Self-exposure

Less than a week to go before I give up my current London-based job. 

An end to commuting will be a huge relief. On the other hand, there are a few aspects of travelling into the capital that I shall miss.

At the end of the journey, for instance, I walk past the front of Selfridges with its flamboyant and (as I’ve remarked before) sometimes startling window displays. So it was quite fun this morning to see the window-displayers making a display of themselves while a colleague waited with a camera outside to record the.

It was a wonderful case of exhibitors exhibiting themselves, what I’d like to call self-exposure, though not perhaps in the sense usually meant.

I liked the staff’s air of joy, of celebration. Why, they even had bottles though, by the look of them, sadly empty. Nine o’clock may be a little early for a drink but I’m of the school of Dorothy Parker: ‘three be the things I shall never attain, envy, contentment and sufficient champagne.’

Display staff self-displaying

The sight that struck me most this morning, however, came at the beginning of the journey. 

Anyone who expects rigorous respect for the truth at all times had better be ready for disappointment. The most you can generally hope for is to have the more egregious lies exposed from time to time. Say, Dominique Strauss-Kahn’s contributions to the feminist cause or Tony Blair and Dubya’s irrefutable intelligence on Iraqi weapons of mass destruction.

So it’s lovely to see a lie – well, OK, an untruth – displayed with its own refutation right underneath it. Not for the first time, the platform display at Luton station provided a wonderfully revelatory sight today.

The deceiver exposes the deception

The 8:15 running on time, it told us. And just below, even more prominently, it declared the time to be just short of 8:18. Tell me that’s not another glorious example of self-exposure.

Wouldn’t it be great if politicians came equipped with similar displays?

‘When I say protecting essential services I actually mean all services except the ones I’m cutting and on which you depend.’

‘When I say I’m willing to seek a compromise with the President, I mean a compromise that he makes to me.’

‘When I say I want to guarantee peace and prosperity, I mean I want to wage war in poor countries.’

Wouldn’t that be useful? Perhaps the people who run Luton station could help them choose the right devices.

Unblessed are the cheapskates for they shall not inherit the earth

A real Ancient Mariner experience awaits me most mornings as I arrive at Luton station. An old man acosts us all, hurrying passengers, his eyes boring into us with wild earnestness, as he tries to foist his miserable story on us. In his case, it’s a story that takes the form of one of those ubiquitous free newspapers. 

‘Cheap!’ he shouts, ‘totally free. You like money? Here is a free paper. Straight in the bin when you have finished it. Completely cheap.’

Every fibre in the marketing bit of my soul – and I like to think that marketing occupies only part of my soul – revolts at his patter. Because no-one likes ‘cheap’. Why, even when I was being taught German, my class learned that the word for cheap, ‘billig’, should be avoided in favour of ‘preisgünstig’, which basically means good value.

People buy value; if they can get it for less that’s great, but it’s not the price they want to be reminded of, it’s the value. You’re telling me the paper can go straight in the bin? Then why would I take it at all, even for nothing? What I put in my bin is rubbish; are you offering me more?

Maybe some people take copies but I absolutely refuse. I stalk by with my nose in the air. Well, metaphorically at least. Not so as you could tell from the outside. Marketing may not be the most admirable of professions, but it has been mine for many years and I owe it more consideration than to give into that kind of promotion.

His misguided message got me thinking about other cheap things. Airlines, for instance, which don’t call themselves ‘cheap’ but ‘low cost’. It’s an important difference: if you keep your costs down, you’re being smart, showing good husbandry or perhaps the ability to negotiate intelligently. Buying cheap, on the other hand, just means settling for less.

No wonder that Fascinating Aïda wanted to satirise that particular industry, they called their song ‘Cheap Flights’. It includes the memorable line:

Cheap flights, cheap flights, we should have gone by sea, 
There's no such fecking thing as a fecking flight for 50p

The song doesn’t name an airline though it does talk about Ireland, which for some may seem a bit of a give-away. 

At one time I relied pretty heavily on the Irish low-cost carrier Ryanair, but the more I flew on it, the less I liked it: there was the increasing sense that anything they could stick a price tag on would pretty soon be given one. What finally finished them for me was when they did away with reclining seats, as though being able to lean back was a luxury too far for a ‘low cost flight’. 

Travelling with Ryanair became the airline equivalent of catching a bus, except that I rather like buses.

Unbeatable on the price tags

The only time I enjoyed flying with Ryanair was on a trip from Belfast, when a hostess with a strong local accent announced that there were ‘sex emergency exits’ on the plane. It was only a forty-minute flight, but that was quite long enough to come up with a mind-blowing list of situations that might be classified as sex emergencies. Obviously, it helps if you have the right kind of imagination. I leave that as an exercise to yours.

So I gave up on Ryanair, despite its claim, probably justified, of being the cheapest – even once you’ve paid for the extras. But that only proves my point. They give ‘cheap’ a bad name. And they certainly they have nothing to do with good value.

Still, I mustn’t complain about the man with the papers at the station. At least he’s provided me with a few thoughts to toy with in an idle moment, and for that I’m grateful. Perhaps I should return the favour, and offer him some advice.

Why not try, I’d like to say to him: ‘all the news you need! right here, right now, with no waiting. And – it’s free!’

Maybe it wouldn’t appeal to him. But it works a lot better for me. Though that still wouldn’t persuade me to take one of his grotty free sheets. I mean – if it’s free, what can it possibly be worth?

Iconic Places of the World: Luton Station

Paris has the Eiffel Tower, New York the Empire State Building, Rome the Coliseum. And Luton has its station.

Iconic buildings. They sum up something essential about the places in which they stand. Grace and elegance in Paris, majesty and power in New York, the pride and glory of the ancient world in Rome. And charm wrapped in shabbiness for Luton.

Because Luton has about the ugliest station in England. It’s run down, windswept, bleak. It even has terrible associations. You know those ghastly grainy CCTV pictures you get whenever there’s a major crime? The ones that show the victim just before the murder or the perpetrator just before the act? Well, the only thing that ever made Luton Station famous was the CCTV footage of the 7/7 suicide bombers heading to London to cause the carnage that cost 52 lives in July 2005.

7/7 bombers entering Luton Station

It’s gruesome seeing the pictures. In the background, behind the bombers, is the place where I chain up my bike when I cycle to the station. Chilling.

So far, then, not a lot to commend the place. And yet there is on platform 4 a café and newsagent with the most cheerful barista it has ever been my pleasure to meet. Really. He has a warm and ready smile for every customer, while making each one feel special. ‘Seeing you,’ he seems to be saying, ‘is just the most unexpected and extraordinary pleasure.’

He gets to know your habits within a visit or two: there was a day when I didn’t want a latte but took one anyway because, seeing me in the queue, he’d started preparing mine while he served the other customers. The other morning I missed my train because I couldn’t bear to drag myself away before he’d finished making the coffee (it wasn’t a problem: I was on time anyway and, in any case, I’m changing jobs at the end of this month. It's amazing how knowing I'm not going to be around much longer reduces my stress at the prospect of being late).

It’s reached a point where I'm disappointed if I ever have to catch a train from a different platform.

And that’s why the station represents Luton so well. It may be ugly and flyblown outside, but it has unsuspected charms in the little gems beneath.

So you can keep the London Eye or the Brandenburg Gate. I’ll settle for my fine latte in Luton station, with a nice fresh Guardian to read in the train, all served with a broad smile and a ‘How are you today?’ that suggests it actually matters to find out.