It has often been said that Civilization is simply three meals away from riot. Deny people food, and they’ll kill anything that walk. In some cases, anyone, too. And while there is no denial of a meal involved, there is a total and utter lack of sense from anyone at this damnable train station.

Picture, if you will, lush green lawns trimmed twice a day; strawberries and cream, players jumping the nets, and Ball Boys with bulges in their shorts. One cannot but help to think of SW19, and the England All Green Tennis Club. All but one. Me.

All I picture at Wimbledon are tourists in June, going to school at the top of Edge Hill in the midsts of my ill-spent youth, and the train station. I’m quite certain I’ve spent literally weeks on one platform or another. Lord knows I’ve caught multiple services from each of the ten that sit there, and at all hours of the day and night. And not once in the decade I’ve been using it do I ever recall a single service being on time. Not once. Every train that passes is a minute late at the least; most are on a region of eight or more. And most days, I can deal with this. Most days, I ruffle the pages of the Telegraph in slight annoyance and continue with my day.

But today was not that day.

Nothing good has ever come of a Monday. One pictures people happy at the weekend, freed from the slavery of a hot phone and a desk layered with papers so as to resemble some bizarre archaeological dig; layers denoting the last time lunch was eaten over the keyboard, and the last quarterly figures, about ten weeks deep in memos and inter-departmental faxes. The weekend provides a brief reprise, lulling one into a false sense of security. You can almost believe as you drown that third glass of Merlot that it’s all okay and you’ve no need to fear the new week. Beelzebub may ride on the back of a Natonal Rail Service, but he’ll pass over you this time. This time, you’ll be spared. This time, it’ll be different.

Except it’s not different. And it ever is. Especially on a Monday.

Today, I’m on the District Line to Sloane Square. But, for reason that are not quite pertinent to this story, I had to go to Chelmsford, Essex first. Scary stuff before one even discovers the ‚Äúdelights‚Äù of the Essex Girl. I’ve met some, and to be honest, they are as bad as everyone makes out. But anyway, to Chelmsford I had to go.

Wimbledon to Sloane Square is a single Tube all the way there. I can lose myself in my paper, or if truly antisocial, my PowerBook and ecto-kungfoo. Wimbledon to Chelmsford is a more involved route. Wimbledon to Waterloo on the train (the important bit) and from Waterloo to Liverpool St on the Tube (the easy bit) and then Liverpool St on the train to Chelmsford. And to make London rail links easier, the train to Waterloo runs about the same frequency as the Tube services in The City; one every three minutes. But not today.

No, today, there had not been a Waterloo service for 18 minutes by the time I got there. Not an issue, I think. And I wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. After an hour and twenty-four minutes of broken promises, I give in. That’s one hundred and two minutes. Thirty-four cancelled services. In an hour and a half.

By now, I’m ready to throttle someone. And it only gets better. You’d think that by not using the train, you could get away with a refund for said ticket; of course, to National Rail, that’s not reasonable at all. So what your service was delayed? Go later! Ha-ha! We don’t care!

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Half an hour later, after trying English, Italian and French (then resorting to anger and mime;) to try to communicate with the money at the ticket booth, I get a refund. That half hour was of course worth more to me than the price of the ticket, but the point stands; I’m not traveling, so I refuse to pay for the bloody thing. The first chap I spoke to refused flat out to refund it, and then refused to hand back my Visa card as he said my signatures didn’t match. Despite me producing another three cards and my passport and some London Transport ID, he still was iffy about it. Bastard. Of course, because of the signatures, he refused to sell me a Travel Card, (never mind Oyster Card) and wanted to put it on my other Visa (Barclaycard) - he couldn’t understand that I didn’t want it on my CC and have to pay interest for it. Again, I wonder if he could even read and write English, let alone anything else.

And of course, the Automated Ticket machines. No train station would be complete without the ticket machine that refuses to read ANY of your cards, or take any of your paper money. I tried three of the fuckers before I got one that swallowed my card like the bitch should. Got my receipt, went through the barrier to Platform 4, District Line. Seven minutes later the Tube had arrived, I’d found a seat, gotten comfortable and I was two stops down the line.

Public and Private companies. Public runs on time, Private makes billions for the Fat Cat Cunts at the top who provide no service worth mentioning and want to charge me extra on top of my Oyster for the so-called privilege of using their shitty network.

All I have to say is if there are any Thameslink, Railtrack, National Rail, etc shareholders or Board Memebers, then do you part to make this a better world for all Mankind.

Put a gun in your mouth, and eat hot lead.