"The train now standing at platform one..."

“The train now standing at platform one is the 8.55 for London Paddington, calling at Chester General, Shrewsbury, Wolverhampton Low Level, Birmingham Snow Hill..….” When I close my eyes and whisk myself back I can still hear it now, booming out and echoing around under Birkenhead Woodside station’s overall roof.

Sometimes crackling into life with a “ping,” sometimes coming across intermittently when the microphone was not properly connected. Sometimes the whole performance was accompanied by background hiss and sometimes you could hear other people’s conversations in the background. It was fallible human beings wrestling with intermediate technology. It was imperfectly perfect, to me.            

 

It has all changed now, of course. Received pronunciation at the main line termini and the regional accents of the provinces are long gone. In their place is a staccato, characterless, computerised electronic system, uttered by a robot. The output is so distant and functional that it smacks of disregard and even rudeness. It is another example of how human interaction has become less valued than the technological alternative. 

My own favourite “old school,” and as far as I can recall, very polite public address system message came on a Peter Handford, Argo Transacord, extended play vinyl record, which turned at forty-five revolutions per minute on the turntable of my Dansette record player. That came with an auto-changer that allowed us to stack records in multiple. Now that did seem pretty high-tech’ to us.

It was called Change at Templecombe, though it is long gone from my collection for reasons that can only be summed up as a complete and near criminal lack of foresight. It looked like a seven-inch diameter “single” record, but it had two or three tracks squeezed onto each side. I had about five such discs. I see now that it was EAF125 that gave me so much pleasure after I had made my own pilgrimage to Templecombe, in 1965.

Bear with me, please, because I don’t think I have heard the actual recording during this century. It was preceded by a loud click as the PA was switched on. “Templecombe, Templecombe. This is Templecombe. Change trains here for Bath and Bournemouth lines. Over the bridge to number three platform for trains to Bath and Bournemouth. The train at platform one is for Exeter Central, calling at Sherborne, Yeovil Junction, Crewkerne, Axminster, Seaton Junction, Sidmouth Junction and Exeter Central. Change at Exeter Central for Exeter St David’s.”

On the trains today there is a barrage of audio information in addition to the digital VDU displays. I’m happy with that. I would much prefer to listen to a real human with a regional accent, that marvellous phenomenon that divides us and unites us as a nation all at the same time. I love it. I sometimes hear a bit of sniggering from along the carriage when a distinctly regional passenger manager is on the air. I can do without class conscious contempt, to be honest.

If the tittering is directed at someone who is getting to grips with English as their second language, then it just makes me feel uneasy. Momentarily, I am uncomfortable being there and even a bit embarrassed to be British. I was taught to treat people as I would wish to be treated, wherever they have come from. 

There were no mobile phones in my day. Before Subscriber Trunk Dialling - the initials STD long lost to something else - we had to ring the operator to connect us to the holder of the destination number, which was given as a location followed by a few digits. You expected a clear speaking voice, and a polite manner was not in question.

I could probably have done more to reduce cold calling on my land line. I don’t get out as much as I used to and incoming calls bring a little more variety to the day. I really don’t mind answering the phone and I’m always friendly and polite to whoever is calling. What I get in return is unconvincing enquiries about my health, a rehearsed or dictated spiel, a “media” voice or downright ingratiating sycophancy. “Hello, Sir. It’s just a quick courtesy call from……” No it isn’t. Courteous is actually the last thing it is.

When they pause for breath after the opening pitch and I say, “No, thank you,” they just carry on as if I had not spoken at all. “No, thank you,” I repeat, at which point the phone call is emphatically curtailed at the other end without so much as a good-bye. The person who has been artificially as nice as pie up to that point then shows his or herself to be totally insincere. Phoney pleasantries fail to mask commercialism in the raw. Recently, a lady who was only too pleased to tell me that her name was Roxy rang me about her solar panels. Her parting shot after my repeated, “No, thanks,” was, “So you like wasting your money do you?” I would have been happy to explain my position but she was already off to find someone else to be rude to - had they not immediately fallen for her charms, of course.

[Adapted from an article which first appeared in the Railway Antiques Gazette, with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]