The Perils of Good Living

I was out bright and early. It was a Friday flex day and I was raring to go. I was heading for the City Line, taking full advantage of the more regular weekday services, so I got on a train and headed out, out, out to the very edge of the Merseyrail area: Garswood.

I was following my City Line principle of going to the end and coming back on myself, so I had to get a slow train, which was infuriating. There were five stations planned for today's jaunt: I was going to get off at Garswood, then back on the next train once the station was collected. Off at St Helens, on at Thatto Heath, off at Eccleston Park, and then on again at Prescot and home. It'd take me the best part of the day, train timings permitting, but it would mean I could wipe out that whole branch.


What was particularly annoying was seeing every station go past. It was like a preview of coming attractions, and it was spoiling the surprise. I tried to mentally erase each station and, when that didn't work, I looked out for features I might want to come back to and study in more detail.


I had no idea what to expect at Garswood; I wasn't even sure where it was. I'd looked on the map, and it seemed to be way too far out to be Merseyside. The little bit of the town that I saw, around the station, didn't feel Merseyside-ish either. It felt like Lancashire, proper Lancashire, with cobbles and gruff blustery men and everything. There was a row of neat little houses, and a small corner shop, where a bought a bottle of water from the most pleasant woman. Seriously; she positively beamed at me, great dazzling white teeth, and she said goodbye with a spring in her voice.
There were two station buildings, one on each platform - an old one on the Liverpool platform, and a new gleaming one on the Wigan one. But that was it; there wasn't much to write home about. So it was back on the train and on to St Helens.


This was going to be the highlight for me, and it was what I had been looking forward to. I was aware that the somewhat manky old St Helens Central station had received a makeover, with a new building and so on, but I hadn't expected it to be this good. For a start it had 2 ALFs, with different attractions on each:





(Do you think someone should tell him he's sucking the wrong end of that lollipop?) The station had been completely rebuilt in gleaming glass and steel, and dripped modernity and 21st century chic - I loved it. It fulfilled my usual rants about investing in public transport. My only surprise was how small St Helens Central actually was. There were only two platforms, which surprised me; I assumed it was a bit of an major interchange. It looks like it was, once, but the other platforms are now covered in grass and weeds.




Outside, the massive glass wings of the station couldn't fail to impress. There was a waiting area on one side, and on the other, there was the ticket office and - shockingly - a toilet. Public toilets? In this day and age?!?! I romped happily for a bit, snapping away, before heading into town.

And this is where things went a bit awry. As I got off the train at St Helens Central, I got a text from my mate Mike, who lives and works in the town. It was 11:30, so naturally thoughts turned to lunch... and suddenly tarting was on the back burner.



I'm sorry for deserting my duty. But Thatto Heath became a lot less of an interesting prospect once Mike and I had gorged on food and lager. It was one of the best steaks I've had in my life: Le Frog - tell them I sent you, and they will just nod in a bemused fashion. We caught up on various bits and bobs - mostly his love life, which is a world of endless variety - and then he showed me St Helens one and only gay bar. It's like the Phoenix Club, only with pictures of gay icons on the walls. Being a metropolitan gay who grew up near London and now lives in another big city, I'd forgotten how desperately provincial and depressing small gay clubs could be. No wonder young gays are always running away to the Big Smoke.


I had a wander round the town, and I have to say - good show, St Helens; I was very impressed. It was a nice, pleasing little town centre, with a great open square in front of the church, and jammed full of shops and shoppers. It was a great mix of Victorian bombast and Sixties planning and 21st century regeneration.



Lunch done, and feeling fat and happy, I whacked Elvis Costello on the iPod and headed back to the station. So the rest of the branch will have to wait for another day. I'm pleased that I knocked off the extremities, and very pleased indeed that I finally got to see the new building. It doubles my anticipation of what they have done to Bootle Oriel Road and Sandhills - now I can't wait to visit them.

Whippin' (Everywhere Except) Piccadilly

So: a trip to Manchester for work. It was just a meeting with our software people, a complete waste of time really, but it got me out of the office so I shouldn't complain. I almost didn't make it due to a mental block which convinced myself my train was at ten past nine, rather than ten to: it meant that I ended up running across the concourse at Lime Street like an idiot.

(Incidentally, regular readers may have noticed that I keep passing though Lime Street without ever collecting at, and perhaps are wondering why I don't just pull my finger out and cross it off the list. My reasoning is thus: even though you have to pass through one set of ticket barriers at the lower level station and another at the main line station, I count them as one large station complex, and so as I do not leave station property, that does not count as a correct tart. I know that's not accurate, really, but it's my blog so I'll do what I want).

I got off the train at Manchester Oxford Road, which is the Manchester station as far as I'm concerned. Just as Moorfields is "my" Liverpool station, Oxford Road is "my" Manchester Station; it's the one I always use when I go to the city, it's a few steps away from the fabulous Cornerhouse complex, and it's a quite beautiful building. Built in the 60s, it has an epic sweep to it, sort of Scandinavian in feel (must be all that wood). Unfortunately the installation of ticket gates has sort of mucked up the interior, but it's worth seeing any day of the week.

Irritatingly, the large Oxford Road sign that can be seen from the street was covered with scaffolding, so I captured the station using a nearby sign. Suit!

My meeting was in the Town Hall, so I wandered off into the city. Full disclosure: I don't really like Manchester. I find it a bit of a confusing mess. It has grand, impressive buildings, and its regenerated districts are brilliantly done, but it just doesn't fit together in my head, and so somehow I end up lost. This is a rarity for me, as I usually have a very good internal compass - you can pretty much drop me anywhere in London and I'll be able to work out where I am and what direction to walk in to get somewhere. Manchester feels like Dark City, where the buildings shift around when no-one's looking.

Example: while walking into the city centre, I was suddenly gripped by an urge. I spotted G-Mex to my left, which has recently been rebranded as Manchester Central as an homage to its former life as Manchester Central station. The opportunity for historical tarting was too much to miss so I nipped down the side street and had a look. It's now a convention centre, and seems to have been beautifully done. The epic clock is still keeping time above the entrance, and a Metrolink stop maintains the transport link.

In an ironic twist, the mothballed station was now playing host to a convention of car parking suppliers, so the foyer welcomed me to Parkex (complete with grass covered parking meter - whose idea was that?). My suit had bought me entry to the building, but I didn't have a pass to go into the main convention space, and the security guard was looking at me suspiciously for not wholeheartedly embracing the parking experience, so I ducked out again.

I was now on a street which I knew, theoretically, was parallel to Oxford Road, so I figured I'd soon be by the Town Hall; but Manchester did one of its shifts while I was inside the G-Mex, and I soon realised I was heading in completely the wrong direction. Some handy pedestrian signs pointed me in the right direction, and soon I was going where I should be.

Thanks to the hopelessly inefficient woman at work who had booked my train tickets, I still had three quarters of an hour before my meeting. Why not capture another train station, just out of curiosity, while I was there? So I headed for Victoria.

Why Victoria, and not Piccadilly? Well, I'd never been there for a start. Plus I'd always felt a bit sorry for it - it seemed to be completely ignored in favour of its more famous brother.

Initial signs weren't good. The building looked more than a little bit shabby, certainly in comparism with the stunning Urbis building opposite. Inside though, it was a bit of a gem - a work in progress, yes, but going the right way.

By being the ignored, younger sibling in the Manchester railway station family, Victoria had managed to hang on to some of its original features. A wonderful, wood panelled row of ticket windows (with, sadly, only one open window); a domed refreshment room/bookstall complex.

It was undergoing building work, and the signs said that the "bookstall" would soon be the new passenger information desk. I hope it's done sympathetically and isn't a mess of plasma screens and raspberry settees. The platforms were dark and dingy, as the MEN Arena was built over the top of it in the 80s, but by then I didn't care; I'd spotted a tiled map in one of the entrance ways.

The Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway; what a beautiful map, and how evocative! I could have stood and stared at it all day. I wonder how many of those lines are still in existence? Staring at it summoned up images of steam driven journeys but bewhiskered Victorian gents, day trips to the coast resorts (prominently displayed for your convenience), the smell of coal, the rustle of crinoline. I focussed on the Liverpool section, and was ridiculously pleased to see some tarted destinations; Aintree, Maghull, Formby, Ormskirk and Freshfield, while New Brighton was still such a draw that it was indicated on the map even though there was no line there.

A school party of excitable eight year olds disturbed me, and reminded me that I had a job to do, so I snapped a shot outside the main entrance and continued on my way. It was too late for me to get Piccadilly as well, now; that would have to wait. That's the thing about collecting stations. Once you've started you can't stop yourself. Even on the train in, I had been studying the station buildings, considering my options if I ever (for what reason, I don't know) decided to become a Manchester Tart (by which I mean visiting its train stations, rather than transforming myself into a dessert).

One boring meeting later, and I was on the train home. But there was one last shock for me. The station was fast through most of Liverpool, but it did stop at Mossley Hill. Which is when I turned my head, looked out the window and gasped. Literally gasped.

There on the platform was an ALF. It hadn't been there when I visited in January. There it was taunting me.

Quickly I did some mental calculations. I could jump off the train to take a picture... but I needed to get home in a hurry, as I had things to do, so I couldn't risk the doors closing and leaving me there. To not capture it would annoy me, and to capture it without actually stepping on station property would annoy me even more. The doors seemed to have stayed open for an awfully long time. Did I have time? Did I?

I decided not to risk it. Instead I pressed myself up against the glass and took a pic through the window. It's not the same, I know, but I had to get that picture. It does raise an intriguing question though: is there anywhere else I've already visited, which has subsequently acquired an ALF? I'm appealling to you readers - if you're out and about and you spot a bunch of workmen installing a new sign, please, let me know. No ALF shall be uncollected!

Revenge of the Map Rant

Why won't anyone listen to me? Over the last week or two a new Merseyrail map has appeared in stations. Regular readers may recall my tirade against the last version (http://merseytart.blogspot.com/2008/02/map-rant.html if you want to remind yourself of the full insanity). Well, fasten your seatbelts, because the new one is even worse.

Apologies for the quality of the following pics, as they were all taken by my camera in front of a sign.

Good news: they've got rid of that awkward angled shape to represent the loop.
Bad news: they've replaced it with a FUCKING SQUARE.

I mean, just LOOK at it. It's ridiculous. It's called the "loop" line, fellas. That implies, oh, I don't know, a "loop" shape. Not a FUCKING SQUARE. Even as they've come up with this design, they've had to compromise it; the corners are rounded, and instead of four direction arrows, they now have to use eight (in a further design inconsistency, some are inside the square, some are outside it). I really cannot understand this.

In his excellent, though slightly terse book Underground Maps after Beck, Maxwell J Roberts bemoans the tendency of the newer maps of the Tube to introduce more and more curves. The Northern Line, for example, has acquired a few more bends and curves to try and remove any implication that the West End branch is more important than the City branch. I can see his point - the simpler the line, the easier to use the map is, and the easier it looks like the journey will be.


By turning the loop into a FUCKING SQUARE, Merseyrail have managed to make the journey from James Street to Lime Street look longer than it was. They've contrived two more twists which stop it from looking like a relatively direct route. And leaving that aside, it's ugly. Right angles should have no place on a route line; the Underground map prefers far gentler curves, and only employs right angles at the corners of the Hainault loop and the Circle line. Those are much, much larger loops than the Liverpool City one, and can take the twist. It doesn't work here.

So what else is new on the map? Well, Sandhills is still in red, because its projected opening date has now slipped to July (which is presumably why this new map was comissioned). After my criticism of the decision to highlight this closed station in red - therefore making it look even more important - Merseyrail's graphic designers have taken effective action. They've made it even more prominent by giving it an interchange circle. And it's still closed!

In fact, they've gone a bit wild for interchange circles in this edition. On the old map, there were only about twelve circles: three in the city centre, then further circles only at points where another line physically intersected another - at Chester, Southport, and Liverpool South Parkway, for example.

Now interchange circles are used when there's a choice of lines. So Huyton, Hooton, Birkenhead North and Hamilton Square all acquire circles. The idea seems to be, if you're on a St Helens train (for example), you would change at Huyton to get to Whiston, so it gets a circle. Fair enough. But there's no circle for Kirkdale, even though this is the station before the Ormskirk/Kirkby split (and it is the station you are advised to change at by the on board announcer). This is even sillier considering Sandhills is closed, so you can't swap lines there. The ridiculousness of putting the interchange circle on a closed station is obvious.

In addition, previous "end to end" interchanges become circles as well, so that's more circles at Ormskirk, Kirkby and Ellesmere Port. Then they've really run with that interchange idea, and given stations which are close together circles, with a little dotted line to connect them. In the case of the two Wigan stations (which had circles anyway) this makes perfect sense, as Wallgate and North Western are within spitting distance of one another.

At Burscough, though, it's just stupid. Burscough's a very small town which has two lines passing through it. But it's not that small, so the map suggests getting a bus between the two stations. I admire the effort to make this interchange clear to people, but if you're going to suggest people take a bus, why not show Upton/Hamilton Square as an interchange, since you can take a bus from one to the other? This is on top of the fact that the circles are the wrong size, and the angle between the two stations isn't at forty five degrees, and, most heinous of all, Burscough Bridge is shown using a circle and a tick. Deep breath.

The circle/tick surfaces in an even uglier form on the Wirral. Bidston's simultaneously an interchange, and not an interchange; it has a circle and a tick, but the two don't touch. The map makers seem to have this urge to show the curve of the Borderlands line, so that it runs parallel with the Wirral line for a bit; there's no need - just have it intersect with the Wirral line at a t-junction with a nice circle to denote the change. Don't give us this messy solution which creates a load of problems that weren't there before. Bidston is tricky, I know; some maps have shown it as a double circle, which makes it look even more important, and the double tick has never really been satisfactory. The t-junction is the only solution I can see that would work.

And by the way: note that Hamilton Square is no longer in capitals, but James Street is, even though the former is much more important to the network and a much more vital interchange point. (And also note that the bicycle at Bootle New Strand still goes into the River Mersey).


Anything else? Well, we've acquired two new lines. The map has been extended upwards to accomodate a branch to Blackpool from the City Line, for no apparent reason. I don't know why it's more important to show Blackpool North than, say, Manchester, especially since Blackpool South is shown as a branch but not coloured red, but there you go. It's also miles from the sea.


A second new line has been added at the bottom of the map, squeezed uncomfortably inbetween the Chester-Crewe and Helsby-Runcorn services. This one gives Hartford another interchange symbol, because apparently you can walk to Greenbank - though looking at Multimap, this looks like a longer walk than between the two Burscough stations. Plus Crewe's got a couple of extra branches.



All in all, it's a mess. Just the FUCKING SQUARE would be bad enough, but the rest makes it look horrific. I hope that this is an emergency map, produced because of Sandhills' delay, and they weren't really thinking about it. If this is the shape of things to come, I'm not happy. The map is Merseyrail; it's vitally important that it looks good and looks right, because people will judge the network on its success or failure. Please, Merseyrail, go back to your Apple Macs and think again...

Up the Kirk

So I got very, very drunk last Saturday. Actually, that's not quite true. The plan was to get very drunk round Jennie's house. Sadly, after four pints and a half a bottle of wine, my 31 year old brain decided it had had enough, and I nodded off on the sofa. DECREPIT.

Still, it was nice to see the old girl, and we had a good laugh and some chips, so what more could you want? Jennie lives in Parbold, which is on the map, but on a grey line so it doesn't count. I keep telling myself that anyway, though the temptation is always there. Parbold is a very sweet little village, with a train station and a canal and a great little deli-cum-cafe - go if you get the chance.

We went into Ormskirk on the Sunday morning for lunch. I have said before how this was where I studied, at (then) Edge Hill College, now a University, and so we had a poke around the campus before we wandered into town. It's amazing how much it has changed in ten years. The whole campus has doubled in size, with the sports pitches now built on. Buildings with Thunderbirds detailing and acronym names have sprouted out of the earth, while the bulldozers were busy demolishing the classroom where I had Writing Fiction seminars. The strangest part for me was when we wandered into the Venue, the college bar. The dance area smelt exactly the same, a sort of musky scent, no doubt the product of years of sweat and spilt lager, but so evocative. It flashed me back in an instant. The LRC (Learning Resource Centre, or Lurk) was still there too. When I lived on campus I used to spend my mornings waiting for the LRC to open, so that I could go in and play on the internet on the shared computers. That's how wild my student days were.

Ormskirk hasn't changed much, though it's been tarted up a bit. There's a big compass in the centre of the town, showing that Liverpool is to the south, Preston's to the north, Wigan's to the east and Southport's too the west, which has the unfortunate effect of reminding you of all the interesting places you could be instead of Ormskirk. It also has a Waterstone's now, which it never did in my day (thankfully; I had enough student debt as it was), but strangely none of the shops were open. Sunday trading doesn't seem to have caught on here.

I hadn't planned on collecting Ormskirk on this trip, because, as I said before, I wanted to make it a special journey. But I was there, and Jennie could be my photographer, removing the need for another nostril shot, so I did it anyway. She did say that I would have to come back, and I fully intend to; there are two more stations on this branch, so when I get them, I'll revisit Ormskirk for that full bathe in nostalgia.

It doesn't have a sign outside however. I think there may be a post up on the main road, but we got to the station through the "bus rail interchange" (i.e. an alleyway from the bus station down to the railway station) so there was nothing. I'll have a look on the return. In the meantime, here's me with a platform sign:

And for an added bonus, Ormskirk has an ALF. For the first time, we've gone orange, which is an interesting choice. By "interesting" I mean "unfortunate". Still, it's more than most stations could muster, so bless it for the effort.

The Northern Line was broken for track maintenance works, so I had a rail replacement bus from Kirkdale into town. The bus passed Sandhills on its way, so I craned my neck to see if there was any advance in the works; from what I could see, it still looks like a bomb site...

Precast Hun (thanks George!)

So it was a Wednesday, and I didn't want to go to work. I mean, I really, really didn't want to go. I was just miserable at the idea. I'd already left an hour later than usual, taking a rare opportunity to actually use some of my flexitime, and I was down. My job is actually getting worse, unbelievably. I didn't want to go.

Which is why, at Capenhurst, I found myself jumping out of my seat and disembarking. I needed a quick tart to pick me up!

I'd always been unsure how and when I was going to do Capenhurst. It's miles from anywhere, so once I got off, I was going to be waiting for the next train; there was no chance I could walk to another station. And it's not exactly scenic. This is another of those bus stop stations, just a couple of shelters and that's it. Another Cheshire station you see; no money.

So off I hopped in search of the station sign... and there isn't one. So sadly I had to crouch in front of a car park sign. The things I do for this blog. Nine in the morning and I'm squatting on tarmac.

And that was it. Nothing else to do for half an hour.

I had a bit of a wander round, but to be honest, I didn't want to look too conspicuous. Right next door to the station - the reason for its continued existence no doubt - is a massive plant operated by British Nuclear Fuels (or whatever they're called now). It has something to do with uranium, and that's as much as I want to know, thanks very much (and as much as I'll put on this blog). Given the hyper sensitive reaction of some authority figures (see http://tubewhore.livejournal.com/42140.html) to people just photographing a train station, I didn't want to inadvertantly capture the plant in shot and find the blog shut down under the official secrets act. The ludicrousness of all this, and the violation of basic elementary freedoms, are I think self-evident and require no further comment from me...

Action Adventure

There are some people who quite literally recoil in horror when I explain that I use public transport. They cannot believe that any civilised person would actually subject themselves to a journey with complete strangers. I may as well admit that I like sex with chihuahas; it carries the same abomination factor.

I like trains, and I like train journeys. I arrive at work relaxed and calm, having enjoyed (a) a seat where someone else is doing the driving (b) a constant stream of good music, uninterrupted by imbecilic breakfast DJs, thanks to my iPod and (c) a couple of dozen pages of a good novel (this week: The Long Firm). Isn't that better than being jammed in a Fiesta on the M53?

There are times when I see their point, though, and Thursday night was one of them. I was sat on the train, reading away while I listened to my iPod (cliche alert! - Dusty Springfield), and I was so caught up with it that I completely missed the altercation going on behind me. The raised voices were a sort of backdrop to I Only Wanna Be With You that I just wasn't processing. It was only when my neighbours leapt up and stared behind me that I realised there was a full blown ruckus in progress.

Self-preservation instincts kicked in, and I moved too. Two shaven headed men in their early twenties were, basically, smacking seven bells out of each other, though one was doing less well than the other. He was sprawled over the seat, while the other man repeatedly punched him in the face.

The train pulled into Green Lane, and a couple of people got off; but mostly people just stared. No-one moved to intervene. I found myself watching their faces. Some were nauseated, some were scared, but most people seemed to be enjoying it. A fair few were smiling. It was as though Merseyrail had put on some theatre for their entertainment.

The train left the station, and they were still at it; a fat teenage girl who was with them was shouting at them to stop, but not with any great passion or ferocity. It was that bored exclamation you let out when the dog sniffs something it shouldn't.

Cavalry! Four Merseyrail guards came through the carriage, and I wondered (a) who had told them and (b) are there always four guards on a train? It seems a bit excessive. The fighters spotted them before they arrived, and stopped immediately - they didn't quite adjust their clothes and whistle, but as near as dammit.

My role in the little show was at an end though, because it was Birkenhead Central, so I missed the men's defence. From what I saw, it appeared to be of the "ah, we're just having a laugh" variety.

The guilt washed over me as I left the station. Should I have intervened? The ferocity of their fight would have no doubt spilled onto any good samaritan, and I'm a coward at the best of times. Should I have contacted the guards? Actually I don't even know how you'd do that - is there such a thing as a communication cord on today's trains? It felt wrong, being on that train as two men engaged in violent, angry fisticuffs before our eyes - but there was nowhere to go.

It did make me rethink my pro-public transport stance, at least for a second. Though not as much as the man sat opposite me on Friday who spent the entire journey from Bache talking loudly into a handsfree mobile. He was well-dressed, obviously wealthy, but a thousand times more irritating to his fellow passengers than the battling baldies. But please go back to my original point: I love trains and I love train journeys. Besides, a little bit of bloody violence adds a frisson to your day!

The Cheshire Set

Another Sunday, and I say! We're orf into Cheshire, that well known county of monied types. How simply marvellous it is to go perambulating in a locomotive through the delightful rural scenery. What ho!

Except, of course, the reality is rather less glamorous. Just as Merseyrail's Merseyside stations sometimes reveal places of astonishing, surprising beauty instead of the expected urban mess(see West Kirby or Hightown), so these stations are unexpectedly grimy and filthy and dirty. The Wirral Line reaches down into the county and only touches the industrial world of Cheshire, and there's not a gymkhana in sight.

After fruitless attempts to renew my railpass at Green Lane (the computerised till wouldn't let me renew it on the 2nd, as it didn't run out until the 3rd - sigh) I took the first train south. Unfortunately it was a Chester train, so I had to get out at Hooton and loiter with MerseyTart intent.

Hooton's famous. Well, I say famous; it's appeared in print, in Bill Bryson's legendary Notes from a Small Island:

"Hooton offered the world not only a mildly ridiculous name, but the dumpiest British Rail station I ever hope to sneeze in."

I think Bill is being overly harsh here, but only because a rail replacement service meant he missed Rock Ferry. Yes, it's lacking on that country charm. It's a big junction, really, as the point where the Chester and Ellesmere Port lines split, and it's in the middle of nowhere, and is now largely important for park and ride purposes. It does, however, have an ALF, and therefore I will forgive it the worst of its sins. Who doesn't love a giant pine cone? The Wirral Country Park, as I have mentioned on previous occasions, is the former West Kirby-Hooton line - further reinforcing the station's "junction and not much else" status.

Hooton also has this pretty little laurel over its entrance (bastardised by Merseyrail colour demons as usual, but there you go), and... Oh I admit it. Hooton doesn't seem quite so bad because, basically, I know what follows. The rest of my day out was a steady descent downhill.

I should have taken the hint at Hooton. Out on the platform is a hint at the thwarted ambitions of the branch I was about to take, in the form of an old destination board. The Chester line is present and correct, but... Helsby? Back when electrification snaked its way down the Wirral, the intention was to send it all the way to Helsby, and the junction with the Warrington/Chester line. As usual though, ambition gave way to budget cuts, and now the whole thing's been pretty much abandoned. Beyond Ellesmere Port there's now a barely-there shuttle service which mainly services the oil terminals along the Mersey coast. It doesn't even have a Sunday service, so there was no hope of me extending my trip any further.

Instead, Little Sutton was next, and was initially promising. A station building, a pretty overbridge... but get up close and the truth was revealed.

The station building was resolutely, absolutely closed, bricked up and sealed from every angle. There would be no Bernard Cribbins-type station master here - just a rather depressing building to offer a little shelter to people hovering in the rain. And it's a shame, because it could be a nice building, and would certainly improve security on the line.

Now I don't want to sound all Jacqui Smith Sieg Heil Control Freak, but I believe that staffed stations are a very important factor in getting people to use the railways and enjoy using the railways. You instinctively feel a lot safer at a staffed station, and a lot more secure hanging around for a train. And from a revenue perspective, it's a lot more difficult to fare dodge. I'm willing to be that I was one of the few people on the trains on this branch who actually held a valid ticket: the rest are meant to purchase one from the ticket inspector, who didn't show up (it was Sunday, after all). Little Sutton wouldn't take too much effort - open up a passageway, a single office with a ticket window, and you're away. I'm not even going to advocate fare gates even though I think they are a God send and should be on every single station; just get a ticket office in there, and watch it pay for itself.

With the obligatory snap of the station behind me, I tootled off towards the next station. The weather today was what could technically be described as "crisp", but quite pleasant actually; clear blue skies, and no gloves required. It was lunchtime, and somehow everywhere acquired a rosy glow of Sunday pleasures; I passed a football game on a recreation ground, and walked around strolling pensioners on a perambulation (yes, fine, you're enjoying the day -just enjoy it faster, you're blocking the pavement). I couldn't quite smell Yorkshire pudding and beef, but I was certainly picturing it.

There have been a number of times on these trips when I've wandered through less, erm, salubrious areas in search of a station. Most times I've been aware of their reputation before I arrived, or have had some kind of indication that maybe I shouldn't wave my iPod about with gay abandon. This was the starkest change in tone I'd ever experienced though. There I was, happily wandering from Little Sutton in full Richard Briers mode, when bang! I turned a corner and suddenly I was in Overpool, and an episode of Shameless. It was literally a matter of turning a corner to find a street of mangy shops, with kids doing wheelies outside on BMXs, and run down rows of council houses. I was taken aback at the starkness of the change.

Overpool station was built in the 80s, and since it's not a Merseyside station, it was done on the cheap. Worse than Little Sutton's closed ticket office, they didn't even bother building one here, and the station sign is behind a high pointy fence - almost as if they're trying to protect it from the outsiders. The moss growing on the name doesn't bode well. I apologise for it being called "Over", but from the other side (a) the sun was hitting the sign full on, so you couldn't read the name at all (b) the BR symbol was even more green and grey than this one and (c) I was pulling a stupid face, so you'll have to put up with this. The fence gives it a good bit of urban grit though: a theme than continued when I went down to the platform to find two teenage girls lounging over the actually quite nice shelters on the platform, looking like Vicki Pollard.



Can I be brutal here? Can I ask why teenage girls insist on wearing pink velour tracksuits? I mean, first of all, it's pink; no-one who isn't Barbie looks good in that colour. Second, it's velour. Who wants to dress up as a Fuzzy Felt? And third, it's always too tight, so you can see every embarrassing pocket of baby fat on the girl, usually when it rides up to show their belly button piercing. I just want to grab them and shout, "You look awful! You are a pretty, attractive girl, and you are wearing this dreadful outfit! Don't you realise it makes you look common? Go buy a good pair of trousers and a casual top and you'll look amazing. Stop shopping in baby gro shops!"

Of course, I don't dare say that; instead I hide away from them further down the platform in case they decide to pick on the station spotter. At one point, one of the girls took a pic of her mate with her camera phone: I'd like to think they were collecting Overpool for their own website, but sadly it appeared that these true MerseyTarts were in fact using the shelter as a jungle gym and were displaying their athletic skills. No doubt there is a Facebook pic somewhere with me gurning disapprovingly and a caption of "OMG!!!! Totly luk @ that geek @ th bkgrnd!!!1!!! LMAO!!1!".


Like Bebington/Port Sunlight, I could actually see Little Sutton station from the platform, and so I got a good view of the train as it approached. It was deserted, but toasty warm, and the trip to Ellesmere Port was quick. Quick and disappointing.

I had been to Ellesmere Port station a couple of times before. Once with work, when I was too busy panicking slightly at the upcoming meeting to pay much attention to my surroundings, and another time, when I was too busy bleeding profusely to care where I was. Perhaps I should clarify that.

A few years ago - in fact I can tell you exactly when it was: 1999, because (BOND GEEK ALERT) The World Is Not Enough came out a couple of days later - I had to have all four of my wisdom teeth removed because they had decided to burst through my gums at comedy angles and were therefore chewing the inside of my face. My dentist was in Ellesmere Port, and after injecting me thoroughly with painkillers in my entire lower face, he extracted the teeth, gave them to me in a plastic bag, and sent me on my way. The girl on reception offered to get me a taxi but, being the brave hardy soul I am (read: stupid), I refused, as the train station was only a ten minute walk.

Off I trotted, impressed with my nonchalance at having four large teeth removed with barely a whimper, and strutting like John Wayne. It was only when I paused at a traffic light to scratch my chin, and came away with fingertips smeared with blood, that I realised that my ripped open gums were gushing blood and that in my drugged up state I couldn't feel it running all down my face like Lestat on a bender. I walked the rest of the way - and endured the rest of the journey home - with my head tipped back forty five degrees so that the blood flowed backwards instead of down my face. I thought it was extremely amusing at the time - probably due to the drugs - but God help the poor person who sat opposite me and saw a red-jawed grinning imbicile. They're probably still in therapy.

So this was my first visit while in a rational state of mind, and oh dear. You will no doubt have detected my disappointment when they can't scrounge up an ALF at a station. Well, here's the thing about Ellesmere Port: it doesn't even have a station sign. I searched all around the building, and there wasn't a single one. There were a couple of disappointing BR signs on the overbridge, but neither of them said Ellesmere Port, so I had to settle for a platform sign. Rubbish.


And speaking of rubbish, we had another closed ticket office. Sorry: it does open, but only for weekday mornings. That's actually worse than not having a ticket office at all. Ellesmere Port is the end of the line, and it should have a bit of occasion about it, and instead, it's just... well... shit. That's all I can say. Ellesmere Port is a shit station. I mean, look at the "s" in tickets - is this an episode of Oh Doctor Beeching! symbolising the neglect of the railways or what? I half expected the letter to fall off when I took the pic, possibly onto Su Pollard's head.

This is what happens when you don't have a decent Passenger Transport Executive taking control. If Ellesmere Port were in Merseyside, it would be staffed, have a good, secure car park, and feature platform finger boards showing the next train. I'm not saying it would be St Pancras International, but it might aspire to be Kirkby. When I got on the train home, once again, I thanked goodness I didn't live in Cheshire. You can take your Cheshire Life; I'll stick with the Scousers.