IT'S CLEAR that since our technologies of communication have multiplied exponentially, we've actually got let and less to say. None the less we say it louder and louder. Never before has so much meaningless human noise bombarded our senses. Take a confined space, say a train, with 40 people with mobile phones (with catchy jingles), iPods and laptops, and all trace of humanity vanishes in the cacophony.
How many times have I had to endure strangers talking out loud about their sexual partners – "Aye, he's a great shag"; their newpurchases – "I've got an iPhone, it's fabby-dooby"; their location and mobile
signal strength – "I'm coming up for a tunn
el, I'm losing you". Unwritten rules on conduct in public spaces once protected us from such crap. Now we have been forced to create and enforce Quiet Zones.
I always try to get a seat on the quiet carriage on the train from London and am one of those annoying people who sometimes walk up to mobile phone users, put my finger to my mouth, say "SHHHH", and righteously draw their attention to the signs that say "No phone – No laptops – Keep your voice down".
Unfortunately, this week I discovered a particular breed who are hostile towards the idea of peace of any kind – Glaswegian grannies.
There was a group of five of them sat four seats away from my girlfriend and I in Quiet Coach B, and one was reading aloud to the others from a tabloid. "Susan Boyle's been snogged by some guy." They all chipped in: "I canna stand her hair"; "That double chin's gottae go"; "And that wee moustache!" Had there been audio recordings of Glasgwegian Grannies bitching about Susan Boyle a year ago, it would have been used to torture prisoners at Guantanamo.
When one of the grey-haired dears got on the phone and started recounting the entire conversation to persons unknown with added shouts and laughter, I could bear it no more. I got to my feet, and if it is possible to scream "SHHHH!" then that is what I did. A wall of hostility suddenly rose up. A wee Weegie grannie stared at me.
" He's telling us tae shut it, cheeky bastard."
"Who's he f***ing think he is!"
Oh, how I paid for that error of judgment. Not only did their noise level rise, but soon the subject of their laughter and derision became myself. Of course I could see it from their point of view. I was being bourgeois, I was a symbol of the forces of English Imperialist Capitalism come to snuff out their "wee bit of fun" earned after years of child rearing and back-breaking toil.
Not wanting to be drawn into a discussion on the futility of personalised rebellion in the post-Marxist era, I faced a choice: turn the other cheek, walk to another carriage and have them laugh at me as I left, or endure their scorn. I was all for sneaking out but my girlfriend never stands down in a fight.
It was then that I came up with a better idea, a new invention – Loud Coaches. If all the Weegie grannies and drunken teenagers could be placed in one sound-tight carriage, there would be no need for Quiet Coaches. The idea soothed me as the geriatric jokes about my person filled the air and I stared out the window, counting the minutes, praying for a glimpse of the distant high-rise slums of Glasgow.
