The Great Escape

Cricklewood and Nazi Germany are rarely compared, but yesterday I think a comparison was justified.
I’d just been swimming, for the second time this week (which coincidentally, is the second time in eight years) I was tired, I ached.

On the plus side, the swimming wasn’t as traumatic, except for when I nearly went into the wrong pool (as with haircuts, wearing no glasses makes it very hard to read signs) I was obviously about to get in when I woman stopped me.

“Sorry, this is the disabled club until six”.

I thanked her and said I’d come back, she informed me that “Then from six until seven it’s women only”. To lighten the situation I thought I’d just say “well, I’m neither of those so I’d better get in the other pool” but she seemed to think I meant that in a superior and offensive way. Maybe she was a crippled feminist.

But homeward bound after another 10 (ish) length of this probably more than Olympic sized pool, I’m thinking maybe 7 miles for a length. I get into cricklewood.

Now, Cricklewood is one of those London stations that employs no staff. There are never any ticket barriers or people to check your ticket. It is also in Zone 3. My card only goes to zone 2. This is fine, there’s never anyone there

And besides, I have already decided that on the off chance that there is someone there I will hop back on a train to West Hampstead, nip on to the jubilee line and get safely back to Willesden Green in Zone 2.

There were six ticket inspectors there; it was a sting.

My body ached too much. I couldn’t face going back. I was going to have to make a break for it.
I couldn’t get caught again, that would be three ten pound fines in he last four months.

But these ticket inspectors were ruthless. The skewed British Rail emblem looking very much like a swastika to my tired eyes. I looked around, everyone else in the queue had the same sick look on their face, and they were all English men (except for one cocky American with a baseball). I found myself whistling the great escape theme. It caught on.

I had a trick up my sleeve. Oyster card, I have one, it’s got nothing on it, but they have no oyster card checkers here – I can just wave it at them and get through.

I put my hands in my pockets, some soil fell to the floor.

To my sheer terror I discovered that they had…portable oyster card readers.

Normally a ten pound fine is scary enough, but I was actually starting to think that I might get shot.
If only I hadn’t gotten a blind Donald Pleasance to forge my card.

My time was approaching, my heart was racing. What do I do, it looks like the old “Oh is this Zone 3” ruse wasn’t working. Maybe I cold pretend I’d put stuff on my oyster card.

What to do?

The girl in front is having her card bleeped. “Sorry, love, this is zone one and two”. She tries to say something. I realise that this delay could be the key to me escaping greatly. I take out my old-fashioned paper ticket from the wallet, just enough to show the date, not the zones. He waves me through.

I’ve done it.

But then another guy asks me for my ticket, I try the same tactic, he looks as though he’s about to ask to see it all when someone else’s card he’s simultaneously scanning with his bleeper makes a noise.
I carry on walking

I am free.

It feels like the end of the Great Escape. Where thingy, played by thingy, says thank you after having his papers checked. The fact that he speaks in English gives him away.

Obviously, for this analogy to work I would have had to have shouted something that would have given me away. No just thank you. Maybe if I’d said, “This is only a zone 1 and 2 ticket you idiotic ticket inspectors, hahaha I’m better than you.” it would have had the desired effect.

But it was too late now; I was walking out to the road when I heard a shout. I didn’t turn, but felt a rain of nazi machine gun bullets fire into my back and I slumped to the floor.

Again, must work on my analogies, what actually happened was that I bought some bread from somerfield.