Huh Hell; Pay Attention!

In yet another of my (eminently justifiable) rants on people who live in England who refuse to speak that language named for their country, I take aim at not only people who are linguistically challenged, but vocationally challenged as well. Yesterday at lunchtime as I neared the end of my daily ride I decided to finalize the last of the preparations for my upcoming side-trip. It was whilst attempting to negotiate the vending of a ticket to Heathrow International Airport that I had the subject of today's screed.

The setting: The Hampton Court Railways station, Surrey, United Kingdom. The time, yesterday, 12:45 BST.

Personae Dramatis: your humble narrator, an English speaker from birth speaking Southern-American Dialectical English whose sole expression is the occasional use of the word "y'all;" A station attendant and ticket vendor, presumably British in origin.

As the scene opens your humble narrator walks his bicycle up to the ticket window off the concourse, a low-slung, mid-nineteenth century brick building with wide doors to both the car park and the platform.

Your Humble Narrator: "Yes, can you please tell me what the fare will be to Heathrow International Airport, please?

Station Ticket Vendor: "Huh?"

YHN: "What is the fare to Heathrow?"

STV: "The ferry to Heathrow? Huh?"

YHN: (Bending down to speak more directly through the hole in the glass) "I'm sorry, no. What is the fare to Heathrow?"

STV: (Looking perplexed) "There is no ferry to Heathrow, mate!"

YHN: "Not Ferry, Fare. What is the Fare to Heathrow."

STV: "Huh?"

YHN: "I am asking what the train fare will be to travel to Heathrow."

STV: "You want to take the train to Heathrow?"

YHN: "Yes. Can you tell me what the fare is, please?"

STV: "Huh?"

YHN: "How much money does it cost to take the train to Heathrow?"

STV: "Oh, I thought you wanted the Ferry."

YHN: "No, look, can you please tell me what it will cost me to get a train ticket to Heathrow?"

STV: "That depends on where you want to get there from, mate." (At this point, the ticket vendor starts typing something into his computer console)

(I have to admit - this response did take me aback...)

YHN: "Uh... from here?"

STV: (more typing and a longish pause) "How do you want to get there?"

YHN: "By train would be nice... How else would I get there from here?"

STV: (apparently missing the sarcasm does some more typing, points at something on the screen, mouthing numbers to himself) "There's no direct train from here, mate. You'll have to change. Where do you want to change?"

YHN: (I have choices?!?!) "I have choices? Well, since I have no idea what any of the possibilities are, just pick a route and tell me the fare."

STV: (Stops counting the things on the screen) "Huh?"

YHN: "What are the options on where I change trains?"

STV: "Oh. Uh, Wimbledon, Clapham Junction, Vauxhall, and Waterloo."

YHN: "Uh, I don't care. Since I don't know any of the routes beyond the stations you named, Wimbledon."

STV: "If you don't know where to go from there, how are you planning on getting to the airport?

YHN: "I'm hoping that the tickets will tell me what to do... you certainly are being no assistance.

STV: "That will be £4.30. via any of those changeover points."

I left without asking why he had made a point of asking me where I wanted to change if it made no difference where I changed. I'll leave that mystery for another day.

I hope that today something gives you pause for thought.

Don Bergquist - 24 October 2006 - Thames Ditton, Surrey, UK

Editor's Notes:

The editor wishes to offer the following thanks for assistance with the creation of this article. I thank Southwest Trains for hiring people who are so marginally qualified for employment so as to be a constant source of humor. Aside from unhelpful staffing at the help points in their stations, they employ unintelligible announcers for their onboard announcements. Thanks guys! Keep-up the disinterested work!

The editor also wishes to thank his brother Denis for the title of this morning's piece. The title is a direct quote of something Denis used to say all the time as we were growing-up Denis had (has?) even less patience than I do for people who refuse to communicate efficaciously; which is odd as I am the one in the communications industry.

Finally, the editor wishes to thank the residents of his current country of residence for their being so outrageously quirky as to always be entertaining. Don't get me wrong, not everybody in the UK is a total whack-job, but there are enough of them to keep me in blog entries for years. (If only I had the time to sit-down and write them all...) And before any of the Brits in my audience get defensive, I didn't say that there aren't plenty of nut-cases in the States, but I grew-up with the insanity of the US and as such I tend to fail to see anything strange about it any more. (Unless you want to mention all those scary-strange evangelicals off on the far right-wing of US Politics.)