Virgin On The Ridiculous

I'd like to say that the complete horlicks that has been made over the re-franchising of the West Coast Main Line leaves me absolutely speechless. However, the poetic muse will not be so easily silenced....

Virgin On The Ridiculous

Once upon a time there was a railway,

That went, by the West Coast, up to Glasgow.

Your bought yourself a ticket with British Rail,

And that’s all you really needed to know. 

Then, in their great wisdom, the Government

Decided to privatise it one day.

The market forces of competition,

Were to be used to carve out a new way. 

Passengers were suddenly “customers”,

Although the service went down the pan,

And the whole network was run for profit,

At least - that was meant to be the plan. 

So new companies bid for the honour,

Scrambling over each other’s backs,

With Civil Servants running a competition,

To see who’d run trains over the tracks. 

They went right at it, fighting like vultures,

With first one ahead, then another surgin’,

And when the dust had finally settled,

The last one left standing was Virgin. 

So they gave them a contract for years,

And let them see what they were able to do,

But then they thought no more about it,

Until the time came round for review. 

Four companies went back into battle,

Like four drunken men out on a bender,

Offering millions and billions,

In their bids to win in the tender. 

The one that offered the most was the winner:

First Group decided to take a chance on

Growing passenger traffic the most.

“Not bloody likely!” cried Richard Branson. 

For the wily, bearded entrepreneur,

Who left school when he was only sixteen,

And liked to poke at the Establishment,

Had spotted a flaw in the figures he’d seen. 

Well, the Government stuck to their guns,

And defended it all as a fair contest.

They said Branson was just being a spoil-sport,

And that First Group looked like the best. 

Lawyers were immediately consulted,

For, in arguments, that is their function.

There was a hullaballoo all over the press,

And the High Court granted an injunction. 

The men with the pencils looked at it again,

And on great investigations they went.

“Here!” some-one at last was heard to mutter,

“There’s been a cock-up, of at least ten per cent!” 

So there was a grinding and gnashing of teeth,

As those responsible sank to their knees.

Then the Minister signalled a U-turn,

And The Fat Controller cried “All Change Please!” 

The game wasn’t fair, for someone had cheated,

So they’re going to run the race once more,

Which is the mother of all cock-ups,

And enough to make anyone feel sore. 

The whole thing’s insane and a fiasco,

And here you can call me a nay-sayer,

But who picks up the bill for this SNAFU?

As usual, it’s us the poor tax-payer. 

Two hundred million they reckon,

Which is an awful lot of money I’d say,

But one question springs up in my mind –

Is this any way to run a railway??

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012