supperware.net » writings » the beginning of the end

I’m sure it’s been said already dozens of times, by both the Union and the University. Nevertheless, it deserves to be said again, and this time with proper punctuation. A specific welcome to all first years! It’s truly a pleasure to have you. And whew — does Guildford have treats in store for you!

Oh, hang on, I’ve got to qualify that. But I’ve been here too long, and time distorts my memory. I remember when the price of a pint in Guildford didn’t nullify the enjoyment of drinking it. I recall a time when a cinema ticket cost less than five pounds. Once upon a time, decent bands were known to play at the Guildford Civic, but now it’s closed until 2006.

Fear not. One of the most enduring lessons I learned from my professional training placement is that no matter how grievous a town’s faults, it’ll eventually win you over. In Luton — for that’s where I was — I unfurled a comforting microcosm of every small English town I’ve ever been to. It harboured an undercurrent of profound malevolence. It had nasty pubs, with their interweaving nocturnes of screams, breaking glasses, and police sirens. There was the dance to work each morning, skipping over a crazy paving of desiccated piss and puddles of protein-enriched vomit. And I’ll never forget the gargantuan Arndale centre, plopped lovelessly betwixt town and train station, and the wave upon wave of archetypal misery and desperation that it enfolded. By the end of my tenure, I had transformed the jangling alarum of my nerves into a comforting serenade, and all was ease and comfort.

In Guildford, it is easier to find inner tranquility. For a start, it’s a quieter town. The people here are pretty high up the social scale, and even the inhabitants of Park Barn favour a passive-aggressive behavioural model. This is because it keeps the neighbourhood quieter and the house prices higher than gun-fighting would. Guildford may be dull, but at least it’s dull in a picturesque, window-shoppy way. You don’t need excitement when it’s so easy to find a decent espresso. Even the town’s faults are endearing. After a while, the pathetic attempts at nightclubs look intentionally funny, and the carelessly-painted pubescent spirits that teem onto the streets at night amuse the eye without distressing the soul.

In spite of Guildford’s charms, the University readily admits that being close to London is its salvation. Whereas the charms of Guildford are exhaustible, London remains a proper city. Now that the last weeknight train leaves for Guildford on the correct side of midnight (12:09am from Waterloo from Monday to Saturday, or 12:42am from Victoria from Monday to Thursday), it might even be possible to see something decent this year without having to miss most of it.

Because of London’s centrality, the city is also a springboard to the Eastern half of England. In travelling via London, its less charming side becomes apparent: the transport network itself. We’ll accept for now the combination of prolonged intimate proximity and loneliness that defines the Underground experience and is the inspiration for plenty of bad poetry. We’ll put the windswept unhappiness of each delayed minute spent on a suburban platform to one side. To put it bluntly, of the three rush-hour train journeys I’ve taken in the last two months, two have been affected by fatalities. Apart from the upset that this causes to the bereaved and to every traveller who is stuck at a station while the ambulance team has to get its shovels out, each suicide is a tragedy because it ruins my theory about getting used to everything. Clearly it’s not always possible to face, let alone befriend or ignore, the monotonous rhythm of urban adult life.

It’s not a very nice way out, though. So what should we do? Well, I’ve got two ideas, and both are brilliant. Firstly, we try to cheer people up by having the train staff juggling and face-painting while they have nothing better to do. We have proper counsellors at the most depressing stations. That may be what The Samaritans are for, but a call from a telephone box now costs 30p, and a gentleman just doesn’t discuss intimate problems from a mobile phone in a public place. What else can we do? We’ll unlock waiting rooms during cold nights. We make people wear cardboard boxes over their heads if they have to use mobile phones. We could even have karaoke booths on board. I don’t think I’d want to use any of them, but they would still make me feel better by getting the kind of people who like mobile karaoke out of the way and into nice soundproofed boxes. We could have a buffet car that sells fresh, affordable food and drink.

If all that sounds too expensive, I’ve got a brilliant, twenty-first century alternative that’s far cheaper: ‘kill-or-cure’ booths at mainline London stations. They could work a bit like photo booths. If a hypothetical male traveller — let’s call him Gavin — came across one of these, he would pay a small administrative fee via his debit card, and walk into a personal, silent, clean space, full of life-affirming quotations from some of civilisation’s great thinkers. Gavin would then be asked to answer a series of questions to identify himself, and supply information about his next of kin. Then he’d have a chance to check that his will is up-to-date, get advice about funeral expenses and life insurance matters — even videotape and edit his own suicide note, if he wants to. If all this isn’t enough to dissuade him, there’d be a chance to speak via video-link to a counsellor or a minister of religion. Finally, if all else fails, one manly push of a big red button is all it’d take. No discomfort, no widespread transport disruption, no delay in informing relatives, and no ambulance men with shovels. Just a quick, silent, dignified exit. The only possible problems would exist in the afterlife, and that’s entirely hypothetical.

I suggest that a pilot booth is installed on the Northbound platform at Kings Cross Thameslink, as surely no more depressing station exists in the country. Then, if the popularity of the kill-or-cure booth is affirmed, who knows, they could be installed in more mainline stations such as Woking and Reading. Someone would be paid to come along and empty them every two or three days. Money would be raised by getting Craig Charles to front half-hour compilations of the funniest pre-suicide videos, and selling these shows to Channel 4. They’ll buy anything these days, simply because they can’t tell the difference between ‘ironic’ and ‘tasteless’.

One day, who knows, a kill-or-cure booth could even become a part of our student support structure — we could have one in our very own Union. We’d just have to remember to unplug it the next time they book Pat Sharp and Toby Anstis together on the same night. The temptation to push the red button would be overwhelming.

Published in barefacts 1081 • 24 September 2004