bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Dear Rachel

If you are a casual trader at Greenwich, you have to be outside the market office at half past eight – or, as my God daughter would doubtless have it – parp parp apes. As you might expect, a gentleman trader of my considerable standing within the London casual retail sector does not have to mingle with the proles. I can wander in at nine o’clock if I want, thereby avoiding the distressing scenes as they are stripped, hosed down with powerful disinfectants, beaten dry by thugs and thrown, naked, onto their pitches.

Being a solid professional, however, I still like to get in around eight, so I can set up nice and early, and chat to the locals walking their dogs. I also like to have coffee and a doughnut from the place by the traffic lights while chatting to Danny and the other traders. Not long ago, in the run up to the recent West Ham v Millwall game, I walked in there in my West Ham shirt, and asked for coffee as usual. The bloke behind the counter asked if I wanted sugar, to which I replied in the affirmative.

The remarkable next thing that happened was that the bloke said – and I’ll ask you to ensure that any children are safely out of the room at this point – ‘You can get it yourfuckingself, you West Ham cunt’. It’s difficult to know what to do under those circumstances, so I mentioned that I thought my cup might be leaking, poured my coffee on the floor, and walked out throwing the now empty cup back over my shoulder as I did so. It did look pretty cool, yes. There’s never a dull moment with such a Pavlovian hatred as exists between West Ham and Millwall, and the only surprising thing about the the rioting that occurred before, throughout, and after the game on Tuesday was that, eventually, it stopped.

[Hitting Read More now will reveal class issues in modern Britain, as well as the selection process for London Bridge staff, among other things]

I have not been in since we won 3-1 on that fighty evening, but what I might do next time if I get any back chat is pour not only the coffee I have just bought, but also a flask of coffee I have brought in especially, onto the floor. Then, I can go in with a bucket of coffee, then a barrel, and so on, as the weeks go by. Hopefully, this will escalate matters until I can turn up with a petrol tanker full of latte, which, over the course of a lazy Saturday morning, I can have pumped into the premises. This may sound a bit much, but tankers full of latte is the only language these people understand.

Anyway. In order to get in at eight, I get the 07.48 from London Bridge. On a Sunday, it’s the 07.50, which gives me a lovely lie in. There are usually the same two guards on the gate as I breeze through, wheeling stock on the barrow, and neither of them seem particularly pleased to be ticket inspectors. One of them just doesn’t like white people very much. I mean yes, of course, I am sure he is an entirely warm hearted multiculturalist, and it’s entirely plausible that I am the only white person he doesn’t like very much. White people get on my nerves quite a lot, too, if I’m honest about it. Well, middle class ones anyway, with their music festivals, gap years, worthy careers, acceptable friends end endless fucking earnestness. They’re just so fucking nice, all the fucking time. Fuckers. I am pretty indelibly working class, although yes I accept that discussing class on your online journal is not a typically working class way to spend an evening. But imagine what it’s like for me to have the middle class as my representatives and spokespeople in broader society. I mean Jesus.

However, in stark contrast to the Millwall dominated coffee emporium, I always like to give him a sunny smile and ask how he is, as this seems to really, really piss him off. I’m thinking of asking him for a drink this weekend, for a laugh. If only I can find out when his birthday is, I’m going to get him a cake and a card and a balloon. One Sunday on platform four he was whistling ‘These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things’ very loudly, and immediately stopped when he noticed me. Come to think of it, he probably loves me. That would explain a lot. I’m not gay, but I’m prepared to pretend if it will make him angrier. In any case, he didn’t until that moment strike me as the kind of person who would advertise that whiskers on kittens, warm woollen mittens, and brown paper packages tied up with string were among the stuff he digs, but I’m glad that it’s out there.

You may ask why I know that his colleague is also unhappy being a ticket inspector. I know because, once when I couldn’t find my ticket, he said ‘Ah just go through mate, I can’t be bothered to check it anyway’. I have come to the conclusion that, if London Bridge station is a huge ovum, it selects personnel by a process of reverse fertilisation, in that of all the applicants – or spermatazoa, in this example – only the most sluggish and inept are allowed in. Still, it beats arseing about on the Docklands Light Railway, although so does unexpectedly finding that your gums are on fire, so it’s a hollow victory.

Photard: a railway station. I forget which one.

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