The Rules
You have 60 minutes to get as far away from your place of work as possible and back using the very, very, very slightly-better-than-it-was-in-summer-2000-when-it-was-as-effective-a-means-of-transport-as-a-tin-of-blanched-asparagus Tube system. You must use more than one Tube Line. Past jailbreaks have seen visits to fascinating, not-at-all-suicidally-dull parts of London such as West Ruislip (pronounced "Riesling" FYI), Cockfosters (Co-Fosters) and Willesden Junction (Whééles-dern Hunçion), officially the brownest place in the world, including Really Brownsville in Brown County, USA). But there have been high points too. No, really.
I know that some people are sceptical about whether I actually carry out these trips. Some may think they are the product of a fevered, slightly arsey imagination. But I can assure you, on Ken Livingstone's life, that when I say "I gave Derek out of Family Affairs a Chinese Burn at Tottenham Court Road station, because he asked me the time in a funny way", I really did do it, in actual real life, really. Okay? Cool.
In case anyone still has doubts, I now have to have an official adjudicator at the Start/Finish of the jailbreak, thanks to a piece of needless meddling from the Government after suspicion arose at the Department for Tube-based Game Playing, Timewasting, Pubs, Foreign Affairs, Farming and Miracles (known as DTGPTPFAFAM for short). The honour falls to former Bay City Roller Les McKeowan, who has agreed (after being told it was for charity) to be my official timer.
Les adopts a slightly bewildering pose on Notting Hill Gate
Another first: I have rescinded my amateur status and gone fully professional. While the heady, early days of lunchtime jailbreak were exhilarating, joyous, challenging and occasionally slightly moist, there comes a point in every man's life when he has to take stock - to set aside childish things, stop being an island, take a dip in Lake "Me", plug holes in dams, stand up and be counted, walk the walk, talk the talk, give the dog a bone, kill someone softly with his song, feed the world, do the macarena, pull the rabbit out of the hat and keep the cat in the box. In short, I have entered into a sponsorship deal with the Finnish food manufacturer Jiiiiiiiz, and so will be wearing a purple and white tabard resplendent with the logo of its brand-leading Coke rip-off, "Mister Jingles Softdrink".
My target today: Notting Hill Gate to Putney Bridge and back
10am. Notting Hill Gate Central Line to Bond Street
Playfully bitchslapping Les, spraying him with Mace and giving him a hefty kick in the chuggs, I bound down to the Central Line, enjoying the admiring stares of fellow passers-by at My Mr Jingles tabard and waving back at them with my now-trademarked giant hand. A bloke on the platform asks me if my name is Mr Jingles. I hate the general public - these people know nothing of the worlds of celebrity and advertising that I now traverse like a bandy-legged stiltwalking colossus. I resolve to get myself an agent and hop on the train. No VIP area, for fuck's sake. Fucking hell I'm annoyed.
10.13am. Bond Street
I briefly contemplate getting out and nipping down to Aspreys to get a new watch, but I decide to stay true to my roots - and of course, my loyal fans - and continue with the jailbreak. Jinglin' High, Jinglin' Low, Mr Jingles Softdrink helps you go! Erm, where was I? Right - on to the Jubbly line to Green Park, where the Queen plays football at lunchtimes in summer. She is an awesome tackler - her teammates call her "Bezerker".
10.15am. Green Park
My path to the Piccadilly Line platform is blocked by two megaphone-sporting God-jockeys. Strangely, both of them are Scousers. they are both wearing sandals and white sports socks and seem to be in some kind of "God-off" as they are shouting over one another, competing for commuters' hearts and minds. "La, let Jeeesus into yer life!" "Ar ey soft lad come unto Jesus and he will show yer the light" and so on. They try to bar my way, but melt to let me through when they spot my Mr Jingles tabard. Apparently Jiiiiiiiz has signed a deal with NURNAAL (National Union of Religious Nuts And Affiliated Loons) to supply their members with Mr Jingles softdrink when they are out at work.
10.22am. Earl's Court
I sprint off the train and up the escalator to the District Line. Earl's Court is still undergoing a huge renovation (it started 19 years ago with one engineer and a soup spoon). "They" say it's all about "improving the station and other such flim-flammery. But what "they" won't tell you is that "they" (It's actually just Transport For London, I'll stop calling them "they") are secretly building the world's biggest ever tunnel, which goes all the way through the centre of the Earth and comes out in a pub in Perth, Australia. The idea is that after 2007, when Tube staff spot an Aussie backpacker coming into Earl's Court station from the Heathrow branch of the Piccadilly Line, they will be able to press a special button which will instantly repatriate said backpackers. Similar schemes are being built below London's 2,779 Walkabout Pubs. Before anyone accuses TFL of being unfair, the tunnel will have a series of special offshoots which will divert a lucky few into Shepherd's Bush, which is currently suffering from a woeful shortage of drunk antipodeans.
10.23am (or thereabouts). Fulham Broadway
I jump out of the train at Fulham Broadway, the home of, um, yeah, and sprint to Parson's Green Tube station just in time to rejoin the same train, in the same carriage. You can actually do this, y'know. The slightly startled other passengers in my carriage look at me like a God, which in some ways I am.
10.30am. Putney Bridge
Putney is boring. Kill yourself if you live there.
A Putney resident attempts to have fun.
10.35am. Parson's Green Station
I jump off the train again and run to Fulham Broadway Station. Sprinting across Eel Brook Common, my progress is impeded by cereal box toy lookalike, upper-middle class pop muppets Busted (pictured). I take a few seconds out of my tight, Finnish-sponsored schedule to berate 'the lads' (as they have never, ever been known) about their support for those sultans of unpleasantness, the Conservative Party. Holding the three of them by the scruff of their necks, I address them.
Busted get in some much-needed woodwind practice
"You're meant to start out left-wing and righteous, and become right-wing and selfish when you get older, you brainless little gonks. Go and stand in the corner and think about what you've done, for 11 years." The chaps thank me for my sage advice (I gave them some herb tips as well) and say they'll discuss it over Port and Shepherd's Pie at White's. McFly and V, look out - I'm coming to get you. Mr Jingles softdrink. Mr Jingles softdrink.
This little encounter has knocked me off schedule a wee bit, so I sort of segue into an alternative dimension which puts me on the train back to Notting Hill Gate, four minutes ago.
10.34am. Earl's Court
Not really.
10.35am. Kensington High Street
Or was it?
10.36am. Notting Hill Gate Station
I stroll casually off the train, safe in the knowledge that for once I have a bit of time on my hands. I decide to use the spare 24 minutes to chat to the guy who runs the newsagent's kiosk in the station about what's in today's papers.
11.01am. Notting Hill Gate itself
Jesus, that newsagent could talk the front legs off a florist. I find myself desperately scrambling up the steps, hoping for that other-dimension thingy to happen again, but of course it doesn't (exist). I get to the top and meet Les, who is looking at me disapprovingly and smelling of fish (there is a fishmongers near the station). He points to the stopwatch.
"You're late," he says.
"I know", I say. "What of it, Lezzer?"
"Just doing my job," he says.
"Let me explain," I say, taking his forearm.
He gently puts down the stopwatch, does that mime thing where you pretend you're behind a glass wall and you can't hear anyone or get past it, bursts into tears and walks away....
...Into the newsagent to buy a can of Mr Jingles softdrink to cheer himself up. It's almost like a magic drink!
Brillian concept. Love it! And brave of you to trust to fate that the London transport infrastructure will return you to work anything like in time.
By the way Cockfosters really is pronounced Cock fosters.
Posted by: The Scribe of Rotten Hill | 14 August 2008 at 19:04