Management appear to be struggling to fill the jobs in their much-vaunted Special Requirements Team (SRT).
Tubeworker is not hugely surprised. A few people's idea of a perfect job might involve travelling over a wide distance in your own time, never getting to settle at one work location, and working in permanently hectic and demanding conditions because of the 'special requirements' eg. major sporting events - but for most staff, it seems that it does not appeal.
Perhaps management should find a way of making the prospect more attractive. Any suggestions?!
Comments
SRT
twenty five platforms, and no poetry. However, an interesting tour of the fetid environs in which our colleagues may consume their food. I've never really explored the dank and airless conduits that lead to ... the loo, or the messroom. It's a shame we can't post reviews on each station. Oppressed by atmosphere .. . liberated by light, conditions vary, but it is quite astounding how some of us put up with taking our breaks in a stifling cupboard. It's an Underground thing.
Where's the verse?
Where did the poem disappear to? Quite liked it ...
re the poem
Thanks, I just got a wee bit paranoid about the LU thought police and the credit crunch.
I'll post it again....
More news on SRT, by the way. In case anyone is interested. Only my opinion, of course.
We traversed the airless
We traversed the airless edges of
London Underground.
A litany of tunnels punching out memories of light.
Station upon station, crumbling into biscuits, trodden underfoot we
trudged via headwall and autophone.
Replicated ghosts by the fire extinguishers, idle and fat with chemical entropy
on we sidled, precipice, train, smooth and wreathed with the souls and
detritus of souls paring like gossamer bark.
Remembering. '... They brought her legs back in a separate bag...'
I remembered when it wasn't all brake dust, myriad lines, suicide pit
and curves drenched in soot.
These night-days,where gateline scenarios squeal grey like pigeons
impaled upon those spikes at St James' s Park.
And repetition: did you ever notice the 's' missing?
Something's missing.
I left somewhere between Notting Hill and Camden Town.
SRT
A special Lambeth Walk on platform 1,
Bakerloo, curvy and treacherous for those without an inclination for
tunnel telephone or plungers.
Sinking to rat corridors, bent beneath pipes clothed in Victorian vest
and a framework agreement, we heave back the door
and are smothered in mess room,
Kettle steam. Tupperware pops, fresh bread and lettuce breathe until
the fridge opens with a belch.
A sigh and a dive for soft, white sleep.
No.
an echo battered by a discourse from an LU veteran
of only 28.
Tracks riven in a face all Traffic Circular - I predict a point failure.
Down to Wembley
Baker Street.
Liverpool Street, Yellow, red and iron respectively.
As if it matters.
We eat black porridge in SRT
And scarper to the elements when the tunnel wind summons the dead cells
of our dusty metal cage.
A poetic contribution to Solidarity
Hi
This is not a poetry forum, I know, so I don't mind if it's deleted as unsuitable! I was thinking about those starving sods in London at this time. And, of course, I'm not advocating theft, even tho some of us may feel a wee bit ripped of, in one way or another. . .
"Shoplifting Chocolate and Cakes –What some may do in the credit crunch
Aisles in the centre
Aisles by the side
Wide aisles
And those with plenty to take
Rivers of pudding with iron in glove.
I want to pinch Chocolate to give to my son
Steal Pudding to share with my dog
Snuffle those biscuits
To keep
By the cold
I’ll eat my own shadow
If that’s what to do
Ravenous
Titbits, left on the shore
Aisles like beaches
Sunny and broad
Waves devouring my cupboard
That you keep in your store.
Hunger, hunger
My stomach’s on fire
Pockets melting in Chocolate and Cake
Knitting a trolley
From cocoa and wire
Aisles that are fatter than I
Shelves that ought to know better
Are purple with rant
The colours of sirens, like
Hymns in a choir
But easy, slut purses, propriety eschews
So decent am I
I could nearly be you
My feet are like pelicans
Wading the sea
Yet the bathers in here
Are shivering wrecks
All queuing for tadpoles and Cashmere V necks
When your bones are this famished
You’ll lie next to rakes
Ash
Hollow
Cardboard
Bellies
Are deaf to all
But Chocolate and Cakes."
Keep it up
Keep posting the poems, I say.
Lovely poems! more please!
Lovely poems! more please!
Valuing Tim. An account in some parts
Valuing Tim
In some or several parts.
Part 1.
How long did we really know before his announcement that The Rev T was offing it back to the U.S.of A.?
“We didn’t,” someone intones from the back row. "Outta the blue."
How could we predict that, along with the economic collapse and revenge of Bonny Prince Charlie in the House, that the main man would leave us?
Yet I, inclined toward cynicism and being not a little airy of the nature, began to detect some dissent in the room. Yes, there had been signs, subliminal omens though they might have been, that The Great Rev T was upping and packing the old Henk.
A man huffs and puffs beside me in the third row from the front. “Bleeding Picc driver, weren’t it, mate?”
“What was?” I query.
“They all knew, didn’t they? Rife at Acton for about a year it was. OK, we didn’t get the economic down turn or anything; Central line driver got that, bit of the feelers goin’ out at White City, like but it was mainly Central that picked that up, but we definitely got it first that the Rev was leaving.”
“Ah, thanks for that. Any inkling as to the pay . . . .”
“Don’t even go there, mate . . . we’ve just had our best pyschic stood down.”
But let us go back; before our room, before we enter yet another substantial Corporate Property Portfolio, just off Holborn.
Tripping lightly across the square, a few optimistic blossom tangling with the trees and litter, I approach the vast portico. Already there are gathered those of blue and Gortex. Some straggle with colleagues at the outer edges of the grand façade, puffing at fags, murmuring darkly.
I pass them and push at the magnificent bronze doors, making a note of the architectural merit and quirky detail of this impressive pile, and my heart lifts.
Ahead, in the marble clad foyer, I see a cluster of greeters, all wearing little rosettes, all around are banners with the Rev Tim’s face emblazoned thereupon, and despite myself, have to choke back a tear.
As I draw near, I recognise a former manager. He clasps me by the hand. “How are you feeling? Welcome to Valuing Tim. Would you mind emptying your pockets of any personal items, including mobiles, keys, RMT membership cards . . . any former I.D you may posses relating to any union or individualistic activities . . . “
“I used to belong to a swimming club.”
“Ah, hang on, I think that’s OK. Just hang on, will you?” My fervent erstwhile Manager does the muttering and conferring with a couple of white shirt wearers, and returns: “Was that an Oyster Bank swimming club?”
“Er, Putney actually.”
“Ah, just to be on the safe side. Excellent. Now, if you pop down the corridor, past the installation of a man in the stocks by a Union Picket line, turn left at the installation of Man at Work in orange and you’ll come to some of your colleagues who will be drinking from the er, cups provided.
My heart sinks from its earlier lifting - where have I come? What is this place, and will I ever get my diary back? I plod ahead, a cursory glance at the sinister installations strangely redolent of the French Revolution. I pause for a moment, and wonder if I should leave now, no one would notice if I slipped out, and turn. A voice to my ear and a heavy . . . .
To be continued.
Item Pandemic
Hi
if I've missed any apposite comments on the above, apologies for boiling the cabbage twice.
As the 'Swine Flu' seems to be creeping inexorably into our daily workplace, what are LU's policy on illness in times of Pandemic?
The message is to come to work no matter what. But, if by so doing, you spread the virus, then more people are going to fall ill.
Maybe in these circumstances, time off for this could be item free, in order to save the greater whole.
I can hear you laugh, pigs can fly, yeah.
no comment
awaiting content
'BORIS BLASTS POINTLESS STRIKE.'
A god, casual in toga, sits above a shivering pool. Below, to the far right, are his wife and sister, the excoriatingly clever goddess Lady Goldilots.
The god reaches for a triangle of grapes, and quaffs in godly Romanly way until his fill. Then, drawing his family near, dips his fingers in the pool, disturbing the glacial calm. Far beneath his gaze, mortals play and strike. He nods, imperiously: 'It is the way of mortals to be pointless, so we must teach them a lesson.'
On earth, men and women toil. They have no choice, they know the gods are angry and they must make a sacrifice.
But as with all futility, a lonely voice reaches for the heavens. Then another, and more, until the earth, particularly the underground and railway system,
reverberate with this pithy ditty:
We can see the the reason for trains
to cross our marvellous city
We can understand the reason to work
But not the point of Boris.
We believe in withdrawing our labour
to save our brothers' jobs.
We comprehend the safety of travel
But not the point of Boris.
Our view is clear on unmanned stations
of dangers lurking within
We empathise with customers' fears
but cannot fathom Boris.
We turn our backs on cuts and lies
Yet do it not to harm
but protect the city from robot-wars
And the pointlessness of Boris.
So when he's bored and turns away
There'll be nothing left of worth
In petulance, he'll buy us up:
A memento to the point of Boris.