You're Not Coming In Here

By far the most surreal experience I ever had at an exhibition was at Ashford in Kent. Well, I say ‘at an exhibition’; in fact I never made it beyond the doors to the venue. Yes, it transpired that the show would commence with a lockout, presumably as a result of a lock-in the previous night at a local hostelry.

It all began with the usual invitation to trade at the show – and believe me, it is not cheap to trade at a show, it often costs hundreds of pounds by the time you factor in the fact that clubs actually charge you for attending, then of course there’s petrol and a night in a B&B or Travelodge for a 2-day show; plus you have to eat and so on. However, I didn’t have any shows in South East England, and being a prosperous area I thought I’d give it a punt to try it out.

So it came to pass that I loaded up the car and drove the 165 miles to Ashford in the wee small hours in order to arrive shortly before the appointed time of 07:30. I was met by a wet (as in raining) club member sporting the inevitable Hi-Viz vest (look at me, I’m important) who directed me down to the Leisure Centre’s basement carpark where I could unload and access the building. Like all basement car parks, this was damp, dank, musty and smelt inevitably of faeces. I didn’t look, but I know it was there. Maybe Chanel could bottle this fragrance and sell it as ‘Essence of Ashford.’ I certainly know that everytime I smell stale urine I remember my visit.

Welcome to Ashford Exhibition

Anyway, I waited, and waited and waited some more. Nothing happened, the doors remained firmly locked; more and more cars and vans arrived, all eager to get in and set up. Well, maybe not eager, but these things have to be done. It was also noticeable that the Hi-Viz clad Club Stasi, who are usually so prevalent ordering people around at such events, had quietly melted away, rather like an MP facing questions from constituents about his claim for moat cleaning.

Time ticked by with agonising slowness, and after 90 minutes the thrills and spills of the basement carpark were beginning to wane. I’d tried all the entertainment on offer: Burger-King wrapper spotting; counting the number of non-working fluorescent tubes; cleaned the car with baby wipes and written a list of things I’d like to do to the exhibition manager. There was also the practical considerations as well – the show opened at 10:00 to the public, it was now 09:00 and it took two hours to set my stand up from scratch. Ergo, I wouldn’t be ready on time. Add to this that now everybody but everybody would be trying to force their way into the doors simultaneously, all with large and heavy boxes, boards, control panels and McDonalds breakfasts – well, it was a recipe for disaster.

Shortly after 09:05, however, the doorman arrived. He wasn’t the doorman of course – he had a peaked cap so was probably a Security & Surveillance Surgical Truss Tsar or some other made up title.

"You can't park it there!!!"

Whoever he was, he had finally dragged his carcass out of bed, ambled a couple of miles into work a couple of hours late and decided to make the most of his new found power. He unlocked the doors and proceeded inside. The assembled crowd thrust forward as one, anxious to make a belated start on their stands. But it was not to be. Blakey wanted to savour his moment. “You can’t come in yet. It’s not convenient. I’m not ready for you.” Well, the model railway crowd are generally a tolerant and genial lot, and there is no problem that can’t be solved by a nice cup of tea. But not me. I am neither tolerant nor genial when faced with an idiot in a peaked cap with a made up job title and an attitude problem who sorely regrets having been born too late to have served in the Pogroms. I’d been up since 04:00 and hadn’t had a cup of coffee. I was livid. “Then in that case, you can shove your fucking show up your fucking arse you wanker!” I announced grandly to anyone and everyone in the vicinity. I stormed back to the car, gunned it as if auditioning for Trader in a Reasonably Priced Estate Car and roared off to McDonalds in search of some much needed sustenance. After fortification by way of a couple of McMuffins and a good dose of coffee, I hit the motorway and returned to Grantham, where I had a far more entertaining weekend scouring my oven.

This incident highlighted a common problem – if you are the exhibition manager, then the weekend is not about playing with trains, it is about managing and organising an exhibition. If I’m paying a couple of hundred quid and making a 330 mile round trip to attend your exhibition, in order to make your club money, then I expect at the very least to be allowed into the building. There should be a system in place, as with all businesses, so that if the keyholder fails to show up, then there is a means of communicating with them (called a telephone) and preferably someone more reliable who can stand in. Hiding away and hoping that the problem will go away is not a good enough answer. Imagine if the manager at Asda thought one Saturday morning, ‘Ah bollocks to it. I’ll have another couple of hours kip; they can do their shopping later on.’ And then when he finally did turn up and open the store, tells the assembled hordes, “You can’t come in, it’s not convenient.” I wonder how long he’d remain in his job? A period a lot shorter than Old Blakey in Ashford, that’s for sure. But whereas at Asda there’d be an investigation followed by a sacking, in model railway world the mantra is ‘Oh, we really don’t want to make a fuss, it was nothing, really.”

The Council (who own the Leisure Centre) send the organisers a standard letter of non-apology and promise to review their procedures (i.e. do sod all), and to ensure that the club book the venue for the following year, offer a 10% discount ‘for the inconvenience’ – after putting their prices up by 10%, of course. Which is why I have never been back to Ashford, although in fairness, for some reason, they didn’t invite me back again. Strange, that.

"I 'ate you traders!"