Myf Warhurst: underground I am overwhelmed by a grotty, ageing magic
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Version 0 of 1. It takes a tube strike for Londoners to contemplate the thought of life without it. Commuters moan about it, almost without pause, but a journey above ground spent marvelling at the number of fried chicken shops there are between home and work left most wishing for the stifling embrace of the underground. It’s a love/hate relationship. Generally, the tube is thought of by most with affection, but I’ve met some Londoners who won’t ride on certain lines or ride the tube at all if they can avoid it. They speak of it with the same level of disdain they may have for an old boyfriend/girlfriend to whom they can never return because of embarrassing things they did together and would rather forget. Sure, I’m new around these parts, but I love the tube. As I head down and breathe in the airborne germs and broken dreams of the million people who use it daily, for a moment I feel a bit like a local. It is occasionally a grotty, ageing mess down there but, these days, aren’t we all? There have been times when I, too, have cursed at the tube’s rattling and heaving innards and wished for some sort of swish car to whisk me away from a businessman’s armpit where I’m breathing an intoxicating concoction of yesterday’s Lynx mixed with garlicky sweat, while a young child caresses the bottom of my coat with snot-covered fingers. But once I’m down in the depths, I can see who London really is, not what London would prefer me to see. It’s a bit like when you come around to mine and I serve the wine in chipped glasses and leave the good crystal in the top cupboard. It’s the real London, not the good front room full of painfully well-behaved royals. The tube has personality. Each station has its own style, each line a different type of train. It shares similarities with a raggedy family, with different opinions, body shapes, ages, smells and the occasional drinking problem. It’s a conflicted but lovable mess and I’m happy to ride in its warm embrace. (Except for the last train on the Central line on Friday night. I can give that a miss.) It even has it’s own mascot; a spirit creature, if you like. A special breed of mosquito has been living in its tunnels for almost a hundred years, apparently multiplying in puddles of tepid water made vitamin-rich by the daily shedding of millions of skin cells and discarded ham sandwiches from Pret a Manger. It’s a slightly rank but beautiful thing. And there are other kinds of creatures on the tube. I love that pets are welcome. I come from a land where our furry friends are not encouraged on public transport so upon seeing confident pooches descend an escalator with the same enthusiasm as a banker running late for a Friday night drink at the top of the Shard, my first thought was of concern. What if Fido wees on my leg or gets its tail caught in the train door? No worries, everyone. The humans are usually the worst behaved down here. This embracing of all-comers signals something greater. Almost everyone has to use the tube to exist in this town, so you simply have to get over yourself. For a moment, you’re part of a heaving, messy beast. It’s a great leveller in a country that sometimes still hangs on to class as currency. I like that. For all its faults, the tube still feels a bit magical. I’ll see you in another year for a very different, world-weary and far less glowing review. Now, hand me the insect spray. |