently common on Dutch railways, but the trial must have been a failure as NedRail’s idea to roll it out over “15 to 30” stations seems to be a thing of the past.  Maghull and Hooton are, as far as I’m aware, still without the shops. 

Still, it’s a good, innovative idea, the shops are clean and presentable, and it’s nice to buy a ticket, a Coronation Chicken sandwich and a Solero from a person without yelling through 20 inches of plexiglass.  It’s a bit of humanity.  I’d like to see a few more.  

5) Bart Schmeink

Bart is the managing director of Merseyrail, and I’m mentioning him here for two reasons.  Firstly, that’s a fabulous name.  It’s so Dutch it’s practically orange, and I’ve been trying to think of a way to crowbar it into the blog for ages.  Secondly, he’s doing a very good job.  I really like Merseyrail: it’s a great network, run by efficient, clean trains that you can pretty much always rely on.  The staff are usually smiley and polite in their blue and yellow uniforms (though there aren’t enough hot young gay men working for them.  A bit of eye candy is always appreciated).  The stations are (mostly) staffed from dawn till dusk, and have heritage features restored with modern adaptations.  Things have certainly improved since Serco/NedRail took over the franchise, and now we can just draw a quiet veil over the whole A***a period.  I whinge about them through this blog, but it’s always said with love, like when you complain about your mother (well, maybe not my mother).  Thank you Bart, thank you Merseyrail, and thank you readers for making the last two years pretty darn great.