King’s Cross and St Pancras stations are helpfully sited next to other for no better reason than to confuse the unwary. They merge underground in a devious and unpleasant psychological experiment. Those unfamiliar with the subterranean geography can scuttle around a warren of tunnels like a frantic rodent that’s been force-fed large doses of stimulants. Several hours later, you’ll either find the correct tube line or reach the surface. If you do locate the Northern Line you get a food pellet. Or a very severe electric shock, depending on how clumsy you were at the platform edge.
King’s Cross and Euston act as the gateways to Scotland. As such, if you spend any time (longer than one minute) outside of either you’ll eventually be accosted by a drunk Glaswegian. He’s either insulting your parentage or asking for directions. Linguists, after exhaustive study, have yet to figure out which. It’s not the Scottish accent, believe me absolutely everyone in Scotland talks like Miss Brodie’s slightly posher aunt, it’s the result of a lifetime of being steeped in Buckfast Tonic Wine and the eight cans of Tenant’s Super than enlivened his journey down the spine of the country. He’ll be readily identifiable by the fact he’s wearing a t-shirt whatever the weather and will have a carrier bag (presumably with more industrial-strength lager, but you ask him). He’ll also be followed by several distraught and confused families. They’re not his, they’ve just been confined in the same carriage since Birmingham New Street. Generally, despite standing on the streets of London, he’ll still be of the firm belief that he never left Scotland and the bagpipers have been kidnapped by the English in some weird inversion of the Pied Piper myth. There are sober Scots, they remain in Scotland inventing things like televisions, penicillin, and the macadamised road.
Of course, followed by the Scots, are the people of the North.
Northern people generally don’t like being in London. They will tell this to anyone that will listen. Even if they’ve lived in London for the last thirty years, they’ll still tell you how much they hate London, usually while sipping their cappuccino. The North, of course, has fewer people than sheep and you can leave your doors unlocked at night, mostly so the neighbours in the terraced house next door can come in and steal your TV to buy more drugs without having to kick the door in.
The North is obviously a fantastic place if you like wool and dislike keys. For some though, being Northern just isn’t enough, they have to be from Yorkshire, oddly often referred to as "God’s Own County” despite no evidence that either He or any of his prophets (including the angel Moroni who unaccountably skipped the entire county on his gap year trip to the US) ever visited. By and large, the people of Yorkshire don’t even like being in the North, since it’s contaminated by the filthy red rose-touting non-Yorkshire parts. Even some areas of Yorkshire aren’t Yorkshirey enough for them. “That’s not really Yorkshire,” they’ll disdainfully declare as though you’ve just handed them a turd, “that’s SOUTH Yorkshire.” Truth is though, even if they had located the perfect, unadulterated northern heart of Yorkshire-ness, a confection of whippets and flat caps, the average Yorkshireman would be too tight to pay the bus fare to get there.
Surviving the King’s Cross area has become easier. Eurostar trains now wend their way into St Pancras to add a little bright and be-scarfed continental chic to a once grim, boarded-up slab of London. Now dozens of confused French tourists and Midlanders can mix it up with addled Scotsmen. It’s not unlike a deranged barman (or Tom Cruise) mixing a cocktail of Chateauneuf du Pape, Buckfast, and then adding a splash of dandelion and burdock. Even the area itself has been rebranded Regent Quarter (an uncommon modesty from the developers in not claiming an entire regent), with contemporary lateral living spaces, bars and restaurants displacing the more traditional local attractions of readily available crack cocaine and prostitutes.
Survival tips. Don’t attempt to go underground without a map and ample supplies. Don’t attempt engage the Glaswegian in conversation on the basis that you have read Trainspotting and it can’t be that hard, can it? And for the love of God don’t ask anyone about Yorkshire.
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