Zach Beauvais

Unfavourable rail network numbers

// April 29th, 2008 // Comments // travel

I have come to the conclusion, after being without a car for five years, that travel by rail in the UK is just about the most infuriating process you can undertake on a regular basis. Every day, one of my 6 train journeys to or from work will fail in some way or other. Either there will be a delay, a last-minute platform change, a cancellation… something goes wrong.

Looking at the complexity of the rail network, it’s not surprising that it doesn’t always run exactly right. However, since I can pretty much guarantee that my train journey to work or back will be compromised in some way, I’m starting to wonder. There is no ‘normal’ service, you see. It’s a myth that the trains usually make it on time. Perhaps it is more than 50% of each leg of any given journey… maybe. But at some stage in every multi-sectioned journey I’ve had, some aspect of the trip fails.

II’m beginning to wonder what could possibly fix this situation. I’m told daily by an electronic voice: “I’m extremely sorry for the severe delay to this service.” I wonder what rail executives hope to achieve by creating an automated apology system? It’s not exactly like it’s a good value for money trade-off either. Train travel is bloody expensive, and it doesn’t work the majority of the time.

Maybe executive heads need to roll, maybe a huge infusion of public money needs injecting into the system, maybe… they need a change of perspective. If they measure every individual step in a day, they might come to the conclusion that they’ve failed n number of times. n=number of delayed, cancelled or otherwise compromised phases of transit between any two given points on the network. However, if X represents the full journey of an individual in a sampled population, and X is made up of a number of phases, I wonder how many X’s would end up compromised in some way?

Sample 100 complete journeys across the entire network. Each journey is an individual X (complete from point A to B with each stop and change included). Each completed leg of any given X could be designated y, and any compromised legs (including additionally-accrued attrition from one failed leg compromising another) could be w’s.

There are two numbers I’d be interested in seeing:

• The ratio of y’s to w’s across the sampled population’s collective X’s
• The number of X’s which contain at least one w

I reckon and predict, that these numbers would reflect very unfavorably on the network’s ability to run itself.

What’s the fix?

No idea… though I do worry no one in the rail network has any clue either.

Back from travels

// April 29th, 2008 // Comments // travel

Well, I and the wife traveled to Limoges in France to Amsterdam over the last two weeks. In France, I had the misfortune of being almost completely without the ability to smell or taste anything thanks to a lingering cold which also incapacitated me on the final Friday of the trip. Our French hosts cooked us a wonderful (looking) local meal complete with regional wines, and every mouthful tasted exactly the same. According to Wendy, this stood me in good stead for Amsterdam, however, since I wasn’t as bothered by all the smoldering plant material hovering in the air.

Amsterdam, as previously mentioned, is a lovely city. It is very accessible and its scale lends itself to walking. It’s easy to find somewhere pleasant to drink coffee or eat from a huge variety of restaurants. It is slightly unhelpful, however, that nearly every place at which you can eat or drink is called a ‘cafe’. This includes bars, coffee houses, sandwitch shops, pubs… literally everything that doesn’t sell cannabis is a cafe. Many ‘cafes’ also sell an astonishing selection of lagers, which I could only imagine drinking on the continent.

The streets meander pleasantly, and it’s not too well-planned; so it’s possible to stumble across a brilliant cafe (of whatever description) nearly anywhere. The streets seem to be used almost like common land, however, by the walkers, cyclists and motorists in town. Cars seem to give way most of the time, and trams could appear just about everywhere, from any direction. Bicycles literally litter every available upright in Amsterdam, and if you don’t move sharpish at the sound of a bell you’re likely to adorn a lamppost or bollard yourself. I spent much of my time waiting for the imagined ‘zzhhrip’ sound of bicycle-tyre on raincoat which I’m pretty certain would almost immediately proceed a rear-end collision.

Nevertheless, I’m glad to be back in Britain. Something about seeing the hills and green of near-home yesterday was incredibly comforting.

Beer for Breakfast | bier voor het ontbijt

// April 23rd, 2008 // Comments // interesting, travel

It’s the transition which hits you. From begging your interlocutor to understand you—to even bend a little in your direction—to being understood so effortlessly but still being in an unfamiliar place. This is traveling from France to Amsterdam.

In France, making an effort to speak French is mandatory; yet still everyone looks at you as if you’re asking them to donate a kidney when you ask a question in broken French. I freely admit, the extent of my French used to end not much farther than correcting cold-callers’ pronunciation of my surname. Now, after three days in France, I can say all sorts: but still can’t get a point across or ask for a baguette without goose-gizzard on.

I will, however, never pick up any Dutch by being in Amsterdam. As soon as you say ‘Halo’, in your best-imitation of Dutch pronunciation, the person behind the counter/hovering over your table/behind the glass will immediately ask you how you are doing in English. This is true 100% of the time—unless your accent was bad enough to give them the impression you’re French or Spanish, in which case, they’ll usually answer your question in that supposed language. Of course, I’ve always heard that the Dutch can all speak flawlessly in multiple languages even while being full of cannabis; but I’m still incredibly impressed.

Touching on that last point, I can’t help but feel it’s a horrible, international misconception about the Dutch. The overwhelming impression I have got while passing coffeeshops here, is that the vast majority of the ‘customers’ are anything but Dutch. I seem to remember reading somewhere (a pitiful excuse for not remembering a source or making it up altogether) that the Nederlands has lower per-capita cannabis consumption than the UK. If this is true, I would not be surprised in the least. I am not inclined in the least to explore this hypothesis further by sampling, as it were, the population: I’ve seen too many mates act like toddlers to be tempted with such herbalism. I will say that coffeeshops are everywhere in Amsterdam, and that I’m impressed (if that’s the right term) by the diversity of ‘clients’ I’ve seen. (Most cafes, bars and coffeeshops have a beer-garden or patio on the pavement.) Anyone from middle-aged, chubby americans to rasta-looking folks with dreads and hemp-clothes. Anyone from middle-class, dirt-poor, whatever: but very few speaking Dutch.

I get the impression from Amsterdam that most of it is set up for the non-Dutch. There can’t be enough Hollanders who want phallus salt-cellars to demand the supply I’ve seen. That’s something not confined to the red-light district, either. I’ve seen so many different penis-shaped items in the past two days, I’m starting to wonder what can’t be phallisised.

But, it kind of feels like all that stuff’s only there because it’s supposed to be.

“Amsterdam for penises.” “Amsterdam for spliffs.” Actually, it’s impossible to miss, but easy to ignore. This is largely because the city is wonderful. Not because of it’s ‘known-for’ features like prostitutes, coffee-shops and seks-shows, but because it’s laid-back culture that makes it possible for all of these things to be. I’m not drawn to these things, and I see them more as a side-effect of some relaxation that’s deeper.

Anyway, I’m off for a lager and lunch. The beer’s good, but I can’t actually drink it for breakfast, I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’ve been too British/American to drink before the yardarm’s past the whatsit… but it’s 12:30 now, so that should be good!

It will rain in Shrewsbury

// March 29th, 2008 // Comments // travel

Yesterday, I had a nightmare journey. It was the kind you think is made up by travel writers to pad out the pages between interesting sights and ‘how-to’s of ticket management. It didn’t help that my reason for going was to have a chat with the JobCentre Plus (Plus benefits, I assume) about allocation of a National Insurance number.

The first leg of the journey was fine: train to Shrewsbury. I sat down to enjoy a book and baguette (brilliant combination until you take a bite out of your novel) and noticed that the notice on the gantry sign kept changing: next train-on time–next train-cancelled. Well, which one is it? Turns out, I just had to wait 25 minutes for the next one. No worries, I’m reading and drinking caffeine-containing hot stuff (It’s not coffee. This is coffee.)

So, I’m late into Telford, but I was going to be an hour early anyway. I have a Google Map printout, but I don’t want to risk it, so I jump in a Taxi, explaining that I’ll need cash first, then on to the Jobcentre Plus (Plus and Minus?). The Royal Bank of Scotland was just across the retail park which is Telford centre, so I tried to get cash out there… no luck. I shrug embarrassedly at the driver, who shakes his head as if to say: "Oh, bloody hell… I’m taking him to t’JobCentre Plus (Plus Jobs for foreigners, no doubt!) and he’s got no bloody money."

So, across to Asda, which looks more hopeful–there being three cash machines from different banks. Brilliant…but no. "This service is temporarily unavailable," from Abbey National. "Your card cannot be used in a  cash machine," (What’s it for then!?) from NatWest, and a simple "Sorry, we cannot complete your request," from the RBS. So, I phone my bank (don’t get me started on the poor customer service at HSBC!) and wade my way through the ridiculous menus.

I eventually get through to someone who talks…very…slowly…and…keeps…repeating…what…I…ask…back…to…me. I tell the poor dear I’m waiting by a taxi whose meter is running and that I need to use my card to get cash out… "One moment, Mr Zach. Do you mind if I call you Mr. Zach?"

"I really couldn’t give a toss what you call me, love, I’m waiting to pay a disgruntled, bearded cab driver from Telford!"

"Ok, Mr Zach. I’m just going to speak to one of my colleagues. Can I put you on hold?"

"Oh, bloody hell…"

"…Mr Zach, it looks like there is sufficient funds for you to take cash out."

"Yes, I know there’s money in the account. That’s why I’m trying to take it out, to give to this increasingly red-faced cabbie!"

After another five minutes of this, it turns out there aren’t any security block on the account, so it’s probably the card. "I can send you out a new one, Mr. Zach. Would that be helpful?"

"No, not really…"

The Cabbie then drove me to a garage where I attempted to buy a pack of mentos to get cash back. They don’t do cash back… I’d have to go across to Asda… 

Eventually, the driver asked me to buy 20 Embassy Filter. I bought 40–the first time I’ve ever bought a pack of fags–and he laughingly agreed to take me to the JobCentre Plus (Plus acrid, blue smoke, presumably).

He drops me off, at the wrong place, and I had to ask a Telfordian where the Jobcentre was. Luckily, I chose someone who looked like he’d been on the Dole, and he gave me very detailed directions… via three pubs and a discount £-store. Fanbloodytastic.

So, I have the interview (wasn’t actually too bad). And I finally worked out what the ‘Plus’ is for. It’s for: "Plus unnecessary bureaucracy". The lovely woman who conducted my interview had to fill in literally ten pages-worth of forms. Most of the information was on her screen, but it’s not secure until it’s been hand-scrawled into hundreds of little boxes, apparently. We shared a laugh at the ridiculousness of the system, and she kept on writing the entire time. That certainly explains the name. I think, however, they’ve made a serious marketing mistake. Since this country loves it some Acronyms (LISA), they should call it Jobcentre Plus PUB. It’d certainly fit the intended clientele.

I won’t bore you with the return journey, except to say that it was cold, miserable, two delays and a cancellation. Oh, and it rained at Telford Central just as they announced that the Birmingham New Street train was cancelled. It was freezing, and so crowded I read my book using a shorter person like a lectern.