The London Underground is a busy place at rush hour; crammed full of people from every walk of life and in every shape, size and colour.
A few days ago I was on the platform at London Victoria underground station awaiting the next sardine tin to arrive and whisk us away. It was the usual scenario of pushing and squashing to get prime position on the platform for the opening doors. The train pulled alongside the platform, the doors opened and we all started to habitually scowl at the people getting off the train.
A scowl that basically says, ‘hurry the fuck up’.
Once the dead weight had alighted the train, the slow motion pushing and shoving began, only to be met with the one fucking twat who still hasn’t disembarked the train.
Why does this happen? Who the fuck forgets to get off the train?
It’s likely they suddenly realised this was their stop (at the last minute) because they were too caught up playing Candy (fucking) Crush.
They are, in fact, complete idiots.
This late, sloth-like exodus by these morons usually reignites the scowl, with a subtle hint of eye rolling and a lot of quiet sighing as we’re forced to slowly move back onto the platform from the much coveted metal flooring of the train. Today was no exception.
Ok, are they out?
Are we sure?
The slow motion mosh pit resumed and bodies were crushed together like a man’s junk in 80s jeans. It was nuts to butts as we managed to squeeze the last person on, leaving no room to slide a credit card between us. There were armpits in the face and lumps and bumps pressed against lumps and bumps.
But frankly, I didn’t care. I was on the train. So fuck the rest of you. Ha!
I freed one of my hands and reached up to grab a rail in anticipation of the train moving.
At this moment a guy managed to somehow shoehorn himself onto the train before the doors closed, causing a domino effect of squashing that resulted in a woman pressing right up against me.
Now, this isn’t unusual on the underground by any means, but on this occasion she’d managed to effortlessly wedge my other hand against my thigh……with her bum.
It’s worth mentioning that I hadn’t actually noticed at first; fighting to keep my footing and stay upright as the train pulled away. To be honest, if I’d let go of the rail I still wouldn’t have fallen over as there wasn’t space to move. I reckon I could’ve lifted both feet off the ground and still stayed in place, although I may have sunk down like I was in quicksand and I would’ve had a face full of bum.
The train had started to shake and jerk around like it usually does, which is when I realised that I had a bum rubbing left and right against the back of my hand. This would’ve been tolerable if she’d been a 21 year old model, but not if she was a 55 year old geography teacher.
But i’m a happily married man, so I use the word ‘tolerable’ loosely.
Anyway, I could clearly make out the bum cleft on each pass of her buttocks across my hand. I could make out the shape and density of each cheek as it swayed left, then right, then left; over and over again like she was Miley Cyrus and I was Robin Thicke.
The certainty I had of being able to pick out the subtle distinctions in the shape of her bum left me realising the cold, unnerving truth; this granny was either wearing a thong…or nothing.
I was also very aware that my hand was so wedged in that I would’ve had to pull really hard to remove it, alerting her to the fact that it was my hand and not some random bag or something. Also, considering it had been wedged in there at least 45 seconds at this point, I would’ve been considered a bit of a pervert for not moving it sooner.
That would’ve resulted in an entirely different type of scowl.
So I could do nothing but stand there for the next two minutes, copping a feel against my will, with very distinguishable buttocks rubbing seductively against me by an unattractive old woman who had no idea she was doing it.
I washed my hands a lot when I got to work.