A Stretch In Limousin – RSVP

First gifted to the internet in late May of 2005

Yesterday I celebrated this inching-toward-oblivion we call life with a new experience, which, unless it’s something like finding a genital wart in your panties, is generally A Good Thing. Unfortunately, this particular new experience was just a little bit too much like finding a genital wart in my panties. A genital wart called Steve.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Right. Sleeves up. This promises to be a long one. It was a birthday drinks thing, at the George Inn in London Bridge. There was revelry and celebration, and bellies were gradually filled with Guinness and rum. At close of pub, there was an eagerness to continue the carousing, so by midnight we found ourselves in some fashionable piss-duct of a club in Covent Garden. A couple of hours and a medium-sized overdraft later it was hometime and I found myself in Aldwych, with my friend and flatmate Gee, looking for a bus.

I was very drunk by this time, but it was my birthday, so I was allowed. I’d had a good evening, and I was happy. We were looking for a bus to take us South. We were on a big street I can not remember the name of and I was in the road, checking out the destinations on the front of an approaching bus; then I was back on the pavement, heading toward the bus-stop. It is important to point out at this stage that the bus of which I was momentarily in the path, was quite a way off, and the driver was wholly unalarmed by, perhaps even entirely unaware of, my presence in the road. As far as I recall, he didn’t beep his horn, and he definitely didn’t have any cause to slow down or swerve. He was a long way away. My being momentarily in the road caused no one any danger. I feel the need to point that out, but really, despite what it says on the piece of paper in front of me, that is not why I was arrested. That was just an excuse.

So I’m making my way to the pavement and I realise that there is a large policeman standing there, beckoning me towards him in that way they have. I am reminded in retrospect of that scene in Thelma & Louise, where Louise sees the traffic cop approaching in her wing mirror and mutters, ‘Oh, my God, he’s a Nazi.’ Perhaps it’s unfortunate that I had none of Louise’s fear or feelings of enforced obsequiousness at the time. If I thought anything, it was just the standard resigned relishing of another totally pointless confrontation.

So there I was, face-to-face with Officer Power-trip. He seemed awfully tense, like a musclebound sphincter trying desperately not to embarrass itself on a packed bus. Gee reckons he’d just been involved in some ‘situation’ or other and was anxious to show the world just exactly what he was made of. Maybe that’s true. But it’s no excuse.

The police officer was concerned, ostensibly, about me running in front of buses. I assured him that there was nothing to be concerned about. I was just a little drunk. It was my birthday after all. I was 37. Many happy returns. I think the main problem with my attitude is that I was enormously blithe. Overly blithe perhaps. I may in fact have been wearing that horrible blithe smile – the one I wore that night with the faux chavs. I suppose I should be happy I didn’t try and pat Steve’s cheek, else I’d be facing some trumped-up assault charge now.

Anyway, our conversation pretty much came to a head with Steve telling me that I would be arrested if I didn’t shut up. I was blathering, you see. Nothing insulting, just smart-arsed cocky birthday blather. Totally blithe.

‘Arrested for what?’ I wanted to know.

‘A public order offence,’ he told me.

I was taken aback. Here we were having what seemed to me a perfectly reasonable conversation. How was I offending public order? There were maybe twenty people standing around in the immediate area, waiting for various buses, pretending not to notice the escalation to altercation, wishing that that mouthy drunken oaf would shut up and let the police bugger off so they could begin to feel comfortable again. I addressed them. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Am I offending public order? What do you think? You are the public. Am I offending your order?’

Most of them turned away. All in fact except one young woman who spoke with a Spanish accent. She came up to where I was being – to my mind – harassed, and starting asking the harassing officer, ‘What are you doing? He’s not doing anything? Leave him alone.’ I was very touched. The harassing officer was not.

‘It’s got nothing to do with you,’ he barked, totally without grace. His somewhat skinnier partner was now taking more of an active part and was busy physically pushing my friend Gee away from the scene. Gee was also protesting my innocence. The second officer was clearly hoping that Gee would react against the physical – to my mind – assault, so that he would be able to arrest him.

They are – in my experience – such unmitigated cunts, the police. Can I say that? In retrospect? No one in particular of course. No names. Just in general. The police. They’re cunts. And by no means all of them. Heaven forfend. Sometimes they do some wonderful things and some of them can be charming and swell, I’m certain of it. Sometimes. Most of them are cunts though. All the time. Power. It’s a terrible, dehumanising thing.

So, back to our confrontation. At some stage during our little chat, I attempted to reach into my inside pocket, as is my right as a human being, but I was physically prevented from doing so by my interrogator. In physically preventing me from doing so, my interrogator ripped my jacket. Not a great deal, but enough for me to hear the sound of stitching being torn. As I say, I was drunk, so when this happened, what I said was probably something very like this, but more slurred, and probably less eloquent:

‘I’m just getting a pen and paper.… What are you doing with your hands? You’re putting your hands on me. What are you saying, that I can’t…? Whoa, did you hear that? He’s just ripped my jacket! Can he do that? Did you hear that? Why can’t I get my notebook out? I want to make some notes. Are you saying I can’t write anything down? What’s your name? You’re not going to tell me your name? What’s wrong, are you shy?’

That kind of thing. Insufferable for sure. But not criminal.

So anyway, cut to the chase. Eventually I was arrested. I was cuffed, really rather viciously, and pushed, really rather violently, into the back of the van which arrived within about thirty seconds of the officer radioing for it. It was at this stage that I realised how superbly ridiculous this whole situation was. My last words to Gee, as I was bundled into the van, were, ‘At least it’ll make an excellent blog post.’ Well that remains to be seen, but I remain pleased with the sentiment.

I was not arrested by the way, for the reasons which appear on my Custody Record, and which I have transcribed here, character for character:

‘DRUNK AND DISORDERLY P/D SEEN RUNNING IN PATH OF A BUS.P/D DRUNK..ACTING IN A DISORDERLY MANNER’

No. It has nothing to do with any of that. And what does P/D stand for anyway? Doesn’t matter. The reason I was arrested was because of what I said to the police officer as he continued to threaten me with prison. I said: ‘You really think you have some kind of authority over me, don’t you?’

I guess I was hoping for some kind of spirited debate on the role of the police force in contemporary society and the question of whether one human being can really be said to have authority over another. Sadly, this was not forthcoming.

Handcuffs hurt. That’s the first time I’ve ever worn any against my will, and they really hurt. ‘Oooh,’ I said. ‘That’s a little tight back there actually. Pinching a bit. Aah, you’re kind of lifting my arms up my back a bit far there. Breaking my arms in fact. I hope you’re not doing that deliberately. It’s very painful.’ I exaggerated slightly. He didn’t actually break my arms. But he did – to my mind – deliberately cause me pain. When he pushed me into back of the van too, his intention was to hurt me. I got quite a bruise on my shoulder from that.

On the way to prison, the van – in which I was the only would-be miscreant – was going extremely fast. Speeding. That’s the technical description for it I believe, and in my books it was a wholly unnecessary breaking of the law. And I could be wrong but I think it was probably a deliberate attempt to toss me about in the little cage to which I was chained. I wailed a bit. (‘Aaah ooooh. The pain. Ooooh aaah.’). Eventually they slowed down.

One of the main problems with the police – to my mind – is that the worst of them have this terrible attitude, the kind of attitude that makes people like me feel it necessary to point out to them that they are no better than me. Now when you’re actually in their custody, turns out this attitude is magnified enormously. They seem to figure that if you’re there – there in the system – then you must be guilty. I got a lot of that.

Standing there, answering the duty sergeant’s questions, I found I was slurring my words a little. I was terribly drunk after all. So I said, ‘I am terribly drunk’, by way of explanation. Behind the duty sergeant was another PC, a WPC. I didn’t catch her name, but she had one of those repugnant sharp-featured rat-like faces, a little like Muriel Gray with three wasps and a millipede in her mouth. When I mentioned that I was drunk, she made some comment. I can’t recall her exact words, but the gist was something like, ‘That’s it, sonny-boy. Keep talking. You’re doing yourself no favours.’ I replied with something along the lines that as far as I was aware, it wasn’t against the law to be intoxicated. At which point she gazed at me as one might gaze at a turd that had had the temerity to address you as you were scraping it from off of your shoe. I gave her a small wink. Not lascivious. Playful. I could be wrong, but she didn’t appear to enjoy it.

The only other memorable moment before being carted off to my cell for the night happened quite early on during the booking procedure. Someone – I think it may have been Muriel – addressed the arresting officer as ‘Steve’. Naturally, immediately, I began to do the same. The first time I did it, I think he ignored me. The second time he turned to me and glared – the talking turd-glare – and he said: ‘Don’t call me Steve.’ To which I replied, slightly hurt, orphan-eyed, ‘Why not, Steve?’ You know what his reply was? Nothing. He just glared. I held his gaze and smiled until he looked away. I felt sad. I had already asked Steve his name once, maybe twice by that stage, and each time he had replied, ‘I’ll tell you later.’ I think he thought we were on some kind of weird date.

Fingerprinting was cool. There’s no ink these days, you know. There’s just a monitor and a keyboard, and somewhere beneath the monitor is a glass panel where some kindly officer rolls your digits back and forth and hey presto, there it is in front of you, bright and stark and the size of a human head. A big one at that. I was quite awestruck by the gadgetry and actually got a human response from Steve when I blathered about it. Very human in fact. It was actually a bit of a whinge about how when the computer fucks up, they have to revert to ink anyway. I was so pleased to have got something more than a sneer from him though that I said something along the lines of: ‘There you go, you see. We’re bonding now.’ Steve sneered again and I think it was here in the fingerprinting room that he told me, in an unpleasantly gloating voice I might add, that I was ‘going to have a criminal record’. I didn’t argue with him, but I didn’t agree. And I was slightly peeved that the old ‘innocent until proven guilty’ thing was clearly a complete myth.

I was so naïve.

Before being led to my cell, I had asked how long I’d be kept in. Four hours, I was told. I explained that I might have a problem with my eyes, inasmuch as I would have to take out my contact lenses at some stage, but all my stuff – solutions, case, whatnot – was in my bag which was still with my friend. I was explaining this to the duty sergeant. Steve butted in with: ‘You gave it to him!’ meaning my bag. (This was true. I gave it to him because there was cannabis in it.) I ignored Steve. In the end I was promised that a nurse would be along presently and I was taken away.

The nurse never turned up, even after I’d been specifically informed that he would be along ‘in one minute’. He also changed sex once, when a different policeman came along and couldn’t keep track of the lies that were being told. In the end I put my lenses in some water in two Styrofoam cups I’d been given, with an ‘L’ and an ‘R’ inked onto them.

At 3am I buzzed for more attention. When eventually my buzz was rewarded with a response, I asked for a paper and pen. No, I was told. I might harm myself. No, but seriously, I said. Can I have a paper and pen, please? But he wasn’t joking. Why on earth would I want to harm myself? I asked. I wanted to write. That was all. He was sorry, this young authority figure, half my age, telling me I couldn’t be trusted with a pen and a piece of paper, but that’s the way it was. What about a piece of charcoal? I asked. A crayon? He gave me a smile, slid the grate along, toddled off.

At 4am I did some yoga. Well, I say yoga. Just some stretching stuff I’d recently found on the net to alleviate my spinal trauma. It felt quite special though, stretching in a cell. I thought of Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption. I don’t know if he stretched, but he was a decent guy in a hell of a fix and I kind of empathised.

It was 4.30 when I took out my eyes and closed them for a few hours.

At 8.20 I realised I hadn’t had my phone call, so I rang the buzzer. At 8.45 I was led out to a phone by some office johnny and told to get on with it. ‘But I don’t have the number,’ I said. ‘It’s in my mobile phone, which was taken off me and placed in a plastic bag a few hours ago.’ Then I was the recipient of the biggest and probably the rudest harrumph I think I’d ever had the displeasure to deflect with a fading smile. ‘You could have told me that before,’ he said, leading me back to the cell, terribly put out. Oh dear. What a nuisance! Just as we were reaching the cell again, he said, and this killed me: ‘This is a prison, not a hotel.’

‘Yeah, I know that,’ I told him. I was fed-up by now, and still half-blind, my eyes still sitting in the Styrofoam cups in my cell. I felt vulnerable, I have to say, and slightly bilious from prison sausage. (That’s not a euphemism by the way. I’d had some repulsive breakfast some time between 7 and 8. I wasn’t raped.)

Eventually I was released, at about 9am. Seven hours rather than four. My eyes were hurting. I had no idea where I was.

I was here:

Back on the outside, my possessions back in my possession, I returned the messages I’d received during my incarceration, and began the long dine-out. But there was a moment, listening to Gee’s second message, where I felt genuinely emotional. Upset. It reminded me slightly of the shower I took after my third and most serious motorbike accident in Italy, where I suddenly broke down and wept like a sore. This wasn’t anywhere near as bad as that. I didn’t quite weep, but I suddenly felt hugely, horribly upset. Abused. I know that’s a big word and I know that in reality, fuck all happened to me and what did happen was a walk in the park compared to what happens to millions of other people every day. But that’s kind of what I felt like. It just seemed so unnecessary. And such an astonishing waste of time and money. All over a little one-upmanship.

None of this need ever have happened, if only PC Genital Wart had said the following:

‘OK, kid. You’re a bit drunk and mouthy, but that doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong. In fact, I realise now, everything you’ve said since I so unnecessarily stopped you in the street has been spot-on, and everything I’ve said, right up till this impromptu and rather surprising confession, has been a load of bogus, power-tripping bullshit. You’re alright, kid. And I’m a pea-brained fucking jackass who should probably stop calling you ‘kid’, because you’re clearly older and obviously much wiser than I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to call you ‘sir’ in that way that we of the porcine persuasion sometimes do, that clearly disrespectful way that can really rankle. Anyway, I apologise. Here: have a fiver.’

You see how easy it would have been? But no. He had to have his way, didn’t he? He had to win his little argument. Well, he hasn’t won. Not yet anyway.

I have 21 days to admit that I was wrong and pay the Met the £80 they want by way of apology, or I can go to court and attempt to explain all of the above. Obviously, I’m going to have to go to court. I don’t want to, not much anyway, because I reckon the chips are stacked against me. I reckon ‘the authorities that be’, the ones I don’t believe in, I reckon they pretty much stick together, and if it comes down to my word against that of a uniformed… man, then they’ll probably take his. Well, if that happens, I’ll have to appeal. And when all my appeals are done and dusted and I owe a few thousand pounds worth of fines and court costs, I’ll refuse to pay. Then I’ll go to jail for a while. Like Hitler, who wrote a best-selling book. And Jonathan King, who allegedly earned two million pounds whilst inside. And Peter Sutcliffe, who got slashed and fell in love. Oh well. Could be worse. Not to worry. At least I won’t be short of drugs in jail. Especially not if all prison officers are as bad at performing searches as Officer Steve.

UPDATE: As it happens, I didn’t get a criminal record. Rather, what happened was, a couple of months later, I received a letter from the police informing me that no further action would be taken because the arresting officer had lost the paperwork. Which translates as, in my opinion, ‘We had no evidence, we were trying it on, pretty much like we do very very frequently, and that’s why you were absolutely right to question our authority, as you must always question all authority. Congratulations. See you next time.’

First gifted to the internet a week or two before Christmas, 2005

I went into the office today at 2pm for a hugely unimportant meeting (all meetings are hugely unimportant). We were in the pub by 5. At around 1am I caught a bus from Victoria, arriving in Brixton, at the 37 bus-stop on Effra Road, at 1.28am. There was a bus due at 1.30. Imagine my joy.

At 1.55 – after being reduced to actually praying, albeit handless and quite foul-mouthed praying, for a bus or a cab or anything to get me out of the intense cold – a young man starts hanging around the bus-stop. After a moment he catches my eye. He says, ‘Y’alright?’ Nicely he says it, and nicely I respond. ‘Yeah, yeah. Not bad. Cold is all.’ Something like that. He agrees. We share a moment. It is nice. Then this other guy comes up – oh, hold on, I haven’t mentioned the toaster.

So, I got this toaster today, before the meeting. Why? Because I need toast in my life, that’s why. Half price from Argos it was. Four slicer. Big old box. Pain in the arse really, the bulk of it, and I was thinking, weirdly, as I got the bus from Victoria and considered my route home, I was thinking, ‘Fuck. I really don’t want to be in Brixton with a toaster at this time of night – or indeed any time of night – because frankly, there are a shitload of absolute basketcases in Brixton who would kill for a toaster like this.’

Hold on – I have to break off for a pipe of crack. Calm my nerves.

Right. So, this second guy – he wasn’t your everyday-type prankster. Or rather he was. He was UG. Totally unoriginal nothing-in-his-fucking-head street-prick gangster. All hood and nothing whatsoever behind it. An absolute tool. I was laughing for a while back there, when I started writing this up, but now I’m fucking angry again. When I think about it… Anyway, just the facts, ma’am.

So, Second Guy starts talking to First Guy at the other end of this deserted bus shelter, maybe four feet away. I try my best to listen because… well, because you have to. Second Guy was giving it large about a tenner First Guy was obliged to hand over. ‘If you’re gonna do this, you have to give me half.’ Now I’ve seen enough gangster fiction to know an amateurish apportionment negotiation when I hear one – ‘Pauly wants his end’, ‘I gotta wet my beak’, all that – so I sidled subtly in the direction of the conversation trying to hear a little more. First Guy gets his wallet out to show Second Guy he has nothing to give him. It gets marginally heated in a rather boring way. Then Second Guy moves towards me and is quite suddenly standing in front of me, his face inches from mine.

I say, ‘Alright.’ Friendly like.

He says, ‘No.’ Pause. ‘I’m taking your toaster.’

His body, incidentally, is now between me and my toaster, which is sitting in its box and half-in its plastic bag on the cold red plastic bench of the bus shelter.

It’s funny. I’ve been bothered by London street vermin in the past, quite a few times over the years, but no one has ever threatened to take my toaster. Obviously, this is primarily because I’ve never actually had a toaster about my person before, but still, it does strike me as an enormously ludicrous thing to hear, under the circumstances, under any circumstances. I’m laughing now in fact. Really quite a lot. Shush. So anyways, the conversation went roughly like this:

UG: I’m taking your toaster.

ME: What?

UG: I’m taking your toaster.

ME: No, you’re not.

UG: Gimme two pound then.

ME: What?

UG: Gimme two pound.

ME: No. Absolutely no way.

UG: Then I’m taking your toaster.

ME: [ire rising] You’re taking my toaster? You’re gonna take my fucking toaster?! My fucking toaster that I’ve just been given as a fucking Christmas present? [not true]

UG: Gimme two pound then.

ME: I haven’t even got two fucking pound! [true]

UG: Stop swearing.

ME [to my shame, because I should've just turned on him with iron brawn and buried his body in the woods] Yeah, I’m sorry for swearing, but you know, you’re not taking my fucking toaster. [during which I attempt to reach round him to get my precious toaster and he moves to block me]

UG: Yeah, we don’t use words, we use weapons.

ME: [to my pride because I really didn’t give a fuck at this point and to my slight concern because nobody wants to have their kidneys cut out for a sodding toaster – not even a really good one – Tefal, four-slicer] Whatever, man, look, I don’t give a fuck. You’re not taking my toaster. I’m not going to let you take my toaster. [more reaching]

UG: Don’t put your hands on me. When the police come, you’ll be the one with blood on your face.

At which point, I didn’t exactly push him out of the way – not by a long chalk really – but I did brush his coat and arm in my reaching and eventual grasping of the toaster, my toaster, and then I walked off down the street, just a few steps and when I saw he wasn’t coming after me, I stopped. At which point he stepped back up to First Guy, who was still standing close by, and said something I didn’t catch, or don’t remember, and First Guy replied with something that included the words, ‘You don’t even know who this guy is’.

Now, I would like to think that what First Guy meant by this was that he’d recognised me from my Metro interview a couple of weeks ago and his subtext was, ‘That’s Graham fucking Pond, man. No one fucks with Graham Pond’, but it was probably more like, ‘Guy could be anyone – for all you know, someone important, someone with connections, or someone with a gun as well as a toaster’. So then Second Guy starts getting very angry with First Guy, telling him repeatedly to ‘move on’. ‘Move on,’ he said. ‘You don’t get nothing round here. Move on.’ And he got quite angry and raised his hands to Second Guy. Second Guy – spurred on I like to think, by my defiance – raised his own hands and said, ‘Get the fuck off me, man.’ Second Guy yells something incomprehensible and moves back along the bus shelter. Me and First Guy look at each other. ‘Motherfucker tried to take my toaster,’ I say. ‘Stop swearing,’ says First Guy. [not true] Then a Taxi comes into view. I run into the street and stop it, then get in and start laughing. The words, ‘I’m taking your toaster’ and ‘gimme two pounds’ go round and round my head and for a moment and I can’t stop laughing. Then I consider going back and launching myself at that fucking piece of fucking garbage, knocking him out with some moves I don’t have and stomping him into some semblance of human decency. But that ain’t me. Instead I laugh again, relieved that I still have my toaster, and my kidneys, and I go home via a cashpoint. A pitbull barks at me. I scowl. I realise I have something to blog at long last. I smile.

Tomorrow morning, or if I’m honest, tomorrow afternoon, I will have toast for breakfast.

First gifted to the internet in the summer of 2004

So tonight I met up with some friends I hadn’t seen for a while. We went out in Brixton and got ecstatically merry. Old friends, bookends, catch-up, photos: all that. We were in The Duke of Edinburgh and everything was going so well, right up till around 10, when the bar was suddenly invaded by what can only be described as a gang of marauding chavs. Überchavs even. It was like a Burberry tsunami. Within seconds we were totally swamped, swimming in peaked caps, hoop earrings, chunky gold neckwear and and exceptionally poor English. Our peace was shattered. Our evening potentially ruined. There was only one thing for it. Photos.

Here are a few of them in conversation:

I was surreptitious at first, mindful of my friend the Sicilian’s warnings back in January. He had told me then to be careful. Some people are funny about having their image taken from them, he said. I thought at the time it was just some backwoods Sicilian mumbo jumbo, but he was right. I have since observed it. People really do get touchy. So yes: it’s always best to ask permission.

Unfortunately, if you find yourself in a real time situation where you feel permission would not be granted and you would therefore lose the opportunity to take some fun pictures, you may have to take a couple of moral leaps and physical risks. But you should always be very careful. I wasn’t careful. I wasn’t very subtle at all in fact, and the guy in the Spurs top clocked me.

But then when he didn’t do anything, I thought fuck it. Tacit permission. So I started snapping in earnest.

Then this guy spotted me.

He wasn’t happy at all. His friend tried to placate him, but he was clearly furious. So I went over to try and calm him myself. He wanted to know why I was taking pictures. Screaming at me he was. Right in my face.

I took his picture.

That didn’t seem to help matters, but I just couldn’t stop myself. I explained that I was taking photos because I like taking photos, because I’m out with my friends and that’s what I like to do. You know? That didn’t seem to satisfy him. He seemed to think that I had stolen his soul or some such. He demanded that I give him the camera. My camera. The camera that I love more than any other thing that I own. I told him no. He was furious.

I took his picture.

He didn’t like that one bit. He made a snatch for my camera. I pulled my hand away. Unfortunately in so doing I knocked a glass of beer out of his friend’s hand. His friend had moved round behind me. I hadn’t noticed. Almost before the glass had hit the floor, the first punch was landed, square in the small of my back. I lost my grip on the camera and went down on one knee. Then someone behind me yanked me to my feet by my beautiful hair and held me in place with my arms twisted halfway up my back. Then the vicious little pitbull in the pictures above started pummelling me with his bling-heavy knuckles.

No.

Just kidding. It could so easily have been like that. But it wasn’t.

Thank heavens.

What actually happened was that during the face-off situation, the vicious little pitbull started smiling. In fact, it was just after I’d refused to give him the camera and started patting the side of his face like an absolute lunatic on far too much ecstasy; just then his fearsome little grimace cracked open like an April sky, and he explained to me that he and his friends were not real chavs at all. They were merely dressing as the underclass, strictly for their own amusement. What a blessed relief. He gave me permission to blog the photos too, and then he posed for the last two above. What a gent. What a piece of luck.

All’s well that ends well.

Phew.

On 4th May, 2001, I emailed a complaint to various London transport service providers, and the mayor. Looking at it now, I feel a little embarrassed by its rantiness, but to be fair, I was very stressed.

Only the mayor’s secretary and Mr Patrick Green of London Underground responded. Sadly, neither response was particularly satisfying. Sadder still, Mr Green’s response was rather rude. So I wrote back, and a correspondence ensued.

Then – when I thought it was all over and done with – Mr Green accidentally copied me into another correspondence he’d been having with two of his colleagues at LU, and one David Laurence, a lawyer at prestigious law firm Herbert Smith, who were at the time representing London Underground. Maybe they still are. I do hope so. The errant email was about me. The cheeky blighters had been talking about me behind my back.

Here, to mark the occasion of this week’s 24-hour tube strike, is the correspondence in full. I hope it brings you pleasure. (Oh, I was Graham Pond at the time.)

THE OPENING GAMBIT

Email address supplied
Mr Graham Pond
Address Supplied

Friday 4th May, 2001

Dear sir, or madam – it doesn’t matter

I was on one of your cattle-truck trains this morning and I screamed. A long, loud everything-in-it scream. Then I found myself pugnaciously facing down curious fellow passengers, aggressively demanding to know what they were looking at.

This behaviour is extraordinarily uncharacteristic. It is not me. On the contrary, it is you.

For the purposes of this letter, ‘you’ are Thameslink, London Underground, South West Trains, Docklands Light Rail, etc. I have sent a copy of this letter to each of you, but the fact is that you are interchangeable and one and the same. And, the sad fact is, you are driving me mad, you are bleeding me dry and you are making me want to kill. Really. To kill.

I spend over a hundred pounds every month on public transport in and around London. This is well in excess of a thousand pounds every year. This, now that I come to think of it, is over 10% of my annual net income.

Over 10% of every penny I earn goes into your unworthy pockets. And what do you with it? Fuck knows. I don’t.

Oh, one quick aside. I hope you won’t mind if I take a moment to pre-empt any qualms you may have concerning my use of what you may choose to label ‘foul’ or ‘profane’ language. The manner in which I express myself is absolutely none of your concern. You are personally and professionally obliged to attend to content only, and not to style. And despite the fact that there is almost certainly worse to come, there is no way, even in an infinite number of eternities, that a peppering of ‘dirty words’ in a letter of complaint could possibly offend as much as the vicious cocktail of years and years of infuriating incompetence and intolerable, most certainly criminal greed and neglect that you continue to serve up to paying customers such as myself. Believe me, however the fuck I like, I will have my say.

This is not a specific complaint. This is not even a gob of spit. This is a fist to your throat, a cancer-tipped bullet fired deep into your soul.

I used to keep lists of specific complaints – weekly they snowballed. I’ve even sent a few off in my time, but what’s the point when you’re specifically paid to not give a flying fuck? When the ethos of a public service provider is to make as large a profit as is humanly possible and in the process to spend the bare minimum of the money you make on providing the skeleton of a ‘decent service’, to cut corners, to fob off complainants, to deceive as much is possible whilst ensuring that you never actually appear as cash-centred and rapacious and neglectful and destructive as you actually are – in this moral environment, what exactly is the point of complaining? With people dying every other month because of your idiotic greed, what is the point? Well, it makes me feel better, that is the point. So let’s get on with it.

I mean, do you ever consider, even for a second, the consequences of the shoddy piss-poor service you provide? And let’s put aside the Southall, Clapham, Ladbroke Grove, Hatfield and so on. They form just the main body of the iceberg and are really too obvious to need expanding upon. Neither am I thinking of the fortunes lost as a direct result of your quotidian tardiness, eroded tracks or impromptu and unexplained cancellations – not just your fortunes either – consider your commuters, forced by enforced lateness to miss appointments, lose contracts, etc. I’m not really thinking about any of that. I’m thinking primarily here, about people.

Let’s talk about it.

The most obvious consequence of your fucked-up service is stress. When one of your trains is late and no explanation is offered, no apology proffered; when a train is cancelled at the last minute; when the train after the cancellation is stuffed full of angry, sweating punters; when timetables lie compulsively; when a poorly-trained and badly-paid member of staff is rude or ill-informed; when every queue stretches like a life sentence to the dithering dolt at the ticket window and the ten minutes you have before your train is due to leave start to speed up; when the ticket machine won’t help you because, either your bank note isn’t as crisp as the day it was minted, or there is no ticket available that caters for the full journey you wish to make, or, more often than not, the piece of junk is simply out of order; in short, when travelling by train makes being stuck in a twelve hour traffic jam on the M25 seem like a picnic in paradise, because at least then you have your own space and no expectations – when all of this happens on a daily basis, day after day after day after day after day after day after day, people tend to get stressed. And when people get stressed, they get angry and impatient and unreasonable. Some of them scream. Some mutter imprecations under their breath. Some of them pull a machete out of their briefcase and start butchering suits. All of them however, all of them become unhappy and anxious.

Stress leads to ill health, and by extension, to premature death.

You, ergo, are a murderer. A mass murderer.

Why don’t you do your job properly? Hmm? No-one expects everything to run smoothly and without a hitch. No-one expects every train to run on time. That would be unreasonable. What is not unreasonable, however, is to expect one or two trains every now and then to run on time, to expect to pay a reasonable and not an extortionate price for… My God. What on earth am I talking about? You see how our standards our systematically lowered by incompetence and ignorance? Of course we should expect every train to run on time – every single train – and if one fails to run on time, we should at the very least receive a damn good explanation, a grovelling apology and financial compensation – something in the region of a pound – cash, on the spot – for every minute you keep us waiting. Not just track possession penalty payments for the other fat cats who milk the public dry, but one pound sterling for every minute for every single ordinary customer. That’d blow the fucking leaves off your track, eh?

I heard recently that you’re receiving more complaints than ever before. Well, let’s hope that’s true. Hopefully if enough people do complain, eventually, you will be forced to begin providing a decent service. And if you don’t, hopefully the culture of complaint will evolve and become something altogether more active, more physical. I’m not a violent man, but I can’t stop myself wishing sick tortures upon you, whoever you are, whatever you are.

So. What are you going to do about it? You could start by halving your fares, which let’s face it, are daylight robbery. Or you could start by listening to your customers. We are, after all, always right, and we demand change. We demand satisfaction.

Or how about you start by offering me a reasonable response to this letter? It has taken me a while to compose. I’m sure you have enough intelligence – no, I pray you have enough intelligence to realise that this is a thoughtful heartfelt response to a serious problem that effects not just London, but every sprawling urban settlement on the planet. How about you do that then, to start with – how about you respond to my criticisms, and equally intelligently? If there is something I haven’t understood, explain it to me.

The poor quality of your service is a serious problem and one which sooner or later will lead to violence. I am not the only one at the end of my tether. Rail Rage is going to be all over the front pages unless you address the issues raised in this letter. This is not a threat. This is an observation. A copy of this letter shall be forwarded to various regional rail service providers and various relevant political figureheads, including the Mayor of London, the Prime Minister and Jeffrey Archer.

I look forward to receiving a prompt and considered reply.

Yours sincerely,

Graham Pond

___________________

RESPONSE #1

7th May, 2001

Dear Mr Pond

Thank you for your email. If you are dissatisfied with London Underground’s services I suggest that you avoid using them. Perhaps you may consider also a stress management course.

Yours sincerely

Patrick Green
Customer Service Centre
London Underground Limited

___________________

COUNTER #1

Saturday 11th May, 2001

Dear Mr Green

Thank you for your considered response to my comments. I asked for an intelligent reply, and I cannot claim to have been disappointed.

Sadly, like so many of your customers, I rather rely on London Underground to get me from A to B of a morning, which, after a fashion, I cannot deny that it does, so I’m afraid it would be impractical for me to take your advice and avoid using it. Would that there were a realistic alternative.

Vis-à-vis your strangely prescient suggestion that I consider a stress management course, I have decided to go one better and start running one. As a fitness trainer, I already run courses in body sculpture at a number of city gymnasia, so diversifying should not take too much effort.

I would like to close by saying that although I appreciate your sentiments, I also recognise that you have not answered a single one of the points I raised and have thus proven yourself to be every bit the ignorant negligent chutney ferret I always had you pegged as. Clearly, when taken to task over your lack of professionalism, your only response is to turn tail and plead ignorance. Sadly, my lawyer informs me that you are well within your rights. Oh well. I suppose I have to accept that this is the sort of world we live in. All I can really do is plead with you to reassess your immoral worldview and shape up before it’s too late.

I would also appreciate a written apology for your rudeness.

Yours sincerely,

Graham Pond

___________________

RESPONSE #2

16th May, 2001

Dear Mr Pond

Thank you for your latest email. I apologise profusely for any perceived rudeness in my last email to you; I can assure you that none was intended. I am delighted that you have expanded on my advice, but am startled by your definition of Jeffrey Archer as a relevant political figurehead.

I hope you have an enjoyable weekend.

Yours sincerely

Patrick Green
Customer Service Centre
London Underground Limited

___________________

COUNTER #2

Wednesday 20th June

Dear Mr Green

Apology accepted. And thank you for your good wishes. As it so happens I have had a number of wonderful weekends since last we spoke, nipping down to the cottage in Caernarfon with a couple of game ‘uns. Treks in the morning, rabbit pie in the afternoon, and lots of relaxing coke-fuelled sex the rest of the time.

With reference to Lord Archer, believe me, anyone with balls that big will always be relevant and will always have a response worth hearing. Unfortunately I’ve yet to track the bugger down. You wouldn’t happen to have his e-mail address, would you?

Yours once again

Pond

___________________

RESPONSE #3

Thursday 21 June

Dear Mr Pond

Thank you for your most recent email and gracious acceptance of my apology. I am pleased that you are having relaxing and recreational weekends.

Sadly I do not possess Lord Archer’s email address. I suspect, however, that the current legal wrangles that he is embroiled in may render him incommunicado for some time.

Yours sincerely
Patrick Green
Customer Service Centre Communications Manager
London Underground Limited

___________________

THE ERRANT EMAIL

[I have included the legal nonsense which came with the email because under the circumstances, I find it rather amusing.]

This e-mail is confidential and intended solely for the use of the individual to whom it is addressed. If you are not the intended recipient, please notify the sender immediately. Do not disclose the contents to any other person, use it for any purpose, or store or copy the information in any medium. Please delete any copies you may have.

Any views expressed in this message are those of the individual sender except where the sender specifically states them to be the views of London Underground Limited (‘LUL’) and/or its subsidiaries. LUL does not accept liability for any errors or omissions arising as a result of transmission.

If verification is required please request a hard copy. Any liability (in negligence or otherwise) arising from any third party acting, or refraining from acting, on any information contained in this e-mail is hereby excluded.

Copyright in this e-mail and attachments belongs to LUL: the author also asserts the right to be identified as such and object to misuse. Should you communicate with anyone within LUL and/or its subsidiaries by e-mail you consent to the monitoring and recording of any such correspondence by LUL and/or its subsidiaries.

London Underground Limited
Registered Office: 55 Broadway, London SW1H 0BD
Registered in England and Wales no. 1900907
A subsidiary of London Regional Transport

*******************

This message is confidential and may be covered by legal professional privilege.
If you have received this message in error, please delete it from your system. If you require assistance, please contact our London IT helpdesk. Thank you.

(e-mail helpdesk@herbertsmith.com; phone +44 (0)20 7333 8888).

___________________

—–Original Message—–

From: “Green Patrick (CSC)”
To: Paul J Stubbings
Date: Wed, 20 Jun 2001
Subject: RE: Pond Life

Comrade Paul

Just when I’d given up hope Mr. P is back. The invective is gone, I have yet to think of a reply. Any suggestions gratefully received.

Paddy

[Copy of the above COUNTER #2 pasted onto email.]

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Paul J Stubbings
To: “Green Patrick (CSC)”
Sent: 22 June 2001
Subject: RE: Pond Life

Comrade Paddy,

How about:

Dear Mr Pond,

I am glad that your social life has taken a turn for what you deem to be the better, though obviously I cannot approve of your reacreational drug-taking or your admiration for Lord Archer.

I hope that you will continue to use London Underground’s services.

Yours, etc.

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: “Green Patrick (CSC)”
To: Paul J Stubbings
Date: Fri, 22 Jun 2001
Subject: RE: Pond Life

Comrade

Already responded with the rather weedy one below. Have a great
weekend

P

[Copy of Green's RESPONSE #3]

___________________

—–Original Message—–

From: “Green Patrick (CSC)”
To: Steven Pepper
CC: Paul J Stubbings

Shteve

Please read starting at the bottom and going up. Your expert analysis would be gratefully received. Paul thanks for your input. Mr Pond could form part of an o-level english lit syllabus.

“Mr Pond an urban realist or rural fantasist.” Elucidate is the type of question we could pose to the youngsters.

Paddy

[Copy of Pond and Green’s correspondence in full.]

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Steven Pepper
To: “Green Patrick (CSC)”

Hi Pad

Sorry I missed your call at the weekend. Wedding, see. I am destroyed with porther. Have been on the wagon much of the time and the old tolerance goes to shite, don’t it.

I would not encourage Mr Pond. I suspect that not only is he a homosexual, he is also a paedophile. He enters into dialogue with strangers because he sees it as validating his existence and therefore his activities. I suspect you are thus already a third party accessory to the anal rape of a small child. How can you live with yourself?

How’s Jackie? Anything happening?

Shteve

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Paul J Stubbings
To: “Green Patrick (CSC)”
Sent: 22 June 2001
Subject: RE: Pond Life

Comrade Paddy,

Nothing wrong with your response. Pepper, as usual, got to the truth first: Pond is a homo. His most recent missive betrays that he has watched Withnail and I (and probably wanked over it) far too often. I see him as some sort of horrendous Monty figure, gloomily eyeing up the young male talent down the gym, wishing he wasn’t so fat and creating a rich inner life for himself.

___________________

[In the middle of which we have a rather irrelevant exchange between Mr Green and his pal Mr Laurence, he of prestigious law firm Herbert Smith. I have included it here mostly because it is amusing to read other people’s private correspondence, but also because it segues rather neatly into the complaint saga.]

___________________

—–Original Message—–
From: Green Patrick (CSC)
To: LAURENCE, DAVID
Sent: Friday, June 22, 2001
Subject: FW:

Hot goose droppings

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: LAURENCE, DAVID
To: ‘Green Patrick (CSC)’
Sent: 25 June 2001
Subject: RE:

…are your favourite snack and shampoo.

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Green Patrick (CSC)
To: LAURENCE, DAVID
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2001
Subject: RE:

Belated happy birthday. Where you beguzzled? I phoned Jenny on Saturday to discuss your problems in depth.

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: LAURENCE, DAVID
To: ‘Green Patrick (CSC)’
Sent: 25 June 2001
Subject: RE:

I fail to see how discovering the details of a pub in Fulham where my brother’s band will play constitutes a detailed analysis of my alleged problems.

I know what you do. Full details are reported back by more people than you could guess. We all know. We all report to each other.

Never think you will get away with anything McFaberge. Oh no.

We have our eye on you.

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: LAURENCE, DAVID
To: ‘Green Patrick (CSC)’
Sent: 25 June 2001
Subject: RE:

Who is Pond?

Why did you apologise to him?

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Green Patrick (CSC)
To: LAURENCE, DAVID
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2001
Subject: RE:

I have professionals eveywhere who make the NVKD under Stalin seem like Mrs Marples. Have enclosed some light reading. Please read from bottom up.

[Copy of part of correspondence.]

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Green Patrick (CSC)
To: LAURENCE, DAVID
Sent: Monday, June 25, 2001
Subject: RE:

David installment one tell me when you are ready for the next installment.

[Copy of original complaint and response #1.]

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: LAURENCE, DAVID
To: ‘Green Patrick (CSC)’
Sent: 26 June 2001
Subject: RE:

I would refer him to Seneca.

Is he for real or has he been made up?

Send the next installment. This could be serialised and published.

Is that your plan?

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Green Patrick (CSC)
To: LAURENCE, DAVID
Sent: Tuesday, June 26, 2001
Subject: RE:

Oh he is real allright. Steven Pepper and Paul Stubbings are already engaged in high level critiques of his work. The computer system here is a bit dodgy I’ll try and send it in a bit.

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: LAURENCE, DAVID
To: ‘Green Patrick (CSC)’
Sent: 26 June 2001
Subject: RE:

I’ll high level critique your works in a minute

……………….

—–Original Message—–
From: Paul J Stubbings
To: “Green Patrick (CSC)”

Comrade Paddy,

I agree that Pond is a dangerous man, but feel that Pepper is perhaps overstating things. Pond is over-educated and too adpet with abstracts. He proves the following point made by the miserable peasant Josef Vissarionovich:

“Ideas are more dangerous than guns. We would not let people have guns – why should we let them have ideas?”

The great man, has, as usual, stated the truth in his own inimitably pithy manner.

Comrade Paul.

___________________

THE RESPONSE TO THE ERRANT EMAIL

—–Original Message—–
From: Pond. Graham Pond
To: Green
CC: Pepper Stubbings and Laurence
Subject: Pond Life Goes On….
Date: Tuesday 17th July, 2001

Dear Comrades Green, Pepper, Stubbings and Laurence

Electronic mail is one the double-edged swords of twenty-first century experience. Discuss.

Mostly – there are statistics I could invent but the facts speak much more clearly for themselves – people use email to amuse themselves whilst they take much-needed breaks from the drudgery of their quotidian ‘lives’. To take the sting from the toad’s tail, as it were. They use email in the same way schoolchildren used to pass notes back and forth. It’s a way of asserting our identity, is it not, whilst we flounder facelessly, aimlessly, trapped like bugs in the sick sticky palm of some fat-cat couldn’t-care-less cunt who shall always remain nameless.

But sometimes, if we’re careless, notes are intercepted by sir. And if we’re very careless, if we’re perhaps bordering on the thick, emails are sent to the wrong addresses. And when that happens, all hell has a tendency to break loose.

But let’s stay with the email thing for a moment. So. We send our friends little messages, don’t we. We talk about our lives. We talk about our lives, and the lives of others, in order that they may pass a little less tediously. In order that we may function as human beings in the vacuum of pointless employment. We try and amuse ourselves. We have ‘a laugh’.

Nothing wrong with that. Makes the utter shit of our humdrum existence that modicum more bearable. Couldn’t agree more. I’m a human being myself, you know. With a job and stresses all my own, that also need to be alleviated by friends with similar ideas about what’s funny and what’s not.

However, what aggravates me, what really fucks the piss out of me, is when – on the occasions when I would expect to be taken seriously, on the occasions when, in order to have my voice heard, I have to play by society’s tightarse rules, and for example, am forced to waste my life writing complaint letters – what really fucks the piss out of me is when, on those occasions, my grievance is completely ignored.

In a way I’m pleased you’re all having a little giggle at my expense, and tickled pink that there are enough hours in your respective days for this kind of web-foolery, but what really gets on my wick and makes me consider taking this whole thing further is the fact that my original complaint, which I prided myself I had expressed with utmost clarity, has never been addressed, not seriously, not once.

And I stand by it. Every word.

When all is said and done, you seem like a decent bunch of people. Does nothing in my original letter ring true for you? For any of you? Think for a minute. Beyond the superficialities. Forget the references to Archer if they distract you. Forget the coke and the game ‘uns. Do you not care about the cracked and crumbling society that you’re all of you helping to perpetuate?

Perhaps it will be more productive if I address a few of the specific points which were inadvertently raised when Mr Green did whatever he did – cut and pasted a little too rashly perhaps? Or just plain and plum got tangled in his own world wide web of neglect and deceit? And therefore, maybe it’s best I address each of you individually. You first, Paddy.

———————————————

Dear Mr Green

Let’s cut to the quick, shall we? Unless I am mistaken, it is your job, amongst a whole host of other essential duties I am sure, to ‘deal with’ the complaints of the paying customers of London Underground. Would you agree? I don’t think it would be too far-fetched, under the circumstances, to assume that you must receive a lot of complaints. An awful lot of complaints, all pretty much, when it comes down to it, saying exactly the same thing. Saying, ‘I didn’t get what I paid for. And I’m unhappy and angry about it.’ Would you agree?

Above all else, I feel that what disgruntled consumers desire is the knowledge that they are being heard, that their opinions are being respected and that therefore they are not without a voice. Surely then it is your job to extend assurance – as well as, one would hope, your genuine regret that the company to which you are dedicating the greater part of your life is not adequately performing its sole function – assurance that you have understood the dissatisfaction of the consumer and that you are trying hard to put things right. I imagine also that if you cannot offer this assurance genuinely, then it is your job to offer at least a decent facade of assurance.

I imagine that the issues which I raised in my initial correspondence – those at least that related to LU, were problems that are simply too deeply-rooted in the infrastructure of the transport industry – and indeed, I might rather pompously add, of society as a whole – that you were at a loss as to offer even a whisker of assurance that would have stood up to scrutiny, and so you thought, ‘Fuck it’, and opted instead to send a curt gag for a response, with which, if nothing else, you could amuse your little chums.

I’m not particularly opposed to the fact that you piss around all day at work. I’m not even opposed to the information-sharing or ‘high level critiques’. I actually rather like it. I like a laugh, you know.

The only thing in fact, that sticks in my throat about all this is the fact that you never bothered to give me an honest response to my original letter. I still feel distinctly undealt-with.

With that in mind, how about you consider the following proposal?

Answer my letter. Address the points I raised. With sincerity.

If not – and one hates to stoop to the level of threat, but when the bottom of the barrel gives way beneath one’s scrapings to something soft and rank like an errant underbelly, one would be a fool not to poke it with a stick – I might forget myself and misdirect a few emails of my own. Of course that’s not really a threat at all. That’s merely an idle prediction.

So. What you say, McFaberge?

———————————————

Dear Mr Stubbings

I am touched that you consider me ‘a dangerous man’. You are obviously of the opinion that the pen is still mightier than the sword. Your allegiance to the ethics of Stalin however, would suggest that you consider the Molotov cocktail considerably mightier than the pen.

It may interest you to know by the way, as we’re on the subject of the many ‘jokey’ references to certain leftist traditions in your emails, that I am in correspondence with one Mr Livingstone, a one-time leftist himself and surely not unknown to you – actually, if I’m honest, I am in correspondence with his rather curt mouthpiece at the council, but I’m sure it would amuse him nonetheless if he knew how far the reds have their feet under the beds at London Underground!

For your further edification, I have seen the film ‘Withnail & I’ on more than one occasion – I know it well enough, for example, to spot its influence in certain utterances of your little chums: Mr Green’s in-depth problem discussion reference a direct steal; Mr Pepper’s ‘I am destroyed with porther’ bearing all the hallmarks of a decent homage. Arrr, he knows. I have however, never masturbated whilst watching it.

As for my inner life – and I appreciate the ‘rich’ – you are right. I do have one. Thankfully I have an outer life which complements it rather nicely.

As for my ‘gloomily eyeing up the young male talent down the gym’, I don’t. And I am not fat.

Finally, I agree that ideas are potentially more dangerous than guns and am intrigued to know exactly how you would excise them from the minds of the populace. Do tell.

———————————————

Dear Mr Pepper

What do they call you, your friends? Is it Red? Or Chilli? Or do they dispense with all the vegetable-related rubbish and just refer to you as the Doctor? I’m sure there’s lots of ‘Comrade Red Pepper’ banter bandied around though. Am I right? Anyway, it’s not important.

Listen, although my heterosexuality may have at times been called into question, I have never entertained sexual thoughts where children are concerned. At least not freely enough to be suspected on grounds of morality or mental instability. More in the name of intellectual experimentation than cheap, forbidden thrill. It’s a thin line of course, but I assure you, my thought patterns are beyond reproach.

Yours on the other hand. I mean really, your ‘dialogue as validation of child abuse’ theory is beyond the pale. A joke is one thing, but my God man, ‘the anal rape of a small child’? Must we really go there in the name of cheap laughs?

I ask merely for information.

———————————————

Dear Mr Laurence

When I received Mr Green’s inadvertent email, I thought long and hard about what I should do. I decided in the end that what I should do is take legal action, if only to serve as a warning to other public servants to take their jobs seriously, and more importantly, to take the public they serve seriously. I began by thinking Defamation of Character and Criminal Negligence, but then I’m no lawyer, Mr Laurence. So I did a little research. I wonder if you know what kind of reputation Herbert Smith has with other legal firms.

You want to sort that out. Word of mouth can go a long way.

My lawyer meanwhile, is chomping at the bit. Frothing at the ego he is, desperate to have ‘a crack at the big boys’, as he rather endearingly puts it, but then my lawyer is a bit of a Raymond Duck, if you’ll pardon the expression.

So what I have decided to do is make the following proposition: you’re a lawyer – unless of course you’re not. When all is said and done, I suppose you could just be the lowly doorman – but for the moment, let’s assume you have a degree in law and a briefcaseful of experience, and let’s do a plea bargain. I believe that’s what they’re called.

I’ll let you off the hook for all the slanders you, David Laurence, as an employee of Herbert Smith, let fly, and you, acting on my behalf, prosecute Patrick Green of London Underground. What do you say?

Of course when I renege on this and prosecute you, David Laurence of Herbert Smith, I shall call in Mr Duck to do my dirty work. Or I might think what the hell and do it myself.

I’m joking of course.

But that doesn’t mean that I’m not blinded by rage. You’re a lawyer. You do the math. Have I got a case or what? Or should we cut all the bullshit and go to the mat?

Your middle name’s not by any chance Herbert, is it?

Yours as ever

Pond. Graham Pond.

___________________

[Perhaps unsurprisingly, I received no response to this, so a few weeks down the line, I tried again.]

___________________

22nd August, 2001

—–Original Message—–
From: Pond. Graham Pond
To: Green. Patrick Green.
Subject title: tick tock tick tock….

Tick tock tick tock…. Come along then. Cat got your tongue or what? This isn’t just going to go away, you know. Why don’t you respond, if only to tell me to fuck off? I wouldn’t like it, but it’d be better than all this silence. Neither would I do it – fuck off, that is. But at least we’d be talking again, eh? And that’s the important thing – that’s why we’re both here – communication. Let’s do it. Let’s communicate.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Your friend,

Graham

___________________

[And again.]

___________________

26th September, 2001

—–Original Message—–
From: Pond. Graham Pond
To: Green. Patrick Green.
Subject title: ?

Dear Mr Green

I couldn’t help noticing that you have not responded to my previous two emails. And it has been over a month since the last. I can only assume that you have not had the time. Or that perhaps you didn’t receive them. Or something. But I find it difficult to believe that you couldn’t be bothered.

And I don’t really want to go on about it all again. The fact is I’m not a well man at the moment, which means I’m not working, which means I’m up shit creek with only my bare hands to save me. Which means I’ve other things to think about, like whether I’m actually going to live or not. But still, our relationship is important to me. And the fact that you have failed to give me any feedback on the fact that you and your friends chose to insult me behind my back still rankles somewhat.

Please let me know what the story is here, because I’m running low on what-have-you and really want to put an end to this distinctly unsatisfactory affair. What I seek – as our unfortunate American cousins would have it – is closure.

What say you?

Yours,

Graham Pond

___________________

[And then, just when all hope was disappearing over a distant hilltop, like a fading cloud on a thankless June evening, the countryside idyll motif extended itself further, and 'Mr Summers' sprang forth, like an uneaten gherkin from swiftly-packed picnic blanket.]

___________________

3rd October, 2001

—–Original Message—–
From: Summers
To: Pond.
Subject title: ?/MS/AH

Dear Mr Pond

Thank you for your recent email addressed to Mr Green.

Mr Green has left the Customer Service Centre, but is still employed by London Underground Limited.

If you would like to remind me about the nature of your original correspondence, I would be happy to re-investigate the situation for you.

Yours sincerely

Andrew Summers
Customer Service Centre
London Underground Limited

Your Tube: Publicly Run, Privately Built. See how we will build tomorrows Tube at

http://www.thetube.com/content/unblock

___________________

SUMMERS COUNTER #1

10th October, 2001

Dear Mr Summers

I would indeed be more than happy to remind you of the situation regarding my correspondence with Mr Green. Although I have to say, my gander is well and truly up.

I also have to say, and damn the consequences, I also have to say that I have my suspicions that you, Mr Summers, even exist. I have my suspicions, I say, that you, Mr so-called ‘Summers’, are in fact Mr Green, merely posing as ‘Mr Summers’, in order to weasel out of the moral obligation into which you have so carelessly stumbled.

If this is not the case, then I accept that the above paragraph may appear somewhat foolish, perhaps even a tad paranoid. So be it. Never let it be said that Mr Pond is beyond a little humble pie. Quite the contrary. Feed me the humbling slice of rose-tinted reality over the foetid pat of cynical tart any day of the week.

Accepting however, from here on in, if only for the sake of our collective sanity, that I am being foolish in my scepticism, surely we have to ask ourselves why this is the case. Why on earth would an ordinary London Underground customer be filled with such unsound suspicions? And in answering this question we also fulfil our obligation to remind you, Mr Summers – although how one can be reminded of something of which one has no prior knowledge escapes me – exactly what it is I am so damn flustered about.

It is this:

• On Friday the fourth of May, 2001, I, Graham Pond, sent a letter of complaint to London Underground. In this letter I outlined a number of grievances I had – and, as it happens, still have – with London transport as a whole.

• On Monday the seventh of May I received the following reply from your predecessor, Mr Patrick Green: ‘Thank you for your email. If you are dissatisfied with London Underground’s services I suggest that you avoid using them. Perhaps you may consider also a stress management course.’

• After which, a rather diverting email correspondence ensued, and Mr Green seemed to have succeeded in his plan to extricate himself from a potentially embarrassing situation simply by being an evasive and sycophantic arse. But then, on the twenty-sixth of June, I received an email from Mr Green in which were recorded electronic conversations he had been having about me – a paying customer of London Underground – with some of his city pals, most notably Mr David H Laurence of Herbert Smith.

• Hurt, offended and angry, I wrote a reasoned response.

• Ignored, I wrote another.

• Then another.

And now, Mr Summers, you have taken up the mantle. As I have stated in my correspondence with Mr Green, a copy of which is available on request, I do not want to get anyone into trouble. I merely request, as I believe is my right, a reasonable, and above all an honest, response to my original letter of grievance.

Looking forward to an end to this opprobrious matter,

Yours sincerely,

Graham Pond

___________________

SUMMERS COUNTER #2

23rd November, 2001

—–Original Message—–
From: Summers
To: Pond.
Subject title: ?/MS/AH

Dear Mr Pond

Thank you for your recent email. Please accept my sincere apologies for the delay in replying to you, this is due to the unusually high volume of email enquiries we have received over the past month.

I am very sorry if any previous correspondence from my former colleague Mr Green, who is no longer employed by this department caused you any offence. I can assure you that I am not Mr Green and the last time that I checked, I was definitely Andy Summers.

If you do have any specific problems regarding London Underground services please contact us at the above address.

Yours sincerely

Andrew Summers
Customer Service Centre
London Underground Limited

Your Tube: Publicly Run, Privately Built
See how we will build tomorrows Tube at

http://www.thetube.com/content/unblock

___________________

By which point, I thought, fuck it. They’ve won. They have ground me down. I can not be bothered.

Now here we are, almost ten years on and thankfully, London Underground is brilliant now! Hurray!

Have fun tomorrow.