When the trains are running late the country is in crisis, never mind the distillate of petrol's rising prices, food that is not fit to eat, rampaging vigilantes, zenophobics on the streets and Marks and Spencer's panties sabotaged by Nike and Gap and other fashion labels altering the corporate map of Europe's fashion stables. When the trains are running late governments are shaken, riots laggardly abate, railway staff forsaken. Dukes and judges, bankers, lords battle on the stations with the proletarian hordes and their blood relations. The plunging price of stocks and shares creates a moral panic, the death rate of commissionaires unleashes a titanic backlash of the bourgeoisie whose livelihoods are threatened by each worker absentee whose daily drudge is brightened by the immanent collapse of the railway system. (They hate the trains but then perhaps that's 'cause they've always missed 'em) When the trains are running late, all other woes forgotten, we work ourselves into a state and lather something rotten, mouth obscenities at god, whose unacknowledged fate, is to get the blame, poor sod, when trains are running late.