Karaoke Night at Drac's Castle
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: One mild one only.
Description: From a time before the railway wasn't allowed to run on alcohol.
Swearwords: One mild one only.
Description: From a time before the railway wasn't allowed to run on alcohol.
When I joined the railway it hadn't yet been broken up and sold off to the highest bidder. There was nothing to the job of conductor then, what with sitting around playing cards to pass the time on or wandering around town if the weather was favourable. The messroom quite often had three different schools on the go, all playing forties, the game of choice at Wigan Wallgate station. Very often we would fight over a job to stave off the boredom, knowing a quick trip to Kirkby and back would see us sent home on return, our workday over and paid for the day. Similarly, any newspapers found on trains would be dropped off at the messroom and, as something of a crossword nut, I always had those to occupy me.
On-train duties didn't exactly tax us either. No one sold tickets since most stations had barriers, and no one checked them either. Most of the units were slam-door diesels as old as the hills and the travelling public, the majority at least, were very good at making sure they were closed after boarding or leaving the train, so that in itself saved a lot of time and shoe leather. The job was a veritable doddle.
Lots of perks in those days too where stealing time, going home early, was largely ignored by the bosses as long as trains ran more or less to time and there was adequate back-up cover sitting around in the messroom.
Of course there were rostered jobs too, many of which could be fobbed off on someone who couldn't cope with sitting around for hours on end, but never on a Friday or Saturday night; the weekend. You could consider yourself unfortunate if you happened to cop for one of those, ferrying merrymakers to their various watering holes and wishing you were going out with them instead of being stuck on a train. I was five weeks in the job before I fell for a Saturday late shift and I wasn't looking forward to it. I only had two trains to work, and four hours in between to sit at Newton Heath shed, a place I had only visited once or twice in the daytime while I was road learning. So, I worked the train as far as Manchester Victoria, detrained everybody then jumped in the front cab with my driver for the short run to the shed. I noticed he was totally unaffected by the fact that he had to work a Saturday evening as he cheerfully whistled all the while.
“Fancy a pint?” he asked as we walked to the messroom.
“You mean go back to Manchester?” I asked. Dean Lane station was a mere five minutes’ walk away.
“No. Drac's Castle.”
“Where's that?”
“Through yonder hole in the fence.” All I could see was trees.
“Lead on,” I told him.
The pub stood alone in the middle of a huge car park. There wasn't a house in sight. The Drac's Castle part was a nickname, but I didn't get it at that moment. We each ordered a pint of Guinness and I licked my lips as I watched it being poured. We sat with two carriage cleaners from the shed, my driver making the introductions. An hour and another pint later and the place began to fill up. A young couple came in humping huge speakers and set up in a corner before the girl came round with the song books, paper and pencils. It was time for Karaoke.
I went for a piss, then sat back to watch and listen to the entertainment. I was just thinking I could do better than the singers so far when the dude announced it was time for Status Quo. My driver was on his feet at that and all but dragged me to the small stage.
‘Whatever you want’ got us a standing ovation despite the fact that I've never been a fan of either the band or indeed the song. Fair to say my driver carried me for most of it. I made up for that half an hour later with my solo rendition of ‘Hey Jude’, which went down rather well. Two more pints, two more duo spots and it was time for home. To say I hadn't been looking forward to the shift I had a great time, and I got paid for it too. I looked back before we came to the trees and suddenly got the Drac's Castle name. With the moon showing briefly between the clouds, the place had an eerie look to it like something from a horror film; an imposing building for sure. I even caught last orders at my local, after jumping in a taxi with some neighbours, and that meant a lock-in. Saturday shifts weren't so bad after all.
On-train duties didn't exactly tax us either. No one sold tickets since most stations had barriers, and no one checked them either. Most of the units were slam-door diesels as old as the hills and the travelling public, the majority at least, were very good at making sure they were closed after boarding or leaving the train, so that in itself saved a lot of time and shoe leather. The job was a veritable doddle.
Lots of perks in those days too where stealing time, going home early, was largely ignored by the bosses as long as trains ran more or less to time and there was adequate back-up cover sitting around in the messroom.
Of course there were rostered jobs too, many of which could be fobbed off on someone who couldn't cope with sitting around for hours on end, but never on a Friday or Saturday night; the weekend. You could consider yourself unfortunate if you happened to cop for one of those, ferrying merrymakers to their various watering holes and wishing you were going out with them instead of being stuck on a train. I was five weeks in the job before I fell for a Saturday late shift and I wasn't looking forward to it. I only had two trains to work, and four hours in between to sit at Newton Heath shed, a place I had only visited once or twice in the daytime while I was road learning. So, I worked the train as far as Manchester Victoria, detrained everybody then jumped in the front cab with my driver for the short run to the shed. I noticed he was totally unaffected by the fact that he had to work a Saturday evening as he cheerfully whistled all the while.
“Fancy a pint?” he asked as we walked to the messroom.
“You mean go back to Manchester?” I asked. Dean Lane station was a mere five minutes’ walk away.
“No. Drac's Castle.”
“Where's that?”
“Through yonder hole in the fence.” All I could see was trees.
“Lead on,” I told him.
The pub stood alone in the middle of a huge car park. There wasn't a house in sight. The Drac's Castle part was a nickname, but I didn't get it at that moment. We each ordered a pint of Guinness and I licked my lips as I watched it being poured. We sat with two carriage cleaners from the shed, my driver making the introductions. An hour and another pint later and the place began to fill up. A young couple came in humping huge speakers and set up in a corner before the girl came round with the song books, paper and pencils. It was time for Karaoke.
I went for a piss, then sat back to watch and listen to the entertainment. I was just thinking I could do better than the singers so far when the dude announced it was time for Status Quo. My driver was on his feet at that and all but dragged me to the small stage.
‘Whatever you want’ got us a standing ovation despite the fact that I've never been a fan of either the band or indeed the song. Fair to say my driver carried me for most of it. I made up for that half an hour later with my solo rendition of ‘Hey Jude’, which went down rather well. Two more pints, two more duo spots and it was time for home. To say I hadn't been looking forward to the shift I had a great time, and I got paid for it too. I looked back before we came to the trees and suddenly got the Drac's Castle name. With the moon showing briefly between the clouds, the place had an eerie look to it like something from a horror film; an imposing building for sure. I even caught last orders at my local, after jumping in a taxi with some neighbours, and that meant a lock-in. Saturday shifts weren't so bad after all.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and twelve collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and twelve collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.