Saw this sign on a fence in Hyde Park, London.
‘Look out’ indeed!
This morning on the tube I saw a man eating a McDonalds meal like a man possessed. Well, I say ‘eating’; it would be more accurate to say ‘pushing his whole face into the burger that was resting on his lap’.
After he’d stop burrowing into his meal like he was bobbing for apples he emerged for air and I couldn’t help but smile; he had a piece of burger stuck to his forehead, just above his right eyebrow.
But, after it had been sat there for a minute or so, I realised it wasn’t a piece of burger but a skin tag! This wasn’t your everyday skin tag the size of a rice krispie, no this one was almost an inch long; like a small penis!
I tried to avoid looking at it, but I just…couldn’t…stop.
Every fibre of my being was resisting the urge to do this:
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. To be honest it’s been a hectic couple of months which I will no doubt write about in the coming weeks.
Aren’t you excited?
Anyway, to ease myself back into the habit of writing, I just wanted to share an interaction I had the pleasure of witnessing on the Tube this morning.
There was a couple. I would say they were mid-to-late twenties and very posh.
How did I know? Well…
He had immaculately combed back (and yet thinning) hair with glasses and was wearing cufflinks. Yes, he was one of those people who actually wear cufflinks to work.
She had straight strawberry-brunette hair with enough make-up to choke a rabbit. You could still see her freckles which gave her that posh ‘England Rose’ look. Her handbag looked stiffer than a Scotsman’s drink.
They were both wearing those long expensive coats you only ever see in magazine adverts worn by good looking people walking and laughing under trees in autumn.
Anyway, as the train filled up I was herded in their direction until I was stood inches away with my back to them.
This, they had decided, was the time to engage in a very posh and plummy conversation.
“I say, what time will you get to work?” she asked him with a voice that emphasised the ‘h’ in ‘what’.
“Not long now”, he replied, lacking any hint of enthusiasm; “I am so frightfully tired”.
“Mmm, yes me too” she said; “I ordered some new contact lenses but I ordered the wrong ones and they’re actually making me tireder”
There was a pause.
I’m sorry; did she just say ‘tireder’? That can’t be right. Surely it’s ‘more tired’?
A few seconds passed.
“Do you know; I don’t think tireder is a word” she said, emphasising the ‘h’ in ‘word’.
Neither is ‘twattiest’, I thought to myself, but I think I’m going to use it anyway.
On the London Underground there were two black guys stood not too far away from me, both dressed virtually identically and both with shaved heads.
They weren’t travelling together, yet they had both hit the stereotype perfectly on the head with their choice of attire, hairstyle (or lack of) and the fact they were both sporting red Dr.Dre Beats headphones.
They were both casually bopping their heads to whatever they were listening to.
RnB or Hip Hop probably.
Is that a bit presumptive?
(Well, stereotypes exist for a reason).
We all got off the train and headed for the lift (elevator) to the surface, packed in tighter than a takeaway carton at a buffet.
The headphone twins both adopted the stereotypical swagger of someone with one leg shorter than the other, holding up their jeans with one hand and showing us too much underwear.
Like all lifts (elevators), it was deathly silent as we ascended, despite there being approximately 25 people in there. It was at this point I realised I could hear music coming from one of our ‘gangstas’.
In the silence I could make out what he was listening to.
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.
As we all know, doctors and ambulances tend to have ‘Doctor’ or ‘Ambulance’ written on the bonnet (hood) of their vehicles in reverse. This is for 2 reasons.
Well, this morning whilst walking to work through central London, I saw a small van attempting to adopt the same principle whilst advertising its plumbing and cleaning services.
I say ‘attempting’; it looked a little something like this:
How was that supposed to be effective?
For starters, the van looked like this:
It wasn’t tall enough to be read through the rear window in stationary traffic anyway. Plus, the text was so small it was virtually impossible to read unless your rear window was a huge magnifying glass.
Now THAT would scare the shit out of anyone driving behind you.
“Honey, the children in that car in front are huge!”
This got me thinking.
Assuming you COULD read the writing on the van behind you, and assuming you DID need a plumber AND a cleaner simultaneously, who the fuck has a pen and paper at the ready to take down all those details whilst driving?
Gnitsuahxe si elpoep emos fo ytidiputs eht.
This morning, as my wife and I squeezed onto the London Underground train, we got separated into different parts of the carriage. My wife ended up halfway down the carriage whereas I ended up near the door literally face to face with a tall blonde girl.
She wasn’t un-pretty (I’m assuming; she was hidden behind some heavily applied make-up) and was stood there not making eye contact with anyone as she pouted and posed among the newspapers and armpits.
In my single days I may have given her a second look, but since meeting my wife every one else comes a distant second. Although cheesy, this is absolutely true and has nothing to do with the fact my wife was:
a) five feet away and
b) reads my blog.
Anyway (moving on swiftly), the train began to pull out of the station and a gentle breeze came through the open window in the door between the carriages. The girl took this opportunity to turn her head to face the window so the wind rushed through her hair as she continued to pose and pout.
It was like watching a Michael Jackson video.
She was loving it.
However, as the train picked up speed, the breeze became everything but gentle. After a few seconds it had reached Hurricane proportions and her pouting was quickly replaced with her squinting eyes and flapping lips like a dog with its head out of a car window at 70 miles per hour.
More amusingly was her hair violently whipping and slapping her in the face, sticking to her make-up and going in her mouth.
“Hwaarrgh!” *Cough cough* “Gaaaak!”
After a couple of minutes the train slowed down for the next station and she finally managed to compose herself, pulling fistfuls of hair from her throat and gagging. As she did this she looked at me and smiled with embarrassment.
“That didn’t go as you expected it to eh?” I said, looking at the make-up that had now slid back to her ears.
“Not really” she wheezed, “I was actually worried for anyone behind me getting hit with my hair!”
“It’s ok” I said, “I think the guy behind you enjoyed it”.
She laughed awkwardly.
“Shame it wasn’t in slow motion.” I continued.
“Like a shampoo advert”, she laughed.
It was more like a ferret being hit in the face with a tumbleweed.