The Toilets at Paddington Station
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They've made the toilets in Paddington station free, The bastards. Suck the fun why don't you? No more scrabbling in wino-wallet, Piss-stained pockets for change, No more nights playing the replastering- the-piss-stained-cell-walls game after Being arrested for vaulting the barrier Or ducking the turnstile, No more iq tests for drunken guile, No more telling the boys that they Won't believe what happened to you After you left them last night Because they probably can believe That you went to the toilet quietly before Catching your train with time to spare, Though they'd much prefer A tale of despair about how you Chose an extra hour's sleep Over clean underwear. Niece and nephews won't be impressed When you've no blood-stained vest Or turnstile-shaped bruises to show And your wicked uncle coolness rating's Heading for an all time low Now that the gates are thrown Open and they're letting anybody in, Even the ones who aren't really sure They need to go. I hope this wasn't a political decision. Some sort of nod to the classless society Or a nanny celebration of sobriety Or a sly apology for rising fares. True, they're not sucking Silver from me anymore But they've sucked the class Out of a place I used to love To sit my drunken arse. I've got more money for beer, But they've stolen away Something I held more dear.
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Poem Study Notes:Nostalgia comes from strange places. This poem gushed out in a torrent of fury and mourning-for-lost-youth, one morning at work, early in 2020. Striding past the toilets at Paddington station in a kind of smug, I'm-not-drunk-or-otherwise-stricken-bladderly-so-I-don't-need-to-try-to-find-20p-to-use-the-toilet kind of way, I looked around, aghast, for other commuters who would share the feeling of outrage which beset me. But nobody would meet my wild and peeved stare. No turnstiles, no change machine, chuckling mechanically, while transforming your crisp tenner into a bucket of grubby 20p coins. Life has become too simple. Why not just give everyone a nappy.
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