Now before anyone even thinks it, the
following article is not intended to be
sexist. It is supposed to be
a light hearted look at our hobby through the
eyes of someone who is simply reporting
what he's seen around him in the
past twenty or so years. I'd
also like to point out that I have a girlfriend who
is very understanding of my fascination
with the finer classes of former B.R.
motive power and even, on occasion,
has accompanied me on various
jaunts to diesel weekends and railtours
etc..
But the overwhelming feeling I get
is that women and trains don't, generally
speaking, always exist happily side
by side. Sure, there has been a slight
increase over the past few years in
the number of females seen 'out' and
about, giving the traction some generous
heave-ho out of the window; and
female participation on preserved
lines seems to be particularly high.
Surely this is to be welcomed.
But view most wives or girlfriends dragged
along for the ride and you'd be forgiven
for thinking that they'd been asked
to spend a day at their least favorite
dry cleaners, perhaps only marginally
less interesting.
But is this any wonder when they probably
view the traction up front as a
'threat'. Let's face it:
our hobby can be pretty obsessive at times, and I'm
sure a lot of us guys will at some
time or another have had to choose
between the 'wife' or 'traction' action.
I certainly have had to make this
choice many times, and no prizes for
guessing which always wins hands
down! You see, that's just the
problem. Say you're a basher trying to clear
his Hoovers or Syphons or whatever
and you get that ultimate phone call
saying that one of your last ones
is working. There can only really be one
choice if you're going to stand any
real chance of clearing them. But you
can't realistically expect most wives
or girlfriends to be very understanding
of that, can you?
I remember a classic story that I overheard
on some choppers back in 1983.
Some 'Birm head'1* was in the front
coach with some mates and recounted
his tale of his wife's birthday.
Obviously he wanted to treat 'the wife' (as he
so affectionately called her), but
faced a dilemma because her birthday fell
on a summer Saturday and he
wanted to view the choppers returning from
Skeg. It should be noted that
this incident occurred before the wonderful
advent of mobile phones for the masses
(or should that be bashers?), an
invention allowing one strategically
placed basher to provide gen to any
number of mobile-phone wielding bashers
around the country. Anyway,
what was the perfect solution? Drive
her all the way from the West Midlands
to the wonderfully idyllic and picturesque
location of......Beeston. Yes, that's
right, BEESTON, suburb of Nottingham.
The pub chosen for the birthday
celebration was conveniently located
just a few hundred yards west of the
station on the north side of the track.
I'm sure you can imagine what
happened next: just as the birthday
dinner was being served in the beer
garden, along storms the first pair
of choppers returning from the morning
at Skeg. Of course one was required,
so off he went, throwing a couple of
tenners at the wife and leaving her
with the kids while he produced to
Derby. Some birthday that must
have been for her. I bet she still
remembers it to this day...maybe with
her new husband.
Hearing stories like this, is it any
wonder that many women see the hobby
as a threat? Not only are many
blokes so often 'unfaithful' in the way
described above, but many of us view
our beloved trains as a kind of sexual
object and even seem to experience
bashing as, dare I say it, a substitute
for sex. Mates and I would often
half jokingly greet a loco with 'Phwoar!
Look at the buffers on that';
or, having purchased a new rail mag, open to
the centre pages and turn the magazine
round as if to ogle at some centre
spread (which, let's face it, we were
actually doing).
Us rail enthusiasts shouldn't delude
ourselves into thinking that the outside
world is unaware of the sex-train
connection. I remember having a temp job
at IBM a few years back and on my
last day everyone had a bit of a whip
round to get me a secret leaving present.
Imagine my pleasure then, when
in front of the entire office, I was
handed a rather smutty porno mag. 'Great',
I thought, 'That's pretty liberal
of them'. As I turned the first page, I realised,
to the entire office's amusement,
that they had stapled a porno mag cover
on the front of a copy of 'Steam Railway'.
I didn't have the heart to tell them I
was into diesels.
I can recall an incident back in 1988
that fully illustrates the Sex vs Trains
theory beyond all reasonable doubt.
A load of us arrived into New Street at
about 10pm, having returned from the
Cambrian on the day that
37674/684/158/254 had all been working.
The motley crew of syphon
bashers made their way up to the main
concourse, looking on this occasion
particularly shabby and worn out.
Suddenly, like a vision from heaven, a
throng of girls appeared under the
indicator board. It quickly became clear
that they were on their way to a fancy
dress party, since each and every one
of them was dressed as either a tart
or a tramp! I'm sure you can imagine
the look on the bashers' faces as
they clocked the girls with their short skirts,
stockings, and garters...in fact,
the full works. One basher, who shall
remain anonymous, was completely oblivious
to the girls, apparently
transfixed by the rampant clicking
of the indicator board. 'Bloody hell!', he
shouted, 'What the hell's that on
platform one?'. Girls completely forgotten,
everybody raced downstairs to view
a rather large Roarer disappearing on
a late evening additional to
Coventry. Several bashers (who shall also
remain anonymous), furious at having
missed 19.25 miles of fast-fading
Class 85 haulage, laid the blame on
the girl's untimely appearance!
At around this time I had a girlfriend
called Joanna who, very conveniently,
lived in Selly Oak. Of all my
girlfriends, past and present, she definitely
bore the brunt of my obsessiveness.
Recently armed with a priv. pass, I was
virtually 'out solid' for a week at
a time, caning the all-line railrovers
available for the ridiculous price
of £52 per week! Now call it coincidence
or call it fate, but Selly Oak was
a prime place to leap back to for a quick
de-rance, bit of scran and a few pints
before getting that all-important
phone call and leaping back out again.
Predictably, this relationship didn't
fair too well and I soon found myself
without a girlfriend and 'out solid'
became very solid indeed.
I can actually pinpoint the exact event
that sent our romance from
'blossoming' into 'critical':
I'd been up to Scotland for the weekend,
attempting and jubilantly succeeding
in getting one of my last 37/4ers
(37423 xe, unspecified railfreight
grey livery - beast!) which I had to Fort Bill.
I returned south by way of the 1V32
- the down Glasgow-Bristol overnight
which had been diverted that night
by way of the S & C and then dragged
over Cannock Chase. There was
quite a crowd doing the same move as
me: Syphon bashing in Haggisland
and then producing at New Street to be
in pole position for the drags over
The Chase (the first of which was,
incidentally, 1V32, this morning dragged
by 58022).
Arrival at New Street was at around
8am Sunday morning, and the plan
was to wait for the gen and then notify
Joanna accordingly. If there was
nothing required I'd go and spend
some quality time with her. If there was
a requirement out then I'd have to
fudge it and tell her that I was stuck in
Scotland or something, as she was
expecting me back for dinner at noon!
A tops report was forthcoming from
my mate Glop (real name Martin and
signalman at Bingham at the time)
and, sure enough, there were to be some
biggies out that day. There
was certainly plenty to keep me occupied for the
early morning, allowing ample time
before the late morning call to Joanna
to concoct my tale of woe around the
words 'stranded' and 'Scotland'. After
duly doing 47213 on 1D54 (09.00 SunO
Birm-Llandudno) to Stafford and
returning back to the Street on 47413
on a Liverpool-Euston, we then had a
bit of a mega-fester until 58048 was
due to work the 13.36 Birm-Glasgow.
Eventually, I plucked up enough courage
to call Jo and tell her that I
wouldn't be able to make Sunday dinner.
She was a trifle upset, but
nevertheless seemed understanding
of my dreadful predicament. Relieved
that the phone call was out of the
way, I raced upstairs to the car park
where an excellent game of 15-a-side
footie was played with the other
bashers doing the move. After
a dismal display by myself and my team's
eventual defeat by a 16-12 score line,
we all set off for the platforms below
to board the waiting train.
Imagine my horror, then, on running into Joanna
on the station concourse! What
followed was an ugly scene, made worse by
everyone else cracking up with laughter
as I was told in no uncertain terms
that the relationship was over and
that I could stick my 'egg timers' (a
nickname for Class 58's I was surprised
to hear she had picked up) where
the sun don't shine'! 58048 was duly
done to Stafford.
Our beloved hobby, and the sometimes
immense fanaticism that goes with
it, is not always viewed very kindly
by outsiders. Is it really any wonder,
when they observe the kind of behavior
that I have just described? We are
deemed anti-social because we are
anti-social to anyone from the outside.
We can't really expect Normals2* to
fully understand our eccentric
behavior.
And it's not only women who suffer,
but friends and family too. How many
times have you let non-bashing mates
down because something worked
and you just had to take it?
Back in '93 I was on my way down to London for
a mate's stag night. I got to
Notts. station in plenty of time for the 09.30 Tram
to Panny when in strolled 20118 and
165 on a Skeg. additional. Well, what
would you do? Exactly - cape
the social event thinking you'll catch it up in
the evening, day-return it to Skeg,
and wait for the pair back in the evening.
But it doesn't always work out like
that does it? One of the aging Choppers
burst by my home town of Radcliffe
and I ended up missing the last 125 to
London! I then had to hitch to the
M1 junction and then hitch again all the
way to London, where I finally arrived
at about three in the morning. Was it
worth it? Of course it was. That was
my last ever pair to Skeg, and my
friendship has remained intact, regardless
of missing the stag night.
I know I'm not the only one to make
dubious choices in regards to spending
quality time with loved ones.
I remember my good mate Sudbury telling me
of his Dad's birthday dinner. This
was being held in Sudbury (funnily
enough) in Suffolk and since it was
a family occasion, it was absolutely
imperative that Sudbury turn up.
That night, engineering work was planned
for the area north of Bletchley (as
was often the case on a Saturday night),
and any spare or unallocated Goils
lying around the area were candidates
to haul the few passenger trains over
the 'dead' section under the wires
through Northants. Earlier that day
Sudbury had managed to TOPS the
Goils stabled at Bletchley and, sure
enough, his last one was there! Calls
were immediately made to various mates
with access to TOPS and ground
reports, giving them the telephone
number of the restaurant at which his
family would be dining. One
final call was made to put a local cab firm on
stand-by, with the fare quoted at
approximately £60 from Sudbury to
Bletchley! The basher in me
would love to give this story a happy ending,
i.e. the Goil worked and Sudbury had
it. But, on this occasion, this was not
to be. God, obviously a stark
raving Normal, took pity on Sudbury's Dad
and rostered one of the EH Goils instead;
Sudbury was spared the moral
dilemma. Had he been forced
to make the choice, there would have been
no question as to the outcome.
Getting back to women, I feel I must
mention two whom I've seen out
regularly in their own right, i.e.
not being dragged about by a husband or
boyfriend. There's the now infamous
Miss Red Flares from Exeter, briefly
described in Traction Issue 25.
Less well-known, but still as noteworthy, is a
woman I had the pleasure of witnessing
at the East Lancs diesel gala in '95.
I don't remember her name, but she
was a lively character and had a dog
that she'd named 'Loco' (who
was even livelier). Like Sudbury, Loco is quite
partial to the odd Goil haulage3*
and has his own haulage book. (This is
not actually the first time I've come
across a pet with a haulage collection.
My friend Wadey's dog 'Freck' - Cocker
Spaniel, unspecified tan and cream
livery, now withdrawn - cleared his
original duff namers back in the 80's).
I'll leave you with a few thoughts:
Are we not all behaving totally insanely?
I've always had the attitude that,
well, I really enjoy what I do, I love
Hoovers, Westerns, etc., and
I don' t really care what other people think.
(But then, I've also really pissed
a few people off and even lost a couple of
girlfriends due to my obsessive behavior
in regards to trains.) Could we not
sometimes stop to think of our loved
ones (and I'm NOT talking about trains
now) and occasionally put them first,
like on birthdays, wedding
anniversary's etc. How would
we feel if we were considered secondary to
an inanimate object? Would our hobby
not be more colorful with more
female enthusiasts gracing our beloved
trains? Judging by Miss Red Flares
and the owner of 'Loco' I'd say so.
I've spent many hours trying to analyze
this strange hobby of ours and I've
come to the overwhelming conclusion
that it's simply best not to think about
it too much!
Press Here for 'Overnight To The West Country - Bashing The 'Night Riviera'. (Part one)
Press Here
for 'Overnight To The West Country - Bashing The 'Night Riviera'. (Part
two)
Press here
for 'More Tragic stories'.