You get me innit Bruv yeah?

There are four twats on the train sat at the table across the aisle from me.

All four are dressed like Carlton from ‘The Fresh Prince Of Bel End’ er, I mean ‘Bel Air’, but talk like the chavvy rudeboys they are failing to be.

There is a funny smell in the carriage and the conversation (ha ha, ‘conversation’) starts:

“What is dat smell innit?”

“No idea bruv, yeah?”

“Man, that smells is for real, I smelt it on the way up, innit?”

This really pisses me off. Do they realise “innit” is a slang version of “isn’t it”?

They have no idea how much I’d like to punch each of them in the face.

That’s reasonable.

ISN’T IT?

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It’s all in the voice

The woman on the table across the aisle from me has done nothing but whine on the phone about the delayed train we’re sat on.

I can’t see her because of the rather ‘stinking of booze’ mountain of a man sat directly next to me chugging wine from a selection of mini bottles in his satchel, but she’s really getting on my tits.

I imagine from her chavvy voice that she’s a bit grubby with lank greasy hair scraped back from her fat, spotty, fuck ugly face.

I look over.

It’s a little skinny man in a suit.

Chav chav train

Ah the people I see on the train….

The mum – short, chubby and freakishly butch, neck tattoo, short cropped hair with blonde tips, gold teeth and leggings, holding a Staffordshire Bull Terrier on a studded leash.

The daughter – taller, chubby, badly drawn arm tattoo of two indecipherable names, bleached blond hair scraped back, leggings, stained vest top and holding two pushchairs full of offspring.

The son – skinny, deprived of daylight, spotty, gold earring, headphones and a vacant look in his eyes.

Stereotyping?

Me?

Never.

image

Zzzzzz….huh?

This morning I overslept.

In fact, I woke up precisely 57 minutes later than I’m supposed to leave the house. This was not a good start to my day.  

I opened my eyes, realised it was 7:57am and bolted upright in bed to utter my first word of the day;  

“Shit!”  

I promptly followed this with “shit shit shit” and “how the fuck did that happen?”; although why I didn’t just ‘think’ it is beyond me as my girlfriend had already gone to work at 5am and I was alone. There was no one there to appreciate my BAFTA winning performance of a guy who’s going to be seriously late for work.  

But was I to blame? Well this is the weird part.  

I checked the alarm settings on my clocks (yes, clocks; plural) and they were both set correctly. I thought that maybe I’d snoozed them to death, but they were still showing as having not actually ‘gone off’ yet, despite them being set for 6am and 6:05am. Strange.  

Maybe fate has something in store for me today.  Or maybe fate has prevented me from some disaster that would’ve befallen me had I followed my usual morning routine. Maybe the headline ‘commuter snaps and beats man to death with his own hands, repeatedly screaming “stop hitting yourself!”‘ will never get printed.  

These are all things I pondered in the shower whilst I washed myself at speeds unmeasured by today’s technology. My arms were a virtual blur and the water was turning to a fine mist.  

I was most annoyed when, whilst drying myself at the same speed and causing my towel to catch fire twice, I heard one of my Judas alarm clocks kick off from the bedroom.  

You have got to be shitting me.  

I managed to leave the house at 8:30am which was pretty good and briskly walked to the bus stop that would take me to the train station which would take me to the tube station that would get me to work.

I decided not to walk to my usual station this morning because it’s snowing, there are no direct trains after 8:44am and my new shoes are tearing my heels an new asshole each. So a bus into the main station in town it is.  

Right now fate wasn’t impressing me.  

The roads were gridlocked due to last minute car commuters and school runs, which meant that my bus was painfully late. If only there wasn’t one adult and one child per car we may have got moving a little quicker. The words ‘car pool’ came to mind. Mind you, so did ”common sense’ and ‘birth control’.  

The bus finally arrived and it was packed solid with children screaming and crying, and these small pockets of adults ignoring them desperately (who I later learned are referred to as parents).  In fact the only adults keeping an eye on the children were the non parents who had looks of trepidation and self righteous judgement in equal measures.  

When one of these ‘parents’ decided to talk to their cherubs it was clear how much love they had for their offspring, particularly one woman who was missing a few teeth, some patches of hair, some brain cells and who was clearly a Spandau Ballet fan; “Oi Hadley! (yes, Hadley) Oi Hadley, will you and Jayden sit down and shut up!”.  

Loving.  

But for authenticity its important to point out that certain words were pronounced differently;  
Down = pronounced Dayan
Shut = pronounced Shart  

It was not only her, but her mother who basically looked like an older and fatter version, with a few more stains on her velour tracksuit…and a beard.  

Usually this bus is so blissfully empty and quiet.  

Fate was starting to piss me off.  

I got to the station, boarded a train and prepared for the utter fuckwit that will inevitably sit opposite me.

It took three stops until he got on with a female friend. I knew it was just a friend because, well…he would only have women as friends if you know what I mean.   He looked like a cross between Wally from ‘Where’s Wally?’ and Doctor Who himself Matt Smith. Add to this an extremely plummy voice and ridiculous little round glasses. He also talked really loud with his equally plummy ‘friend’ and was quite abrupt and intrusive in his questions and statements. I dont think he had any malice, he just didn’t have any etiquette filters. This was confirmed when he started going through her phone.  

Maybe we should publish a new book called ‘Where’s Wanker?’. It would be quite easy though as he finds you.  

Fate, you can kiss my asshole…all three of them.

Carriage chav

A proper fight kicked off on the train between a young 20 something girl and some guy. She was shouting abuse the likes of which would offend anyone with a sensitive disposition.

She then angrily stomped down the carriage towards the end I was sat at and I suddenly realised, there was an empty seat next to me! Oh shit!!

She continued with “you shut the fuck up bruv, you shut up yeah!?” and classics like “you little prick! That’s what you are, a little prick!!”

She got closer….her massive hoop earrings clattering against her numerous necklaces.

Shit shit shit.

Then suddenly she disappeared into a spare seat 3 rows in front of me, still shouting “fucking dickhead”, and “go back to where you got those scars you prick!”, although most of it is to herself as the guy had gone.

I felt sorry for the little timid woman she’d sat next to, whose eyes were firmly fixed, unblinking, to her kindle.

She then picked up her phone to call, who us sniggering commuters can assume was, her ‘home girl’

Here are a few choices from this side of her phone conversation (In a proper rudegirl gangsta girl stylee…at full volume)

“I should’ve put my heels to his knees.”

“Acting like some princess; what a c**t”

“Do you still think of me when you’re on the toilet?”

“He’s all up in my face like ‘oh you pushed me!’ like some chief yeah!”

“I ain’t playin’ man, I ain’t playin’!”

There were more but she was spouting them at such a speed in her gravelly ’40 a day’ voice that I couldn’t catch them all.

Now she’s sat there singing along to her iPod. Yep, singing. And still swearing under her breath.

I think the kindle woman was supposed to get off at the last stop.