An ASSinine moment.

“There’s a bum fight outside”

I have literally just heard this across the office from one of my work mates.

I stood bolt upright.

“What did you just say???”

“There’s a bum fight happening outside”, he repeated.

Halfway through my Olympic record sprint to the window I realised he was talking about this:

bumfight

Whereas I imagined this:

bootyfight

Damn you America…..damn you.

The tortoise and the hare

Recently my wife started working at the same company as me.  Her role in the company requires us to get into work a little closer to 8.30am than 9am.

Dammit.

In order to achieve this we’ve discovered we can catch the same train I’ve always caught and then get off at the following station to connect with a much faster train into London.

Make sense?

So why haven’t I always done this?

Well, there is a method in my madness.  The train I always catch is virtually empty with tons of cosy seats for much needed snoozing, whereas the faster (and therefore more popular) train is standing room only; packed full of happy and joyful commuters all too happy that I’m taking up that last square inch of space on the train.

It’s all very intimate.  Lots of touching.

So, in true form, we boarded the slow and empty train and took a seat.  It was a little taster of what we could’ve had if we’d stayed on board, but soon enough the next station was upon us and we reluctantly got off.

It was a cold and rainy morning, so that always makes it easier.

The train sat in the station for a few minutes and I took this time to smile at the amount of people running to get on before it left.  There were a lot of them this morning for some reason.

Maybe they knew something we didnt.

Maybe they should’ve risen out of bed earlier this morning.

Maybe I hadn’t noticed in the past because by this time I was usually sat on my virtually empty train; head back, mouth open.

My favourite of these platform runners was the business man who sprinted at the doors just as they began to close, managing to wedge his hand between them in a futile attempt to prise them open like some kind of action hero.

The doors didn’t open.

He removed his hand.

I smiled and turned to my wife, “That’s happened to me so many times”, before turning back and continuing with, “Ha ha, gutted mate”.

The guard blew his whistle and the train slowly started to pull away.  The business man looked thoroughly pissed off, as did the others who didnt even manage to get close enough for some ‘hand in door’ action.  But, to be honest, they needn’t be; the next train was also heading to London Victoria station and would actually get them in 15 minutes earlier.

Granted it’ll be standing room only, but its all very friendly.

Why the rush for this particular train?  Calm down people.  The faster train is just behind it.  Relax.

We looked up at the information board which was still displaying the virtually empty, and still slowly departing, train and waited to see if the fast train behind it was on time.

‘Cancelled’

What??  No!!!

We shouldn’t have got off!

The slower train would’ve got us to the office on time, but now we were going to be late.

The runners knew.  They KNEW!

Shit.

And as we watched the virtually empty ‘slow’ train full of warm and comfy seats (that we’d just been sitting on) leave the station I swear I caught the business man smiling at me.

Ha ha, gutted mate.

image

Catch me if you can

I saw something this evening that was both amusing and adorable.

Let me start with a question…

If you saw an article of clothing fall out of a stranger’s rucksack as they walked by and they hadn’t noticed,  would you pick it up and run after them?

I think most people would.

I would.

Well that’s exactly what I saw happen this evening as I was walking to the tube station. Only, on this occasion the stranger was a London jogger.

For the uninitiated, a London jogger tends to be quicker than a regular jogger. This evolution of speed has adapted itself over the years so the LJ can nimbly negotiate the cruel and unrelenting London traffic (and the types of dawdling twats you only get on the pavements of this fine city) like Lycra clad urban ninjas.

So anyway,  this jogger ran by and something fell out of her rucksack onto the floor.  The LJ hadn’t noticed and continued running.

A woman bent down, picked up the scarf type item and called out to the LJ,  but she couldn’t hear through the music she was listening to on her headphones.

“This will be interesting”, I thought.

I slowed down, naturally.

The woman then decided to run after the LJ waving this article of clothing as if somehow the flapping of material would create enough breeze to alert the runner.

It didn’t.

I looked away briefly to cross the road as I didn’t want to get hit by a car (I’m no urban ninja) and when I looked back she was still running after the LJ, a further 50 metres up the street!  You’ve got to respect her resilience!

She finally caught up with the runner,  handed her the scarf (or whatever it was) and then proceeded to bend over and pant like a knackered dog.  The LJ was rubbing her back and saying what looked like “are you ok?”

It’s moments like these that lift my spirits; not only because it’s funny,  but because it renews my faith in people.

That is until I encounter the inevitable pricks on the tube.

image

Forrest Grump….

Clip clop clip clop clip clop CLIP CLOP CLIP CLOP CLIPCLOPCLIPCLOP!

That’s the sound of ME running for the train like a deranged donkey; bag and brolly flailing in my wake as I slalom shuffling commuters like a survivor in a zombie apocalypse.  I think I took out some kid with my bag, but its hard to tell…I mean this blood and snot could’ve come from anywhere, right? Right??  And whose tooth is this?

Anyway…

Why am I so late?  Well let me tell you.

I drove to the station this morning in the realisation that my monthly travel card had expired and I needed another one.  At least, I was hoping the police would believe that when I have to explain how I achieved the 13 minute drive in 7.

But that aside…

I then power minced from the car to the station.  I can’t call it a power walk, because it was that kind of walk that’s a little faster than a power walk; it’s almost a run, but not.  It’s what the professional walkers do.  Hmm, maybe I’ll rewrite this paragraph.

I walked to the station like a toned Olympic athlete, and prided myself on getting there super early so I had time to get my ticket.

Queue.

Massive queue.

Shit.

So I took my place at the back of this miserable and unmoving conga line.  And as I’m stood there among the zombies, I could hear the requests from the shufflers at the front who had made it to the coveted ticket window.  Amongst the genuine requests for tickets, I also heard this little gem; “Can I have a ticket for tomorrow please?”

What??  Are you effing KIDDING me??  You’re not even travelling today?

There was also this little delight; “How much is it to Croydon?”.  Normal enough, except this penis wasn’t even buying a ticket…he just wanted to know the price!

Of course, none of this was done in stasis; the clock was still ticking and it was getting incredibly close to my train pulling in.  One woman in front of me must’ve been in the same situation as she kept huffing, puffing and sighing heavily whilst constantly looking at her watch.

Reminds me of sex with my ex.

So I finally make it to the sacred fenestrated wall and I’m done in under 20 seconds. People behind me are clapping and cheering; one woman is crying; someone gives me their baby to kiss.  It was emotional.

Ok, that didn’t actually happen, but we all thought it.

I turn on my heel and bolt for the platform barrier, which is where I began this tale.

I literally run all the way up the slope, onto the platform, straight onto the train (as the door closes right behind me) and into a seat.  What a great feeling; made even better by seeing a woman do the same behind me, but she was too late; stopped by Mr Jobsworth on the platform.

I’m not great at lip reading, but I think she just said “you can’t! You’re far, king sheet and can’t!”  Dunno what that means.

Her snot nosed kid didn’t look impressed.  It might be because he had a nose bleed, and he seemed to be missing a tooth.

Forrest Chump…

Clip clop clip clop clip clop CLIP CLOP CLIP CLOP! That’s the sound of a business man running, getting closer behind me.

I move to the side as the puffing blur of black polyester whizzes by. His train has just pulled in and he’s still got 50 metres and a bridge (complete with up and down stairs) to navigate. Other people are similarly moving left and right like traffic to an ambulance in order to allow Insain Bolt here the chance to miss his train in spectacular fashion.

This should be interesting.

I want to scream “come on sunshine, you can make it!”, but there’s also that little bit of me that wants him to miss it (Mwah hah hah!). I prepare a mild smirk just in case he does…

He makes it to the platform and disappears from view behind the train. Did he make it? Place your bets, place your bets!

The train pulls out and…and…he’s still stood there. Teased by the train standing in the station when he gets there but the doors were locked and the guard looks on all powerful and officious. Been there. Gutted. Ha ha.

I, like many others overtaken by this optimistically deluded Forrest Gump, walk past him with that ‘bet you’re glad you ran now eh?’ look on our faces as he desperately tries to style out his heavy panting. He’s leaning casually against the fence, texting with one hand trying to mask his overwhelming need to drain the town of oxygen by ‘gently’ breathing through his nose. It’s like trying to quickly down a pint through a straw. If it were me I’d be on all fours, wheezing and being dramatic.

I’m just saying.

Ready thyself for my prepared smirk….