London to Sunderland, with a puzzle in between.

The Newcastle to London route has been fairly well-served by ‘fast’ trains for years, but, though I never gave it a moment’s thought back in the days before Sunderland appeared on my radar, I can now understand why people in Sunderland felt a little left out of the railway action, boasting as it did no high speed rail links, no direct connection to the capital and an extremely depressing railway station.  Sadly the station remains as dire as it always was, but perhaps there is hope for its development, now the other two issues have been addressed by the saviour of Wearside rail travel and relative new kid on the sleepers, Grand Central.

A few years ago I did hear rumours of a direct rail link from Sunderland to London, but I didn’t take it seriously. I had recently moved from Newcastle to Northallerton and given that both were already well-served by the likes of GNER, Crosscountry and First Transpennine, I could afford to put my feet up and ponder what on earth friends and colleagues from Sunderland were complaining about. I’ve made the York to Sunderland journey a few times recently and now appreciate the value of the route, though perhaps with a few reservations.

This particular GC route is a fascinating one, and maps that show the stations on said route at first seem almost comically defensive.  Sunderland, Hartlepool, Eaglescliffe, Northallerton, Thirsk, York and then, eh, nothing until London. It is almost as if route planners decided to take a slightly pointless scenic route once leaving Sunderland, before deciding that after York, everyone else is already well-served so they can jolly well keep out of the way and let us zoom straight to the capital free of foreigners. The reality is perhaps a little less comical, and is probably bristling with station-provision issues, non-compete clauses and financial incentives.

Or maybe this branch of Grand-Central really is a train service for Wear-siders and Tees-siders only, and the rest of you can all damn well clear off and catch one of the trains you enjoyed while we were in the Styx.

The most striking thing about Grand Central trains on this route is that not many people travel on them. I’ve travelled on all the scheduled services (there seem to be about four a day in each direction) and in most cases have had at least half a coach to myself. The occasional business traveller (or at least, someone wearing a dark suit and carrying a laptop backpack), a few unfathomable individuals, and myself. I wonder how the business is doing financially.

Staff tend to be very friendly and very much on the ball. I’d argue they are generally the warmest and most efficient staff on British trains. But I do wonder what they do between York and London. With no stops, hardly any passengers, and assuming there are only so many coffees the limited number of passengers can possibly order in one journey, perhaps they are also the most relaxed and stress-free on British trains?

So far, so confusing. A train service several years in the planning and which supposedly fills a much-needed gap in the rail-travel marketplace, is very-well staffed and generally very efficient, but which seems to be grossly underused as a service. Then again, it is headquartered in York, which means it could just be a side-project of one of the other huge rail companies. This mild conspiracy theory might also explain why rolling stock is almost all recycled GNER. Given the racked up prices of the ‘competition’, and the assumption that the likes of East Coast make profits, perhaps a regionally-satisfying side-project doesn’t need to make all that much money in the bigger picture. Of course I am probably further from the reality than it is possibly to get, so I’ll leave the business behind and take a look at the trains, instead.

Grand Central trains on this route are often made up of recycled first-class coaches from a few years ago, a comfort boost and-a-half if you travel in standard class as a rule. Wider aisles, lightly bouncy seats with backs high enough to avoid the nosy man behind trying to find out what you are up to, and tables with little lights and even a curtain or two. But beyond this little treat, I find travel on a Grand Central trains even more confusing than the business premise.  On the wall at the and of the coach (and taking up the whole wall, no less) is a massive picture of Marilyn Monroe, with some sort of black and white backdrop and the words ‘Grand Central’ behind her. It is a little off-putting, especially when we are used to ceiling to floor carpet.  Marilyn smiles at me and seems to be hinting that I am not just travelling on a train, I am partaking of an American-dream-fuelled travel experience. As I hurtle through Eaglescliffe and Thirsk, I am living out cinematic dreams and am on my way to being someone.

Better still are the board games on the tables. Or at least, the boards for games (counters and dice supplied separately, presumably by the catering staff in return for a small deposit) like Monopoly, Chess (or even Draughts if you’re that way inclined) and Cluedo. This novel idea sounds like fun, until the reality that is being seated next to a family of four on the American dreamboat to Northallerton starts to kick in. With the tossing of dice (and subsequent hunts for said dice under the tables after Dad’s enthusiastic roll just as the train went around a corner), the clickety-clack of playing pieces and the occasional accusation (it was Christo, with a rolled-up on-board magazine, in what he thought was a quiet coach. He did it!), I’m sure a lot of fun could be had.

Marilyn and Cluedo aside, my favourite part of the Grand Central experience is their take on the public announcement. After the usual welcome, this is the x to x, please keep your luggage etc etc, they treat us to an “if you see anything suspicious during the journey and wish to report it, please do so by…”.  And so to add yet more variables to the cinematic sharabang of chaos,  they now invite all budding sleuths to make a nuisance of themselves. I have visions of a granny with an overly-active mind drawing the crew’s attention to that slightly unsavoury looking chap in seat number 23. You know, the one with the hoodie…

On a serious note, I do like the Grand Central graphics and think Cravens have done an excellent job. A nice logo, a little bit of well-chosen typography to add an almost Gothic twist to the American dream, and a darker livery (hell, it’s almost black) than the other train operators.

I’m aware some of this sounds a little flippant, but I mean it all in good humour – I admire the Grand Central staff, I find the journeys enjoyable and I am pleased Sunderland got its rail link after all these years.

I just wish I knew what the hell it was all about.

T4 Tokkata

This new track from KBS-3/Markus Weiss is essentially a heavily-processed organ improvisation, using the EXS24 Sampler in Logic Pro 9. The beats and processing are typical of KBS-3 but the track itself is something of a new direction – comments are much appreciated!

Media Diet? Be Wary of Free Meals

I’ve had a hate-hate relationship with free, regional magazines for years. When I lived in Newcastle-upon-Tyne I lamented the state of the press and quickly grew tired of listings bolstered with a few articles and reviews, going under the slightly misleading banner of ‘magazine’. Gems of regional wit, reviews of eateries offering the likes of fish-finger sandwiches and home-made this and that (under the impression it makes them refreshingly cool and modern, but with a nod to the 1980s, the time when the down-to-earth editors were growing up) and rave reviews of bands I often never wanted to hear, all pushed me away. The media banquet these days is a little better, but the more grown-up looking offerings still abound with unfocused listing after unfocused listing. I’ve spent more time in Yorkshire lately, and have devoured the free media offerings here, too. In keeping with North Yorkshire’s view of itself, the freebies are mainly glossy affairs, and at first glance appear to be high-quality magazines. Inside, there is none of the regional wit mentioned earlier, but more an attempt to present the Yorkshire dream of the ‘high life’ – restaurant reviews (double espresso tart, anyone? The food looks lovely, but the reviewer often can’t spell), full-page adverts (and so no content at all) for expensive shopping arcades in Leeds, advert after advert for lingerie boutiques selling Rigby & Peller and designed (even worded) to appeal to time-starved, cash-rich Yorkshire businessmen with apartments in Harrogate and wives who do nothing but lunch.

Whatever the region, the content is often light and the advertising heavy. Already I wonder at what point a few cliches bound together as a not very interesting mag ever made it to layout phase, let alone funding phase. But, there’s more.

There are two things nearly all free magazines can’t get enough of. Page after page of colour photos taken at charity balls, and street style photo pages. The photos at balls, fundraisers and parties – ill-fitting dinner jackets and gowns, oversized cheques and beaming grins – have always been a mystery to me. But I am very interested in the street style side of things. If only because they generally get it so wrong. I love street style blogs, and occasionally street style blogs translate well to the printed page. But rarely in a free, regional magazine.

Half a dozen images on a page. Close-ups, of say watches, scarves or trainers. Good idea, though often they choose the most obscenely random garments and accessories, probably thinking they have found the fish-finger sandwich of the clothing world. Cue the questions under each image, too. Usually name, occupation and then a random question designed to show just how out-of-the-box their thinking is. “Who would you least like to be stranded with on a desert island?” or “What’s your favourite kind of pasta?” are two of the recent ones I’ve read.  Yesteday I picked up a magazine in Harrogate and found the street style page hilarious. The heading ran “Street Style: The Looks we Love in Harrogate this Month”. Then came the images, two of which I reproduce below…

I’d love to read the criteria used in selecting the people in the street whose ‘looks we love’. On the left we have a musician who can often be seeing playing in Harrogate. I love him – he has the warmest smile, plays beautiful music and always cheers me up. If the page was headed something other than ‘the looks we love’ I’d say he would belong on it. A page of ‘the most charming people on the street’ anyone? In terms of style, however, I’d say that is as far removed from a ‘look’ as it is possible to get. Umbro trainers alone would, in any other circumstance, be enough to attract abuse and insult. The only thing that is further removed from a ‘look’ than the picture of Seikou is the picture of Zandar, a fundraiser. Again, if the page was headed ‘personable people in the street’ or (if my previous experience and blog posts are anything to go by) ‘most annoying people in the street’, Zandar would deserve a place. In terms of street style, I’m still actually trying to work out how anyone ever managed to attach a human face to a pillar of wool, and jeans made of the same panels used to supply Bertram Mills with tents.

It is all a little tired and desperate. I can picture the scene on the editorial floor, just hours before going to press. Damn! We still haven’t got any filler images for our obligatory street style page. You know, the street style page that we’re not interested in, but which our backers said must be in the magazine because that’s what all the other regional freebies do. Quick! Send Dave out with the office camera. So Dave runs out into the streets of Harrogate and gets his four photos – the unusually dressed musician for character, maybe the girl with so many vintage pieces she looks like a mobile jumble sale, the student with slightly unusual hair or a bag covered in badges and of course the fundraiser disguised  as a ball of wool. Phew! Deadline? No problem!

Above all, though, even when free magazines get some of their offering right, the one flaw that jumps out in every case, is the seeming lack of theme and focus. So many regional freebies send mixed messages in terms of target audience, the content seems to trundle along from issue to issue and it almost feels like they have no real goal. Plan it, get it printed, get it out there and then continue with the same template for years.

Come on people, let’s try something new.

An Earnest Plea to UK Charities

Dear UK charities,

OK, we’ve had some fun, you and I. We’ve played a skillful and at times tense game these past two or three years (I’m not sure of the exact date you decided on hiring students to engage in mass warfare on what used to be public streets, but an approximation will do) and you’ve managed to disrupt every stroll along every street in every town or city, every day for as long as I can remember. It has been great, it has kept me on my toes and collectively you have invaded every opportunity for ‘me time’ in public places and forced me into moral decision-making every twenty paces or so. In return, I have variously shown interest, parted with bank details, offered financial and moral support, as well as asked you to leave me alone, said “no thanks” and at times been a little rude.

But now, I want out. The game has to end. I’m not enjoying it any more, and if you persist in bothering me every time I walk along a street, your cause is soon going to be synonymous with anger, and you will get the kind of welcome you yourself would reserve for a member of a religious body knocking at your door on a Saturday morning, or perhaps someone frequently interrupting your free time asking you to purchase piano and singing lessons.

Off the top of my head I can think of a dozen strategies you could adopt to raise awareness, raise money (which is inevitably at the heart of your plan), and none of them involve harassing members of the public. Feel free to consult me on this, I might help bring your organizations into the twenty-first century and avoid estranging the very people you seek to enlist as supporters.

I can, however, give you some free advice, and I sincerely hope that if you hold any form of staff training event at all (and this I seriously doubt) you might impart this advice to your minions. It comes from someone who a) is sick and tired of your attempts to be sales-people with friendly faces and b) knows what he is talking about. Take note…

People are not fools, and they do not wish to be treated as such. Assuming your predatory employees have managed to stop us in our tracks and corner us into discussing your agenda, we do not necessarily want to be called chief, dude, man or even matey. We do not want to be stopped in the street and told we look reasonable, cool, sensible, understanding or even just nice. Neither do we want to be asked, somewhat tentatively, if we can be borrowed for a minute. Speaking personally, I can assure you that I am as far removed from the kind of person most collectors would regard as a ‘mate’ as it is possible to be. In any other situation than an on-street sales pitch, I doubt very much whether I would be regarded as ‘cool’ and I am deeply puzzled as to just how feasible it is for a complete stranger with a disgruntled look and a gait that hints at a busy timetable, to look ‘reasonable’. All of these are not-particularly subtle salesman’s ploys to stop us, grab out attention, and hope that by striking up a conversation and indulging in a little flattery, you can then cut to the chase and get what you want.

I’m a direct sort of man, and I am largely immune to flattery, pitches and attempts to distract. Wear a sign, tell me what you want in the shortest time possible. Don’t waste time. I might just give you want you want. More importantly, please reduce the number of people you deploy in one place at a time. If one or two people stop me in my tracks, they will see a pleasant Christo, and they will generally get my full attention. When I am interrupted by half a dozen of your people in as many paces, all offering the same one line flattery by way of introduction, I lose interest. Quickly.

Please consider this. I am not a bad person. I am generally optimistic and upbeat (though I do enjoy a moan, if only for comedy value). Each day I wake up eager to see what lies ahead. I am generally open-minded, I am generous with money (and especially to those charities I care about most) and my entire career is built around the central idea of encouraging, coaching and helping people develop.

So far, so 7am. On any given week day, by about 6pm, I am generally sick and tired, a little irritable and completely removed from the idea of giving any charity my time, support or money. Rather than ask the obvious question “what is wrong with this guy?” I would like to suggest you sit back, consider the above and ask the slightly less obvious question “what are we doing wrong?”

I am available on a freelance basis as a trainer and am very open to consulting offers. Together we can change the way you pester people and hopefully bring just as much attention to your cause, for all the right reasons.

Just don’t call me chief.

Fat Squirrel

Proof that I do occasionally see the good in things comes in the form of a cute, fat squirrel I saw earlier today in Harrogate’s Valley Gardens. I don’t care if he is vermin or not, he is packed with character and brought a smile to my decidedly downturned mouth…

The End of a Beautiful Friendship?

After deflecting the barrage of sales pitches at the bank earlier today, then managing to avoid the army of charity collectors and street sellers on my way through town, I was delighted to make it to a branch of the Post Office. The red logo shouted “sanctuary!” at me and my little bag of parcels.

I’ve always had a thing for the Post Office. Sure, there have been a few rough patches in our relationship (The Consignia affair threatened our happiness and the general disintegration of delivery schedules and guaranteed delivery times have given rise to the odd domestic) but on the whole I’ve long had a respect for the Royal Mail that goes way beyond my old stamp-collecting days. In fact it goes right back to a school trip in the 1980s. A school trip to a sorting office where, for the first time, I was introduced to fleets of trucks, motorbikes and even aircraft in smart, reassuring pillar-box red, promising to make my world a smaller place and ‘get things done’.

Once finished mailing packages today, I headed for the Bureau de Change, deciding some hard cash might be useful for an upcoming trip over the channel. A tubby gentleman with an alarmingly high-pitched voice swiftly set about dealing with the exchange, but there was something about the ever-decreasing speed at which he counted out the notes (not to mention the wheeze as he took a deep breath, suggesting he was preparing himself for something important but somewhat uncomfortable) that set alarm bells ringing. It was coming, I knew it. The sales pitch.

“Do you go abroad often?” he ventured, with a turn of the head that reminded me of Rigsby from the TV series Rising Damp.

“Not as often as I would like” was my semi-evasive reply.

“It’s just that if you go abroad (even not very much) you can do a lot worse than have the Post Office credit card in your wallet. Do you use credit cards when you’re abroad?”

It took me a moment to recover from the fact he had managed to get such a textbook line out without so much as flinching.

“No, I don’t”.

And in a moment of madness, showing no regard for security of personal information, I continued…

“I only have one credit card, but I don’t use it. Kind of  ’for emergencies’ only.”

(I always hate it when people say exactly what I just said. But there you are, I said it).

He wheezed again. I could feel the pressure the poor man must be under. Back office managers will have demanded ‘x’ amount of credit card referrals today. His bonus, his job, his entire career rests on serving people who do use credit cards and want as many of the damn things as they can possibly get. I pictured his starving family, desperately looking for a crumb, and all because I didn’t want a credit card.

I pulled myself together.

He didn’t give up…

“Well, recently I went to Bruges with my wife, a friend and his wife. We all travelled together, we stayed in the same hotel and ate all the same stuff…”

Fascinating, I thought, if a little hard to believe. Surely one of you must have had a tea rather than a coffee, or a cheese sandwich rather than a ham sandwich? No? Oh well, continue…

“Well, when we got back we compared our credit card statements…”

You have got to be making this up. You actually sat down and compared statements?

“And guess what? I had saved £10.00 on the total cost of the trip because I had the Post Office credit card!”

A whole ten pounds off what sounds like the most boring holiday in the history of travel? Sign me up now!

“So if you like, I can get Wendy to have a chat with you (always a Wendy, every time) – she’s a customer advisor and can run you through the benefits in more detail than I can.”

He eagerly thumbed a credit card application form. All the while he was clinging to my Euros – determined to keep me at his counter as long as possible.

Feeling guilty about the beads of enforced-sales sweat forming on his brow, and mindful of his poor family, I decided to compromise.

“Well, I’m in a hurry now, I have to get back to work (yeah, whatever) – but I’ll take the leaflet and maybe give it some thought.”

He was worrying he was losing this sale.

“You really haven’t got any time now?”

I was just about to yell “give me my bloody Euros” when he suddenly relaxed, rammed the application form (and my Euros) under the glass window, said “OK, well have a good day” and pressed a little button on his desk.

“CASHIER NUMBER ONE, PLEASE” said the robotic lady.

And so I escaped.

Now, what I didn’t tell him, and what I have indeed kept from you, is that this experience has happened several times in the same branch of the Post Office.

A couple of months ago, cashier number six relayed a similar tale, only I think her trip had been to Amsterdam. I seem to recall a time before Christmas last year when cashier number seven (or was it eight?) told me about her trip to somewhere a little further afield. Even more depressing is that the exact same man at desk number one told me about the exact same trip to Bruges not two weeks ago. I hadn’t realised my face was that forgettable. I remember the conversation we had perfectly, it went something like this:

“Have you got any plans to travel abroad at all?” (Note the different opening line, demonstrating a mastery of his art…)

“Not as often as I would like.”

“It’s just that if you go abroad  you can do a lot worse than have the Post Office credit card in your wallet. Do you use credit cards when you’re abroad?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I only have one credit card, but I don’t use it. Kind of ‘for emergencies’ only.”

“Well, recently I went to Bruges with my wife, a friend and his wife. We all travelled together, we stayed in the same hotel and ate all the same stuff…”

“Well, when we got back we compared our credit card statements…”

“And guess what? I had saved £10.00 on the total cost of the trip because I had the Post Office credit card!”

“So if you like, I can get Wendy to have a chat with you  - she’s a customer advisor and can run you through the benfits in more detail than I can.”

“Well, I’m in a hurry now, I have to get back to work  - but I’ll take the leaflet and maybe give it some thought.”

“You really haven’t got any time now?”

Sounds familiar, does it not?

I am worried my relationship with Royal Mail is heading for a messy break up. Don’t get me wrong, I understand sales are the key to (almost) everything, we all need to make them. I don’t so much blame them for trying, but this sales patter is all a little too much. I forgave the installation of small retail points featuring lacklustre displays of overpriced stationery and even forgive the odd ‘impulse buy’ temptation at the counter, but enough is enough.

Less than believable pitches, tall stories, desperate tactics and uninspiring efforts used to be the preserve of car salesmen, double-glazing agents and people keen to let us in on schemes named after ancient Egyptian monuments. I’ve come to expect it from all manner of retail banks and depressing high street companies now, but in my blissfully naïve world I always hope the ‘good old’ PO will survive by delivering mail, delivering it well and keeping its blinkers on the road it used to be King of.

It’s time to start making eyes at the courier on the horizon.

Music for 2012 Olympics Video

My music for a 2012 Olympics video: both the full track on Soundcloud and the video exerpt on Youtube…

Music for 2012 Olympics Video

 

Incanto Lingerie Advert (Rescore)

This is my rescore of an advert for Italian/Russian lingerie company Incanto.

 

My Ikea Blunder

Back in 2009 I kick-started my new blog with a short post entitled My Ikea Blunder - if stats, emails and responses are anything to go by, it has been the most popular post from any of my blogs, and I’ve had a few emails in the new year asking me to repost it (the old blog, Notes from Christo’s Desk, has long since been removed). So, here it is. Short, sweet and sadly true…

My Ikea Blunder

Recently I went to IKEA at Gateshead to pick up a few things for my new flat. Whilst browsing the kitchenware department I noticed a crate of small china beakers, light brown in colour, with broad lips. They had a sign over them, advertising the very attractive price tag of just 30p each.

I took two, thinking they would look good on my desk at the office and that I could use them as little coffee cups. Their unusual looks attracted immediate attention  amongst colleagues, who deemed them impractical; after all, they are too small and unattractive to be of any use as beakers for cold drinks yet the absence of handles makes them thoroughly unsuitable for hot drinks (something I quickly found out when I burned my fingertips).

Still I defended my beakers and claimed they were stylish, unusual and ultimately misunderstood little receptacles. I even tried to convince myself the reason I had burned my fingers was that I had been too impatient, that I ought to have allowed the coffee to cool slightly before picking up the beaker. My colleagues were not convinced. This of course only caused me to raise the height of my soap-box, pontificating at great length about the lack of style, taste and aesthetic awareness of the ‘man in the street’. I was party to a special insider-knowledge; only I seemed to appreciate the value of the beakers. I was adamant the day of the ‘regular’ coffee cup was over.

A week or so later I found myself back at the same store only to discover there were none of my beloved beakers on display. “Ha-ha!” I exclaimed.  I had been right all along; other people had recognised the worth of these cups and IKEA had sold out of them!

Then I saw a stack of the things, only this time they were not in the kitchenware department. They were in the garden department. And so I realised that, either because of a mistake or a cruel trick, I had spent the past two weeks drinking coffee from a plant pot.

Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

Laura Tindall, a fellow musician and good friend, introduced me to Slow Moving Millie’s lovely version of ‘Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want’ and we decided to record our own cover of it. Enjoy

Vocals: Laura Tindall, Piano: Christopher Watson. Produced by Christopher Watson

Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want (Cover)

http://soundcloud.com/christopherwatson/please-please-please-let-me