Constructing the Dustbin of History

I think it’s time to stop dilly-dallying consigning fascism, communism, shoulder pads, teletext and most iterations of facial hair to the dustbin of history in merely a metaphorical way. Where’s the sense in that?

I think it’s high time we actually built the blessed thing, located it somewhere central so everyone could reach it and then got on with the business of consigning things to it in a very real and rather satisfying way.

Perhaps there could be litter bins of history too, to save people the journey if there were local things they wanted to consign. So for instance, the people of Barking might want to consign the fascism in their area to their litter bins of history, as distinct from fascism in its entirety, which of course would still have to be deposited in the main dustbin of history, sorry, DUSTBIN OF HISTORY™ .

Of course, before you knew it, a small industry would spring up around consigning things to history. Inevitably there would be a large outsourcing firm, probably called ‘Consign’, with distinctive purple dust carts (branded: ‘When it comes to rubbish, we’re history’). Maybe the ‘operatives’ would wear a different uniform each week from a different age – this week deerstalkers and capes, next week periwigs, another week doublet and hose. All topped with a bright orange vest, obviously.

Excellent. I’m thinking something gun metal, perhaps with bright lilac bunting. And maybe with a crack team of trombone players playing comic fanfares whenever there’s a new consignment.

Next week: genetically engineering the mother of all lottery wins.

Suicide Isn’t What It Used To Be

I was standing at the station this morning when quite without any advance notice a little old lady walked up to me and said: ‘Those rails are there to stop people jumping in front of the trains. Wasn’t like that in the old days.’

Tactfully, I bit back the temptation to say: ‘No – then people were free to jump in front of trains as much as they liked. Shocking abuse of our liberties.’

I stared obediently at the railings in question. As it turned out, they were smack in the middle of the platform. So would-be suicides would have had a spectacularly wonky sense of spatial awareness to let the railings come between them and train-shaped death. They’d basically have to run away from the onrushing train as if their lives depended on it, which sounds like a pretty poor definition of suicide to me.

The railings also looked Victorian to me. How old was this little old lady? What ‘old days’ was she referring to – the middle ages?

She might have had a point there: people threw themselves in front of trains a whole lot less then.