Bloody commute…

Whilst riding the tube this evening I was witness to something you don’t see often; a man covered in blood.

Now allow me to quantify that by pointing out that it’s Halloween. Even so, it’s still a little unnerving when the guy who gets on the tube next to you is, indeed, covered in blood.

Did I mention he was covered in blood? Well he was, y’know, covered in blood.

So there we were stood side by side on the packed train as it slowly departed the station. It was then I noticed the reactions of the other people crammed in with our crimson pal, or rather, the lack of them.

Here he stood, covered in the red stuff and no one even bats an eyelid (no pun intended). I guess they all had the same thought as me which was “this guy must have had some sort of Halloween dress up thingy at work today, good for him”.

This lack of blind terror, screaming and uncontrollable sobbing did get me thinking. What if this guy was REALLY covered in REAL blood? What a perfect cover. He seemed so calm and unassuming, but then again aren’t they the ones we should be careful of?

I edged away from him slightly.

Some of the commuters were desperately trying to stare without being too obvious as he was, without question, covered in blood. What fascinated me the most was the way they’d quickly look elsewhere when he made eye contact. I mean, it’s rude to stare, right? And we don’t want to upset the blood soaked stranger do we kids?

Then I wondered; what if today had been a regular day? What if it hadn’t been halloween? Would we have all acted differently? I would’ve certainly filled my trousers with all kinds of nasty, but what about everyone else? Maybe one day I’ll just dress as a zombie and stand on the train at rush hour, dribbling and groaning.

Although I suspect I won’t need to stand with all the empty seats.

But the most amusing, and yet appropriate, reaction was when the train pulled into our destination. There, stood on the platform, was a small oriental girl waiting for the train. She’d obviously positioned herself so that she would be right in front of the sliding doors when they opened.

Perfect.

We all started piling off the train and I was directly behind Mr Bloody so I had a front row seat for what happened next.

As we stepped off the train, the oriental girl looked up and made a face that simply said “what the fucking shit?!?”, complete with wide eyes and even wider mouth. This was accompanied by a sudden and violent sidestep which was clearly a kneejerk reaction not dissimilar to ducking when a pigeon flies at your face.

(Although seeing a pigeon hit someone full on in the face is just a beautiful thing; at least for the spectator and not the person picking beak, shit and feathers out of their mouth)

Her reaction was absolutely priceless. I can still picture it now and I cant stop smiling; It was so bloody funny.

Pun intended.

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To pass or not to pass?

Readers of this blog (or my Facebook page) will have noticed that I have the occasional (ahem) issue with the shuffling morons I share my commutes with every day.

There is, however, another type of commuter that I feel needs a mention. 

This one isn’t as slow as the others, nor are they as randomly multidirectional as their brethren.  These ones tend to walk with purpose and determination, usually at a speed just slow enough to attempt overtaking them, but fast enough to fail.  Trying to pass these people means speeding up to a point where it actually starts to become uncomfortable and you look awkward because, well, you’re practically running.

If you do manage to overtake them you then have to decide; do you slow back down to your normal speed (which might make you look a bit stupid as they’ll inevitably walk past you and put you back to where you started), or continue walking really fast like someone needing to poo?

Tough decision.

Unless you actually need to poo.

London Undergrind!!

Faaaaarkin’ hell!

What a tube journey!!

The whole thing started badly when I left work late which usually means I miss my train from London by literally one minute.

One. Whole. Minute.

I made it to the tube station, having successfully avoided black cabs and ninja cyclists, and attempted to enter the station. And when I say attempted, I mean attempted. It’s amazing how many people just stop dead when walking, or don’t know how to walk forward.

It’s not that hard; it’s the direction your fuck ugly face is pointing. Can we please fit these people with brake lights or, at the very least, indicators??

I managed to slalom these bungling bell-ends and get through the ticket barrier (which, interestingly, was the only thing that was reliable this evening). I then joined the escalator and started walking down on the left, which is the understood escalator etiquette on London’s underground network. I made it half way down when some twat stood on the right realised everyone on the left was walking down and decided to step out and join them, taking each step at the speed of dark. The stationary people on the right arrived at the bottom quicker.

Finally I made it onto the platform just as a train pulled in. “Result” I thought to myself as I jumped on.

The train then sat there for four minutes, which, on the underground, equates to about 3 weeks.

Finally we pulled off and we bumped, swerved and jiggled our way to my final destination. Great if the carriage was full of busty bikini clad girls.

It wasn’t.

The good news is…I could still make my train here.

We all got off. And it was at this point I was utterly and violently fascinated by the speed we all disembarked. It defies logic that people in a hurry….aren’t! It’s not because of bottle-necking or anything because I managed to wriggle through the plodding pillocks like a good looking knife through thuddingly dumb butter. I now know where George A. Romero got his inspiration, although his zombies would go hungry with the lack of delicious grey matter in the vicinity.

At last i made it to the final escalator and decided to opt for the left hand side walk up. This time no-one stepped out in front of me because they were all too bloody lazy, and they didn’t need to as the person in front of me was clearly struggling to climb the steps. Would it have been wrong to grab them by the shoulders, shove them to the right and exclaims “for fuck’s sake!!” Loudly as I stomp past? Hmm….possibly. I opted for silent rage.

I made it to the top, through the rest of George’s flock, through another non-obstructive ticket barrier and onto the conc…. onto the conc…. onto the conc…

Will you get out of the fucking way people!!!!

…onto the concourse. Jesus! It seemed no-one could walk in a straight line, or continue without stopping, or control their kids, or luggage, or their knuckles as they dragged along the floor.

It’s been an emotional journey and, oh look, I’ve missed my train by one minute.

The appliance of wrong

There’s currently a competition on Facebook to win some kitchen appliances.

Im not promoting it in any way I hasten to add!

All you have to do is ‘like’ the page to enter the draw. It’s accompanied by a picture which I’ve included in this blog.

Now is it me, or do the words just under the child seem a little inappropriate?

Fantasy Vs. Reality – Part 2

Situation:
Guys swaggering along with their jeans hanging low, below their asses.  You know the look i’m talking about right?

Fantasy:  Everyone thinks they’re proper ‘gangsta’.  Everyone shows them respec’ cos dey is, like, street blud; you get me?  People feel jealous pride for their urban flava and know that they are not to be messed with.  These are dangerous peoples man, dangerous peoples! (kisses teeth)

Reality:  Everyone thinks they look like a bunch of pricks who desperately need to pull their jeans up.  We can all see their pants, and therefore their asses….which makes them look like a toddler, complete with a full nappy.  Their choices of pants usually leave a lot to be desired.  You recokon you’re ghetto?  Well the Spongebob pants are suggesting otherwise! 

We all laugh at them because they have to walk with wide strides to stop their jeans actually falling down to their skinny, knobbly knees….or they have to walk along holding them up with one hand, which is daft considering they’re already wearing a belt.

And if they ever have to run (for a bus, to cross the road, away from their parole officer), it’s like watchin a penguin in high heels running across a glacier covered in banana skins.

You get me?

This is not something I make up….

This morning, after a long and cramped commute into London, I was chatting with a friend and we began comparing our vacuum packed journies into the capital.

The subject eventually turned to women (obviously), but more specifically the different types of make-up they wear; the tones, the colours, the thicknesses and the way they apply them (brushes, pens, trowels etc..)
There seems to be a myriad of methods and styles adopted by this country’s fairer sex.  Mind you, having said that, it’s not really accurate to describe them as ‘fairer’anymore when they come in so many colours, like the iPod.

For example, this morning on the underground, there was a young(ish) girl stood in front of me whose make-up was flawless.  I mean it was ‘photoshoot’ flawless.  I think she’d been photoshopped to be honest.  I couldn’t stop staring at her, not because I found her attractive or anything, but simply because she was ridiculously unflawed and unblemished.  it was truly a work of art.  And stood next to her was a woman whose tone resembled a rusty car.

What a contrast.

The Oompa-Loompa’s boyfriend must be a plasterer as she’d clearly had help with applying half of Arizona’s desert to her face.  In addition to this she was extremely shiny with big pink Santa cheeks and blue eye shadow that would make a porn star blush.  I find it a little saddening that she’d clearly taken time to smear on half of Superdrug’s stock that morning and yet my attention was drawn elsewhere.  At least, it WAS drawn elsewhere until Miss Loompa starting talking loudly to her friend through very, VERY red shiny glittery (and badly pencilled) lips.

And what is this fascination with being orange?  I’ve never understood it.  I can appreciate the need to look tanned as it gives that holiday glow, but orange makes it look like you’ve been on holiday to Chernobyl…and that glow is probably uranium, or Ready Brek.

But if you really want to look orange, dip your face in carrot soup.  Just let it cool down first.

I do have one last observation that is actually something i’m impressed with, and that’s the ability of some women to be able to apply make-up on a moving train full of people whilst standing!

I have seen this on numerous occasions and it never ceases to amaze me.  Not only can it be done on a bumpy and swervy train, but also whilst squished up against other people.  I swear these women practice in their closets.  They adopt the arms of a preying mantis and manage to juggle brushes, pens, pads, sponges, mirrors, curlers and mobile phone whilst bouncing around the carrriage with everyone else like some weird, emotionless, slow motion mosh pit.

And the fact they don’t have it all over themselves is nothing short of impressive; I can’t even keep inside the lines in a colouring book.

My friend pointed out that if it were us, we’d end up looking like the Joker.

It could be worse, I could be orange.

Licky licky…

The suited guy at the other table on the train keeps licking his lips.

And I don’t mean in a normal ‘stop them from being dry’ kind of way, but more like a ‘trying to be erotic, really going for it like a child with jam around its mouth and now the area between his bottom lip and chin are actually glistening in the fluorescent lights with gross man-dribble’ kind of way.

Disturbing.