Every morning I see this sign on the door to the control room at London Victoria underground station
Obviously this room is out of bounds to commuters.
But this sign also suggests the same applies to station staff and contractors.
So, who CAN enter this room?
Maybe only those people capable of using punctuation.
I finish work at 5.30pm, so at 5.25pm I thought I’d nip to the toilet to empty my increasingly aching bladder before the 2 hour journey home.
2 cubicles. Both in use.
Alright, that’s fine. I’m clearly not the only one who’s had that idea.
I waited for 3 or 4 minutes before deciding the occupants were clearly masturbating or dead and gave up. There are another 2 cubicles near the entrance to the building so I thought I’d use those on my way out.
Both also in use.
I waited outside for about 5 minutes, calling out loudly to my wife sat in reception that “I won’t be long as I’m just waiting for these people to finish using the toilet!”
Despite there being noises from within, including flushes and the washing of hands, they weren’t taking the hint or showing any signs of emerging.
“I think they’ve fallen in darling, they’re taking forever!”
Still nothing. I think I heard one of them re-sit down for another performance.
What were they doing in there?
I decided, with bursting bladder and a wife reminding me that we could miss our train, that we should leave the office.
A full bladder is one thing, but proving my wife right is another!
So we left and joined the throng of London commuters and their inept sense of direction.
I tell you, attempting to navigate heaving crowds and packed underground trains with a hairpin bladder is an adventure. A nervous, sweaty adventure.
We made it to Victoria station and straight onto the train. Unfortunately, because we’d left the office so late, the train was really busy. Thankfully there were 2 seats available at a table, so my wife and I grabbed them.
I removed my shoulder bag and put it on my seat like a tourist with towel on a sun lounger.
“Watch my bag, I really need to use the toilet!” I said, hopping from one leg to the other.
I walked through to the other carriage and found the cubicle.
In use.
Fuck!
I waited.
I waited longer.
I looked at my wife in the other carriage in disbelief.
I even asked some kids I’d they’ve seen anyone go into this toilet (in case it’s out of order).
“Yeah, a girl went in there, innit”
Eventually, after 10 minutes I gave up and joined my wife.
We’re still sat on the train and the toilet is still occupied. We’ve been on this train for 45 minutes.
I’m about to test the absorbency of these seats.
This morning I saw a man on the London Underground accompanied by his wife who was dressed in a Burka.
Some people unfairly assume that, being a Muslim, he is probably up to no good like bombing the train or something equally insane.
This is, of course, ridiculous. It is an irrational fear created by the few extremists out there ruining it for the rest.
I have to say that I disagree with the oppressive nature of the burka, despite the excellent UV protection it provides. Having said that, I do have Muslim friends and my experience has taught me that their religion is no more or less peaceful than any other (except maybe Buddhism).
Also, this dude had his wife with him. There isn’t a man alive (or dead) who wants to be greeted by 72 virgins with his wife!
Unless that’s their thing.
Which I doubt.
So I wasn’t worried.
However, this guy was wearing a T-shirt that wasn’t doing him any favours whatsoever.
It read:
I must not think bad thoughts
I must not think bad thoughts
I must not think bad thoughts
Hilarious.
There were some uncomfortably sweaty people on the train this morning.
This morning at Goodge Street Underground station I heard the following announcement:
“Ladies and Gentlemen; please be aware that lift number four is currently out of service while we perform essential routine maintenance”.
Fair enough.
There are no escalators at Goodge Street station but there are four lifts*, so we’d either use one of the three remaining lifts or take the spiral stairs to the surface; all 136 of them.
Fuck. That.
But the announcement didn’t stop there (although I wish it had); “Please use the remaining lifts one to three, or take the spiral stairs”.
Oh my god I am so thankful they told us that otherwise we could’ve been stuck down there for days.
*Or ‘elevators’ to our American brethren who may be confused**
**At the word ‘lift’.
I had trouble walking through London Victoria station this morning due to some idiot in front of me pulling a big red holdall on wheels.
Slowly.
I tried as hard as possible to pass him, but he blocked me at every attempt; zigzagging like a shark swimming through an ocean of directionless pillocks….sorry, pollocks.
Is it wrong that I wanted to punch him out of the way?
He was a menace, nearly taking out my legs and those of others around me. He was oblivious to the carnage he was leaving in his wake.
It might also explain why his bag was red; stained with the shin blood of the capital’s masses.
Eventually I managed to get past him and felt the same sense of freedom as overtaking a tractor on a narrow country road. I had the urge to run through the station, flailing my arms in the air screaming “Yes! Yes! I’m free!!”, but I decided against it as I wasn’t entirely convinced my wife would join in.
Although she IS American, so there was a chance.
Still, I wasn’t going to chance it and frankly I was just too tired.
The excitement and energy of passing the holdall hauling halfwit meant I really didn’t have the strength to do anything but place one foot in front of the other.
Anyway, we traversed the concourse and headed towards the underground station, joining the throng of people shoving themselves through the entrance.
As we joined the back of the crowd, there in front of me was the big red holdall on wheels.
How the fuck?
I looked behind me in case there was another big bag bearing bell-end, but only saw a trail of hobbling commuters; limping and clutching their shins.
I turned back in disbelief and it was then that I noticed the writing on his bag:
‘London Fire Brigade – Keeping London Safe’
(clenches fist)
Another normal* morning on London’s fine underground network system. The masses and I were stood on the platform awaiting the next oversized Pringles can to arrive and whisk us away.
Soon enough it arrived and the doors wheezed open as we all stood back to allow the shuffling morons off. We made sure to wear our customary scowls as they did so, before pushing and shoving onto the train; desperate to fill the void left in their wake.
As we crammed on I noticed that the woman in front of me had a shitload of space in front of her, but wasn’t moving into it. I’m not sure she realised the loud voice over the tannoy telling us all to “move down inside the carriage and use all available space” applied to her.
Those straddling the gap between the train and the station did.
I concluded that common sense should “move down inside the brain and use all available space”, but quickly dismissed that as futile and instead tried to push past her.
She wasn’t having any of it.
I’m 6 feet tall and this little twat was only about 5 feet tall, so it was inevitable I was going to succeed in pushing past her. This was a further indication that common sense eluded her.
Never before have the words “Mind The Gap” been so appropriate.
Despite her best efforts I shoved past her and lifted my arm to grab the handrail bolted into the ceiling. In the process of pushing past this brainless bint and raising my hand at the same time, I succeeded in punching a seated man in the side of the head.
Yes, that’s right; I punched a stranger.
This wasn’t a light brushing or a mild scuff; it was a full on, four knuckled, unrestrained smack across the side of his head. In fact, the force of it was strong enough to cause his head to jerk wildly to the side.
I looked down, ready to apologise profusely and lay blame with the stubborn bitch who should’ve been the one to punch him instead of me, when I saw that he hadn’t even looked up from his phone.
Nothing.
No reaction.
What the fuck?
He just sat there and continued playing Angry Birds as if he gets punched by strangers all the time.
“So how many was it today Dave?”
“Only 3. Although I did get a headbutt in the nuts from a midget”
I’m sure there’s a joke in here somewhere about a punchline.
*who am I kidding?
This morning my train was delayed due to a “passenger being taken ill” on board.
My first clue that something wasn’t right was when a man entered from the adjoining carriage and woke me up by screaming “IS THERE A DOCTOR ON BOARD!??”
No reaction.
“PASS IT DOWN!”
No-one did.
He stood there for a few seconds, shot everyone a contemptuous look and headed back to his carriage.
Once I’d wiped away the drool from my mouth and the shoulder of the woman next to me, I looked out the window and saw we were just outside Clapham Junction, the busiest train station in the UK. I then looked at my watch and saw that we were running 40 minutes later than usual.
What the fuck?
I soon discovered it was something to do with signalling problems/electrical issues/leaves on the track/frost. [Delete as applicable…take your pick]
It was at this point, as the train slowly trundled into Clapham Junction (the busiest train station in the UK), that I noticed an unnatural silence in the carriage. At first I thought it might be due to concern for our fallen comrade in the other carriage, but I soon concluded it was because everyone was thinking the exact same thing as me….
“Don’t stop the train, don’t stop the train, don’t stop the train, don’t stop the train…..”
‘Crackle’
Oh no.
‘Fizz’
Oh shit.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your conductor speaking…”
Please no.
“…it appears the alarm has been pulled in one of the carriages…”
Ah, dammit!
“…owing to someone being taken ill on board.”
Here we go…
Now, I’ve ranted about the delays caused by those ‘taken ill’ before, but that was about the afflicted being on the platform, whereas this time it was someone actually on the train.
After multiple “apologies for the delay” and “awaiting a first-aider” announcements, it occurred to me….
Just take them off the train.
I mean, how ‘ill’ was the person if all we were waiting for was a first-aider? At no point did the announcements say we were awaiting a surgeon…or a mortician; so why not take them off the train and treat them in the cool, refreshing morning air?
Nope. As a lot of us feared, the inevitable happened.
The speakers crackled and fizzed to life again and the conductor suggested it might be a good idea we all leave the train and board another one. After all, there were plenty of trains heading into London as this was Clapham Junction; the busiest train station in the UK.
As you can imagine, this went down as well as a vegan’s fart in a broken elevator with the packed masses who were already very late for work.
Now, I’ve estimated a train carriage holds over 100 people and this was a 12 carriage beast packed tighter that Tom Jones’ trousers, so in effect we had over 1200 rats fleeing a sinking ship. That’s 1200 moaning, tutting, multi-directional shuffling zombies joining the crowds at the busiest train station in the UK; all heading towards platform 14 to join other equally packed trains full of scowling, miserable sods all unwilling to ‘move down the carriage using all available space’.
Amongst the crowds and mayhem I found a gap on platform 14 and, whilst silently congratulating myself, smugly waited for the next London-bound sardine tin. Soon enough it pulled up and I discovered why there had been a gap on the platform; I was stood equidistantly nowhere near the train doors.
I couldn’t have positioned myself better if I’d tried.
The doors opened and people started piling off the train. The rest of us glared at them as we watched the ever increasing space form behind them like a tin of cookies at a Weight-watchers meeting. I began sizing up my fellow commuters to see who I could take down if the need arose. The small Chinese woman, the man in front of me with the rucksack, the woman checking her make-up in a portable mirror; I reckon I could take them all with a well placed elbow here and a careful headbutt there.
As it turned out we all got on board.
Lucky bastards.
Mind you, some dude had my arse in his face all the way into London.
Lucky bastard.
Anyway, we arrived into Victoria almost an hour later than usual and everyone made a beeline for the underground station which, for some reason, wasn’t busy at all. It was actually a breeze getting through the barrier and I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why th……
Oh wait, it was 09:25am. Of course it was quieter; most people were actually AT work!
Oh well, at least the tube would be a nice end to this nightmare journey.
‘Crackle’
Oh no.
‘Fizz’
Oh shit.
“We apologise that, due to a signalling failure at Brixton, the Victoria line is subject to major delays in both directions”.
Maybe someone should call a first-aider.
Quickly.
This morning I was stood opposite a girl on the tube whose eyebrows were drawn 150% thicker than they should’ve been, with far too much pink glossy lipstick that reflected enough light to blind everyone around her.
And she was orange.
Why do women think this is an attractive look?
Mmm, I can’t wait to run my hands through those big man brows whilst stained orange like a baby’s nappy and covered in pink sticky glossy shit….said no man, ever.
Laughable.
She looked like this.
This morning whilst stood on the tube I found myself reading someone’s tablet over their shoulder.
I use the word ‘reading’ loosely as it was all in German.
It read something like this:
Kraften blitzke frausch mit aschven krau ka diftenschkraschen eins muttsen bitte lisch ja fluugan zwei genitals dreischen seib achtung zwolften schlassen cochsuckens banhofftenschlasse.
…
…
…
Yes, I saw that word in there too.
On a whole page of German words my eyes happened to gravitate to that one English noun nestled in there like a tick, which says a lot about me.
At least, I think it was all German. It could’ve been a wordsearch.
In which case, I won.
This morning on the tube I noticed a young girl wearing one of those rings that covers two fingers like a fashionable knuckle duster.
This piece of weaponised jewellery was gold. Well, I say ‘gold’…it was gold coloured plastic in the shape of the word ‘Bad’.
And it really was.
My wife, being from the United States, needed to set up a bank account as every transaction in which she used her American debit card was causing her to be glared at like she was robbing the place. Even the nice ladies at the supermarket suddenly transform into ferocious interrogation officers, scrutinising the information on her card and I.D. like a dieter with a packet of biscuits.
Also, she’ll soon be working and companies prefer to pay directly into an account rather than give cash or cheques directly to employees, maybe because this involves actually touching them or something; I don’t know.
Needless to say, she needed a bank account.
So, it made sense that I set her up with the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) that I’ve been with all my life. This would make it easier if we ever need to transfer funds to each other and I have a better understanding of how that bank (sorry, ‘building society’) operates.
We had originally set up an account for her online two weeks prior and had received instant approval, but the paperwork had not arrived in the promised “3-5 working days”.
I assume they use the term ‘Working days’ with a sense of irony.
This resulted in us calling them only to be told that she needed to visit a branch of the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) in order for them to validate her identification. Thanks for telling us. I have no issue with visiting a branch in person, but don’t allow us to arrange it online if we still need to physically go to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) anyway. Amazon doesn’t ask us to go and pick up our item from their depot after ordering something online, and if this is the trend of things to come I’ll be fucked if I’m buying anything from DFS.
It’s online for a reason people.
I assume they use the term ‘Applying for a Flexaccount online is easy’ with a sense of irony.
But, having said that, we also needed to post a Christmas gift to America AND arrange for my wife to get a haircut, so it made sense to park the car in the centre of town as all three of these were very close to each other. This was ideal as we were heading up to London (for a concert in the evening) and we wanted to leave as early as possible so my wife could at least spend some time in the capital beforehand.
We should’ve only be about half an hour, maybe an hour…maximum. Then we could’ve gone and caught our train.
So we drove into town, parked at a nearby car park and I walked over to put change in the ticket machine. I reached into my pocket and produced three £1 coins.
“That’ll be more than enough” I thought to myself.
‘Up to 2 hours – £3.10’
I’m sorry, what? Are you fucking kidding me? £3.10?? I don’t need two hours! And who the hell comes up with an idiotic price like that?
I was just about to grudgingly get another £1 from the car when I saw the words ‘No Change Given’ on the machine. Aha, that explains the cock-eyed price. They were relying on people like me not having the random shrapnel needed to pay for the privilege of parking my car. Why not make it £3.88 so at least it covers all the coins in one transaction?
Wankers.
Basically it was going to cost me four quid to park my car for half an hour or so.
No fucking way.
I gave my wife the parcel for the post office and told her I’d re-park in the local supermarket which was £1 for 2 hours; we’d then meet outside the post office and visit the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and hair salon together.
Off she went.
I drove to the supermarket (a 2 minute drive that took 15 minutes in pre-Christmas Saturday traffic), parked up, paid the £1 and walked 10 minutes back to the Post Office. There, as expected, was my wife, but she was not looking happy.
It seemed the Post Office wouldn’t accept her debit card.
Of course.
I went in, paid, glared at the unapologetic assistant for doing everything but assist, and we left.
I assume they use the term ‘Assistant’ with a sense of irony.
We then crossed the road to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) before realising the documentation she needed was still in the car.
Of course.
So we began the 10 minute walk back to the car, stopping off at the hair salon to arrange an appointment for my wife to get a trim. This salon was always open on a Sunday which was perfect for us as time was ticking.
Not this Sunday though. This Sunday they were shut. No reason; they just were.
Of course.
We left, walked the rest of the way to the car and drove back through the traffic to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) where, of course, I wasn’t allowed to park.
Fuck it, I was going to wait outside. All my wife needed now, as she headed into the bank (sorry, ‘building society’), was a shotgun and a balaclava for me to really look the part.
She had been in there less than a minute when I spied a traffic warden in my rear view mirror walking up the street. Oh come on!
I calmly and furiously moved into the car park opposite and sat in my car poised and ready to drive away and/or punch the shit out of someone if challenged.
After about three minutes my wife came out shaking her head. It seemed the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) weren’t happy with her American I.D. card and driving licence as proof of identification as advised by the friendly customer service representative we’d called the day before. Apparently she needed to produce her passport.
I assume they use the term ‘Customer service’ with a sense of irony.
Usually this would result in us rolling our eyes, but considering we were already late for getting to the capital, we were starting to get pissed off. We drove home, picked up her passport, drove back and arrived at the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) 40 minutes later. In she went again. I parked up and cracked my knuckles in readiness.
This time she was in there about 10 minutes before coming out; a face like thunder. It appears that, due to money laundering regulations, she’s unable to open a bank (sorry, ‘building society’) account for the first three months of living in the UK. Something that could’ve been mentioned A BIT EARLIER ON DON’T YOU THINK?!?!
What a massive shitting fucking pisslicking waste of time.
I use the term ‘Fucking morons’ with no sense of irony.
Well, I suppose everything comes in threes. The post office, the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and the hair salon. Surely that’s the end of it?
Nope.
We got to the station and the queue was just long enough for us to miss the train by 2 minutes resulting in a half hour wait for the next one.
The carriage was nice and quiet except for the three girls sat RIGHT in front of us who didn’t stop talking fat sweaty hairy bollocks throughout the entire journey.
At the concert we were at the front (result!) and when someone at the back decided to throw their drink forward it just happened to miss everyone except my wife and I. Mmm, eye-stingingly refreshing.
After the concert the tube was delayed due to someone being taken ill on another train. Once the ambulance had finally arrived and sorted it out 15 minutes later, we were advised that the train would now be delayed due to someone on another train pulling the fucking emergency cord.
We should’ve known this morning, when the alarm didn’t go off, that it was going to be a fantastic day.
Body odour on the London underground should be punishable by death.
Or a bath.
As soon as the acrid stench filled my nose (and those of the other sardines packed in the tin with me), the very attractive, tall blonde to my left looked at me and I suddenly realised she may think the niff is coming from me.
Don’t get me wrong here…I’m a happily married man, but that doesn’t mean I’m content with this woman thinking I smell like an armpit.
And it was a STRONG smell; the type that had been fermenting for a long, long time.
So I did what anyone would do in a situation like this, I held my fist under my nose in a theatrical attempt to indicate it WASN’T me. Basically I was miming “Pheeeuw! What is that noxious smell? It’s clearly not me as I’m attempting to mask it. See, I’m very obviously attempting to mask it with my fist and the inside of my jacket, so it’s obviously not me!”
Everyone was shiftily looking around trying to figure out who the culprit was, like some kind of silent game of Cluedo.
Luckily, whenever the train started moving it wafted the fetid stink through the carriage like a stagnant curry fart under a disturbed duvet.
I think it was Professor Pong, on the tube, with the empty can of deodorant.
Or the blonde.
On the London Underground this morning I was watching a woman sat down, meticulously adjusting her hair in a small hand-held mirror.
This little bit back there; this bit brought forward etc…
She was being very thorough and at one stage appeared to be struggling to get one part of her hair to go where she wanted it to. This may be because the train was being jostled left and right vigorously, but it’s likely because gravity actually exists.
Suddenly she stopped and looked up, like a deer hearing a twig snap in the quiet wood or that realisation that you’ve probably left the iron on at home. She was motionless, looking directly forward with intent and concern at no-one in particular.
“Atchoo!!”
She sneezed into her hand. The hand she then re-applied to her hair.
I always thought sneezes were unpredictable and unintentional, but her (now ‘gravity defying’) hair would suggest otherwise.
I wake up most mornings between 6am and 6:45am, depending on whether my alarm clocks (plural) do an effective job at waking the dead. I tend to leave the house around 7:15am and suffer the tedious commute into London every day by train.
You may have noticed.
I navigate the multidirectional London crowds, endure the hot and sweaty tube (which is the London Underground and not the duty of a bored housewife), walk the streets of London and arrive at work around 8:55am. When I say “Good morning” to the girls behind reception I clear my throat beforehand because it’s usually the first time i’ve spoken that day.
Well, this morning whilst crammed on the tube I had a woman fall into me when the train stopped abruptly. She turned to me, somehow surprised that Newton’s law of motion had actually applied to her despite not securing her footing or holding onto a pole like the rest of us, and apologised.
Without thinking, and without throat clearage, I said “that’s alright” in what has to be the best Mickey Mouse impersonation I think i’ve ever heard.
Bollocks.
Today I left the office about 7 minutes early in the attempt to get the earlier train home.
I walked past my usual underground station and instead walked to the next one, thus avoiding a change of line and therefore saving time.
Im so bloody clever.
I entered Warren Street station and flashed the guard my paper ticket which meant he let me through the empty barrier and I didn’t have to queue with the Oyster zombies who get stopped by the barriers every 10 seconds, and who then touch and retouch their cards against the reader as if the words ‘Please seek assistance’ lit up in bright red somehow don’t apply to them; meanwhile the queue of shuffling undead behind them are getting increasingly hungry for more ‘braaaains!’, presumably for the twat at the front with the defective card.
So as I said, I sidestepped the masses and whizzed through.
I’m so bloody clever.
I nipped in front of a family of suitcases being pulled by imbeciles who clearly couldn’t drive them and did the quickstep down the left hand side of the escalator and onto the southbound northern line platform, where there was a train waiting to leave.
Now usually I would let it go, walk to the front of the empty platform and join the follow up train so I’m at the exit when I reach the busy Victoria platform at the end of my journey…because, well, I’m so bloody clever. However, as I’m in a hurry, I jump straight on as the train doors are closing with a master plan formulating in my ‘braaaains!’. At every stop I’m going to get off the train, walk down the platform and rejoin the train. This means I’ll still be at the exit when we reach Victoria.
I’m so bloody clever…and a bit smug.
At Oxford Circus I do exactly that and managed to move forward 3 carriages.
I’m seriously so bloody goddam clever.
(Why doesn’t everyone do this?)
We pulled into Green Park and I did the same again, only this time I made it to the front!
I’m so bloody cle….oh shit. I couldn’t get on. Too many people.
Shit shit shit.
Ok, the next one was in 2 minutes and there was only one person in front of me on the platform, so I’ll still get there quite quickly.
Ah, I was denied access on that one too.
Cock.
I ended up missing the earlier train I was so desperate to catch and ended up on my usual service anyway.
I’m so.
Bloody.
Clever.
The London Victoria tube station was a nightmare this morning.
It was packed solid with bodies all desperate to mash themselves against the stranger in front of them, just to get to a place that deprived them of a lovely lay in this morning; work.
As I watched each train come and go, taking with them various sized chucks of the masses, I was edging closer and closer to the front of the herd, and subsequently the edge of the platform.
“Stay behind the yellow line ladies and gentlemen!” came a man’s voice, barking over the tannoy.
I looked down, and sure enough there was a yellow line a few inches away from the concrete precipice of death that I was unnervingly close to. I tried to shuffle backwards but considering there was a wall of iPads, handbags, newspapers and groins behind me, I didn’t shuffle very far.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please continue to move down the platform!”, came the earsplitting tannoy again.
He was starting to sound annoyed. I suspect he wanted to bookmark his sentences with “For fuck’s sake” and “What is wrong with you people?”, but had decided against it for his love of a salary. I had read between the lines.
“Please continue to move down the platform! There is heavy congestion at the back of the platform and there’s more room at the front of the platform; please continue to move down the platform!”
There was a small pause before he continued; this time with an air of lighthearted sarcasm.
“You never know, you might actually be able to get on the train”.
I smirked. Good for him.
There was another short pause before his exasperated voice came back.
“Or alternatively you could just ignore what I’m saying and stay exactly where you are, getting nowhere!”
A few of us chuckled. None of us moved.
Head In A Blender 