Postcard from the M25
Motorway service stations are like little villages. The village idiot is usually to be found behind the stainless steel counter of a fast food franchise, wearing a name badge that lies ‘happy to help’, a nylon baseball cap in corporate colours, an expression that would curdle the milk were it not UHT and a posture that suggests to the world that they are not at all happy with their current employment status, and that their ambitions are either to throw themselves into the next X Factor audition or under the next HGV that passes.
Actually, such motorway service station village residents are a dying breed, and not just because they are too busy sulking to reproduce. Rather, they have been replaced by young keen people who have worked out that, very much like the British during the Victorian era, a few years in some far flung corner of the corporate Empire will allow you to make mistakes without anyone noticing, indulge in a spot of gin-fuelled vice and then transfer back to civilization with experience far beyond your years, at least one interesting scar, many interesting stories, something of a reputation and a salary band at least three grades above your contempories.
Such a one was the young manager of Costa Coffee at Clackett Lane Services on the M25. Her name badge hinted at a Portuguese heritage, her accent hinted at Portuguese citizenship and her desire to flog coffee accessories hinted at a desire to be sitting behind a big desk in head office before the age of 30. Yes, we did want coffee, no, no biscotti, no, no sandwiches, no, no soft drinks, no, no extra shots…actually, yes, we have a motorway journey ahead of us and I want to be alert to the point of wired.
The barrista was no less enthused (I was wondering if the staff had been overdoing it with Colombia’s second most stimulating export, or whether they just cut to the chase and bang off a couple of lines of the most stimulating followed by a bucket of espresso to take the edge off before each shift), trying to convince us that chocolate sprinkles were an essential addition to any coffee experience.
Such enthusiasm was stimulating and refreshing, the bloody coffee was going to have to go some to compete.
Out on the car park, the media were prowling. The RAC had just today issued a press release, possibly written in crayon for all the sense it made, suggesting that it would be a good idea to raise the speed limit on motorways to 80mph. As we sat in heavy traffic, in roadworks and in tailbacks, it was remarked upon that it might be a good idea to raise the speed on motorways to 40mph before we contemplate any further increases.
As we had pulled into the car park, we had noticed a clean cut chap and a less clean cut cameraman rushing after a middle-aged motorist. Such was their enthusiasm that we tried to see if he was famous, a politician likely to be caught with his trousers down, or a rogue trader. He was none of these, instead he was a middle-aged demographic for their vox-pop. This is where the media had come to record the opinion of the nation about the proposed increase in speed limit.
They didn’t ask us, no matter how slowly we walked or how media-friendly we looked. And I even had my ‘I look intelligent and trustworthy, like a doctor before that bastard Shipman spoiled it for the whole profession’ spectacles on.
The presenter sported a classic look. A sharply pressed blue shirt, neat tie and close shave above the waist, faded jeans and disgraceful but comfortable shoes below. This meant he was either a teevee type or a Divorced Dad Dating Again. The cameraman was the giveaway, unless he’s the subject of a new Channel 5 reality train-crash ‘Divorced Dads’ Dating Disasters’. Also a giveaway was the lack of producer, researcher and sound guy. Five years ago a bloke with a microphone and a bloke with a camera alone would mean that they were doing a piece for the service station’s in-house video show ‘Channel Clackett’. Today and thanks to falling advertising revenue and lack of investment, this was probably ITV or local independent news. You could tell it wasn’t BBC because they didn’t have the normal news crew of half a dozen including guide and interpreter for journeys outside central London. And you could tell it wasn’t Sky, they would have had a helicopter thundering overhead.
Obviously though, I was not pop, or possibly not vox, enough to make up part of this particular vox pop. Possibly they already had the demographic I fitted, we had seen them covering startled pensioners (reaction: it’s far too fast, bring back boys with red flags) and they had probably already covered teenage louts (there’s a speed limit?) and businessmen in BMWs (80mph is far too low) and, given that they want some extreme views, probably had their bases covered. Or possibly, because this was ITV, they considered my lack of tattoos as likely to intimidate their audience.
Actually, such motorway service station village residents are a dying breed, and not just because they are too busy sulking to reproduce. Rather, they have been replaced by young keen people who have worked out that, very much like the British during the Victorian era, a few years in some far flung corner of the corporate Empire will allow you to make mistakes without anyone noticing, indulge in a spot of gin-fuelled vice and then transfer back to civilization with experience far beyond your years, at least one interesting scar, many interesting stories, something of a reputation and a salary band at least three grades above your contempories.
Such a one was the young manager of Costa Coffee at Clackett Lane Services on the M25. Her name badge hinted at a Portuguese heritage, her accent hinted at Portuguese citizenship and her desire to flog coffee accessories hinted at a desire to be sitting behind a big desk in head office before the age of 30. Yes, we did want coffee, no, no biscotti, no, no sandwiches, no, no soft drinks, no, no extra shots…actually, yes, we have a motorway journey ahead of us and I want to be alert to the point of wired.
The barrista was no less enthused (I was wondering if the staff had been overdoing it with Colombia’s second most stimulating export, or whether they just cut to the chase and bang off a couple of lines of the most stimulating followed by a bucket of espresso to take the edge off before each shift), trying to convince us that chocolate sprinkles were an essential addition to any coffee experience.
Such enthusiasm was stimulating and refreshing, the bloody coffee was going to have to go some to compete.
Out on the car park, the media were prowling. The RAC had just today issued a press release, possibly written in crayon for all the sense it made, suggesting that it would be a good idea to raise the speed limit on motorways to 80mph. As we sat in heavy traffic, in roadworks and in tailbacks, it was remarked upon that it might be a good idea to raise the speed on motorways to 40mph before we contemplate any further increases.
As we had pulled into the car park, we had noticed a clean cut chap and a less clean cut cameraman rushing after a middle-aged motorist. Such was their enthusiasm that we tried to see if he was famous, a politician likely to be caught with his trousers down, or a rogue trader. He was none of these, instead he was a middle-aged demographic for their vox-pop. This is where the media had come to record the opinion of the nation about the proposed increase in speed limit.
They didn’t ask us, no matter how slowly we walked or how media-friendly we looked. And I even had my ‘I look intelligent and trustworthy, like a doctor before that bastard Shipman spoiled it for the whole profession’ spectacles on.
The presenter sported a classic look. A sharply pressed blue shirt, neat tie and close shave above the waist, faded jeans and disgraceful but comfortable shoes below. This meant he was either a teevee type or a Divorced Dad Dating Again. The cameraman was the giveaway, unless he’s the subject of a new Channel 5 reality train-crash ‘Divorced Dads’ Dating Disasters’. Also a giveaway was the lack of producer, researcher and sound guy. Five years ago a bloke with a microphone and a bloke with a camera alone would mean that they were doing a piece for the service station’s in-house video show ‘Channel Clackett’. Today and thanks to falling advertising revenue and lack of investment, this was probably ITV or local independent news. You could tell it wasn’t BBC because they didn’t have the normal news crew of half a dozen including guide and interpreter for journeys outside central London. And you could tell it wasn’t Sky, they would have had a helicopter thundering overhead.
Obviously though, I was not pop, or possibly not vox, enough to make up part of this particular vox pop. Possibly they already had the demographic I fitted, we had seen them covering startled pensioners (reaction: it’s far too fast, bring back boys with red flags) and they had probably already covered teenage louts (there’s a speed limit?) and businessmen in BMWs (80mph is far too low) and, given that they want some extreme views, probably had their bases covered. Or possibly, because this was ITV, they considered my lack of tattoos as likely to intimidate their audience.
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