TRAIN BRAIN STRAIN

Alex Morgan describes

a frustrating week as a British Rail employee

I WAS reading about Bob Reid's enthu- siasm for his new job as chairman of British Rail the other day. He is aware of the huge problems he has to face and welcomes the `tremendous challenge'. Since I happened to be working at British Rail at the time, I couldn't help doubting whether he would remain so enthusiastic.

It wasn't even as though I was there for long — just a few days at British Rail's offices, helping them in the final stages of a project. Easy work, I thought, but I didn't know then what I know now — nothing is ever easy at British Rail.

The project was the launch of a new rail-club. I should have sensed something was wrong when I read among the list of membership benefits, 'On enrolling you will be issued your own, unique, 16-digit membership number'.

Obviously that was not the work of a well-adjusted mind — what kind of person thinks anyone could be attracted by the thought of their own 16-digit membership number, even if it is unique — which is surely the basic point of membership num- bers anyway?

I carried on regardless, thinking I could simply do my work and leave. I was warned. I was told of the report British Rail had just compiled on its own office systems which concluded that 'internal communications need to be improved', but I didn't listen. As Bob Reid will, I found out the truth the hard way: if there is a hell, it may be British Rail's internal com- munications.

The trouble started simply enough — the chronic shortage of meeting-rooms meant that meetings between people who sat only doors apart were held two miles away at the offices of the marketing agency em- Ployed by British Rail. Thus we would all Climb into a taxi and sit in traffic for 20 minutes just to have a conversation at the other end. Of course it would have saved petrol simply to hold the meetings in stationary taxis, but there was another reason for the journey: the marketing agency had coffee. The coffee-machine on our floor wasn't working. Nor was the one on the floor below. Nor on the floor below that. Nor even on the ground floor, where

there was an entire canteen of broken coffee-machines.

I could survive without coffee, but the computers in our office weren't working either. Some blamed it on the fact that there was a new computer manager with the unfortunate name of Barry Humphries, others blamed the person who had spilt his coffee over the terminal back when there was still a working coffee machine.

Unable to print copies of documents on the computer, I turned to the photocopier, but this mechanical squid spurted black ink over everything it produced. Strangely enough, people continued using it, as though an illegible document was some- how better than no document at all.

In despair I tried to use the telephone. Pressing '9' for an outside line seemed to have no effect. It turned out that British Rail is the only company to use a 13-digit prefix for calls outside the office. A differ- ent one for every telephone. Nobody was sure of the exact prefix for my telephone, so I gave up.

Immediately I replaced the handset, the telephone rang. It was someone in Pad- dington station with an urgent message to be put out over the tannoy system. I would have helped, but we were in Euston.

My eyelid starting to develop its twitch, I decided to calm myself by reading a copy of a report into customer perceptions of British Rail while Dame Edna, computer- boffin superstar, crawled around the floor trying to breathe life into the system. Overwhelmingly the strongest criticism of British Rail turned out to be, The staff are dirty'. I later noticed that the soap- dispensers in the staff toilets were supplied by Rentokil.

The computer was a dead loss. All the Dame could get it to say was, 'Error in disc drive' — presumably because they have yet to invent the computer clever enough to say 'Coffee in disc drive'. Incidentally, the password for entry into the system, should it ever work, was COMA. It all fitted.

Left with pencil-sharpeners as the only functioning office equipment, we de- camped and moved into the marketing agency's meeting room. In contrast to the grey environment of Euston House, one could barely get through the agency's door for houseplants — a set for Tarzan the Ad-Man.

In the peace and quiet of the marketing agency we finally set to work. Yet even here nothing seemed to be being achieved. Then it hit me — the problem was with us! Surrounded day after day by insane dis- order, one cannot so easily regain touch with reality, as witness the following, almost all that I can remember from the meeting: `Okay, so we're going to have a marquee promoting the new club at Euston station with a string quartet playing inside. Agreed?'

`I'm not sure — I think the Standard Class passengers will feel alienated by a string quartet.

'Well, I'm not having a Heavy Metal band.'

`Wait a minute, you two — I think that a lot of Standard Class passengers aspire to being people who aren't alienated by a string quartet. . .

I resigned after a week, unable to face it any longer. It haunts me still. Some nights I go to bed, turn out the light and cannot get to sleep. Then I think of Bob Reid, and cackle in the dark. . . .