Platform One (Part 007)

Birmingham New Street – Watford Junction
Glen Wilson

I come from Yorkshire, and up there the only time the words ‘first class’ come together in the local vernacular is when folk are talking of Geoffrey Boycott’s batting averages. Those carriages with the ‘1’ on the side aren’t for the likes of us and so my entire train travel history has been spent as ‘standard’. I once made it into the short lived ‘Standard Plus’ section of a TransPenine Express but only lasted a few minutes before the words “No sir, this a standard ticket, you’ve just drawn a plus sign on it,” abruptly ended my fun. Until now. This summer I popped my 1st class cherry. I have not Derren Brown-ed the Lottery, nor have I crossed the social divide. I was just lucky enough to book my ticket during a Virgin Trains pricing loophole which meant a first class ticket was cheaper than a normal one. I may be a working class man at heart, but as a Yorkshireman I know when to seize a bargain.

And so at Birmingham New Street as the PA system announced that ‘passengers with first class tickets should wait on platform 7a and other ticket holders should make their way to 7b’ I was not forced to haul my bag to my shoulder and traipse down the platform with the rest of the proletariat. No, I could stand my ground. Cheerio standard travellers, I’ve made it. I’m staying here. As the train pulled up I was hoping to be greeted by a carriage decked with gold framed pictures and an attentive butler in a red velour waistcoat, something like the ‘1st class toilet’ scene in the Father Ted ‘airplane’ episode. The truth was a bit more sedate.

There were notable differences. My seat had its own table, and its own plug socket, and even better I actually fitted in it without having to dislocate a knee to aid comfort. And then there was complimentary tea and biscuits too, so complimentary were they that one of my Hobnobs suggested my stubble gave me the air of a young Hugh Jackman. But as with most aspects of life, it seems the thrill was very much in the chase, because my first class experience held a touch of disappointment. For a start I had the carriage to myself, so I was unable to observe how the other half lived at close quarters, or partake in some light political banter or discussions about the finer points of the British judicial system with my travelling companions. Instead I was dealt a type of travelling karma as a combination of my tilting Pendolino train and complimentary cuppa combined to leave me staggering off the train at Watford Junction feeling a little bit queezy. Still, you only live once.

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