iPod | Head In A Blender

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.

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.