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.
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!”
Attractive.
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.
Erm, no.
It was more like a ferret being hit in the face with a tumbleweed.
This morning at the train station I saw a young guy with a tattoo on his forearm that read “Live Free”.
He was also on his way to work.
Some people make this too easy.
This morning at the train station there was a large concentration of feathers halfway along the platform.
Either there had been a pillow fight over the weekend (which, in my typical male mind, was between two giggling girls wearing next to nothing), or an unsuspecting pigeon received a massive faceful of train.
With no sign of a body, or a pillowcase, we’ll never know which type of bird got a battering.
At the station this evening I saw a girl wearing a T-shirt that read:
‘One And Only’
Yes, I’m sure it was the only t-shirt that company printed.
The place – London Victoria Station.
The time – 07:29am.
The scene – Hundreds of ‘cheerful’ commuters ploughing through the ticket barriers with an assortment of tickets and cards.
At times the barriers decide to have a hissy fit and refuse to open. This could be for several reasons:
The machines love preying on those who need the barriers to open more urgently than anyone else.
These bastards know; (whispers) they KNOW!
However, this morning there were no commuters carrying anything heavier than furrowed brows and a desire to get through the barriers quickly. This is when these automated arseholes prefer to strike; picking off the weakest of the herd and testing their patience to the limit.
Today was no different.
A woman strutted up to a barrier, pressed her Oyster card against the card reader, received the usual ‘beep’ and continued strutting, only to be virtually impaled on the unopened barriers. This can be frustrating at the best of times, but when you’ve got a queue of 20 or more people behind you, it is also incredibly embarrassing.
She tutted and pressed her card against the reader again.
‘Beep’
The barriers didn’t open.
The air suddenly felt thick with silent rage and suppressed violence from those behind her.
“Oh come on!” she half shouted as she slapped her card against the reader.
‘Beep’
The barriers didn’t open.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
Slap!
‘Beep’
Slap!
‘Beep’
“Come on you fucking thing!”
Slap slap slap!
‘Beep’
The barriers remained closed and the queue behind her was getting longer and longer like some massive dickheaded snake.
Instead of admitting defeat and seeking the help of a guard, she did something that inspired me to write this post; she began ramming herself against the barriers shouting “come on!”
Over and over she thrust herself against the barriers, trying to squeeze through the unyielding and un-widening gap. It had eluded her that it was called a barrier for a reason.
Slam!
“Come on!”
Slam!
“You bastard, come on!”
Slam!
“Gnn!”
Slap slap slap!
‘Beep”
Slam!
I noticed the snake had started to dissipate and join other queues, but a few people stayed behind to watch this woman meltdown before their eyes. I don’t blame them.
She eventually relented and went, bloodied and bruised, to find a guard.
‘Beep’
I went through.
London Victoria underground station was closed tonight due to ‘someone being taken ill’.
Bollocks.
There’s no way someone said “I think I’ve got the flu coming on” and they shouted “Stop everything!”
I suspect it’s a more subtle version of “someone being liquidated by a train”.
If it’s not I can assure you that I, and about a thousand people frantically redirecting to other stations to escape the city like a frantic piss out of a pair of leaky rubber pants, will be hoping they feel better long enough to fall under the next train that’s “not stopping at Victoria”
It was utter bedlam tonight with agitated commuters strutting around directionless looking for an alternative way of getting home, and failing.
I made my way to London Bridge station as I knew I could get home from there and stood waiting for my platform to be announced.
It’s always been platform 5 whenever I’ve travelled from this station so I went through the barrier into the station, up the escalator and waited patiently by the platform entrance.
And waited.
And waited.
It was 6 minutes until my train was due to leave and the platform still hadn’t been announced.
And then….
‘Platform 9’
What??
Where the fuck is platform 9?? There’s only platforms 1 to 6!
Cock!!
I ran down the escalator, back through the barriers, out of the station and saw there was another entrance which had platforms 7 and up.
Grrr!
There is nothing more infuriating than the possibility I was going to miss my train despite having been there for ages!
And, true to form, all the commuters had been switched to ‘slow, ambling, zombie fuckwad mode’; making my run that much more varied with slaloming, hurdles, chicanes, twists, turns and twats at every step.
I bolted through the masses, up the escalator, through the barriers to the platforms and ran (a concept unfamiliar to the cretins around me) down the platform alongside the train.
Ideally I wanted to be at the front of the train, but it was about to leave so I boarded halfway down and continued my journey inside.
It was at this point that some suited prick boarded the train at the next doorway and cut in front of me, only to then stand still.
Oops, my mistake, he WAS walking but at a speed which I could be forgiven for mistaking as ‘stationary’.
In fact, ‘Mr Stop’ here was so piss-achingly slow, I got off the train, walked down the platform and boarded ahead of him (on the same carriage) so I could continue at a pace that actually involved putting one foot in front of the other.
No sooner had I traversed another carriage than a woman did the exact same thing and cut in front of me; moving at sloth-like speed while she decided where to sit on this virtually empty train.
It amazes me how these people function day to day.
I sat down and took out my phone to begin writing this blog entry.
It took around 40 minutes to write (as autocorrect can be a bitch) and, as I sat thinking about how I could end it, I looked up and saw Mr Stop finally taking his seat.
Perfect.
The London Underground is a busy place at rush hour; crammed full of people from every walk of life and in every shape, size and colour.
A few days ago I was on the platform at London Victoria underground station awaiting the next sardine tin to arrive and whisk us away. It was the usual scenario of pushing and squashing to get prime position on the platform for the opening doors. The train pulled alongside the platform, the doors opened and we all started to habitually scowl at the people getting off the train.
A scowl that basically says, ‘hurry the fuck up’.
Once the dead weight had alighted the train, the slow motion pushing and shoving began, only to be met with the one fucking twat who still hasn’t disembarked the train.
Why does this happen? Who the fuck forgets to get off the train?
It’s likely they suddenly realised this was their stop (at the last minute) because they were too caught up playing Candy (fucking) Crush.
They are, in fact, complete idiots.
This late, sloth-like exodus by these morons usually reignites the scowl, with a subtle hint of eye rolling and a lot of quiet sighing as we’re forced to slowly move back onto the platform from the much coveted metal flooring of the train. Today was no exception.
Ok, are they out?
Are we sure?
Good.
Puuuuuuuush…..!!!
The slow motion mosh pit resumed and bodies were crushed together like a man’s junk in 80s jeans. It was nuts to butts as we managed to squeeze the last person on, leaving no room to slide a credit card between us. There were armpits in the face and lumps and bumps pressed against lumps and bumps.
But frankly, I didn’t care. I was on the train. So fuck the rest of you. Ha!
I freed one of my hands and reached up to grab a rail in anticipation of the train moving.
At this moment a guy managed to somehow shoehorn himself onto the train before the doors closed, causing a domino effect of squashing that resulted in a woman pressing right up against me.
Now, this isn’t unusual on the underground by any means, but on this occasion she’d managed to effortlessly wedge my other hand against my thigh……with her bum.
It’s worth mentioning that I hadn’t actually noticed at first; fighting to keep my footing and stay upright as the train pulled away. To be honest, if I’d let go of the rail I still wouldn’t have fallen over as there wasn’t space to move. I reckon I could’ve lifted both feet off the ground and still stayed in place, although I may have sunk down like I was in quicksand and I would’ve had a face full of bum.
The train had started to shake and jerk around like it usually does, which is when I realised that I had a bum rubbing left and right against the back of my hand. This would’ve been tolerable if she’d been a 21 year old model, but not if she was a 55 year old geography teacher.
But i’m a happily married man, so I use the word ‘tolerable’ loosely.
(Ahem)
Anyway, I could clearly make out the bum cleft on each pass of her buttocks across my hand. I could make out the shape and density of each cheek as it swayed left, then right, then left; over and over again like she was Miley Cyrus and I was Robin Thicke.
The certainty I had of being able to pick out the subtle distinctions in the shape of her bum left me realising the cold, unnerving truth; this granny was either wearing a thong…or nothing.
(Shudder)
I was also very aware that my hand was so wedged in that I would’ve had to pull really hard to remove it, alerting her to the fact that it was my hand and not some random bag or something. Also, considering it had been wedged in there at least 45 seconds at this point, I would’ve been considered a bit of a pervert for not moving it sooner.
That would’ve resulted in an entirely different type of scowl.
So I could do nothing but stand there for the next two minutes, copping a feel against my will, with very distinguishable buttocks rubbing seductively against me by an unattractive old woman who had no idea she was doing it.
I washed my hands a lot when I got to work.
This morning I was greeted by this…
Some inconsiderate prick thought it was a good idea to park their car right across my garage.
My first instinct was to get in my car and sound the horn until the fucker came out and then punch them in the face, but it was 7am and I didn’t really want to wake the whole neighbourhood. I was angry, but that didn’t excuse me being an annoying wanker about it.
My second instinct was to kick or scratch their car, but considering my vehicle is the only one blocked in, it would’ve pretty obvious who had done the damage and I didn’t want to risk them retaliating.
It’s not like I could move my car and hide it afterwards.
This is also the reason I resisted squatting on the bonnet and laying a hot fresh pie on their windscreen.
Shame, because the first one of the day is usually the meatiest.
And if they didn’t retaliate I could be slapped with a fine for criminal damage, which is always fun.
So instead I was terribly British and paced back and forth, muttering under my breath, and shaking my head in a misguided belief that it would somehow flush out the culprit…which it didn’t.
Instead I was left feeling more helpless and frustrated than a handcuffed pervert watching porn.
I was also angry that my four minute drive to the train station was going to result in a thirty minute uphill walk on a very, VERY cold October morning.
All I could do was take a photo (to send to my boss showing that my reason for being late is in fact genuine – not that I’m a cynic!), close my garage, lift their wiper blade up in defiance and begin my tedious walk to the station.
I would’ve left a note under their wiper blades but annoyingly I didn’t have time to go back in the house to write it. If I left immediately and walked at the blistering pace of an angry woman, I might just be able to make the later train.
I did, however, do the one thing that I thought might make me feel better; the one thing that may help ease my suffering and give me a sense of comfort. I posted it on Facebook.
Within seconds I got the affirmation and acknowledgement I was so clearly craving, with lots of advice on a variety of vindictive things I could’ve done to teach this parking penis a lesson. My favourite comment was this small poem…
Dear driver of the black car
Who do you think you are?
Don’t you find it bizarre…
You park but wander somewhere far?
Now my mate can’t access his car
Better this note, than my fucking crowbar!
Brilliant.
This morning I woke up at 06:52am. This is a problem when you need to be out of the house at 07:15am and I still needed to have a shower, shave, brush my teeth, style my hair, get dressed and make myself some lunch. It’s also a little concerning as my alarm clocks (yes, clocks; plural) go off around 6am. Oops.
If the house had been on fire and I was under attack from ninjas I still wouldn’t have moved as fast as I did when I realised the time. I was quick. Very quick. At one point I passed a Coyote in a slingshot holding an anvil.
I made it out of the house at 07:18am. Not bad.
Meep meep!
I then drove at breakneck speed to the station. Well, it was at a speed that made me want to break the neck of the bell-end driving the car in front of me at 21 miles per hour.
I finally made it to the station with about 3 minutes to spare and I was faced with a decision; buy my weekly ticket now, or at London Victoria. Hmm….
There was a dithering twat of a woman at the ticket office, laughing that she “simply can’t find my purse in here! Ha ha ha!”
Ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Hilarious. No really, please continue. Take your time. I can’t get enough of your cripplingly funny shit.
So I thought, fuck it; I’ll buy my ticket at Victoria.
The train pulled in, I got on, sat down and revelled in watching the dithering twat almost miss the train. She made it. Shame.
The journey was the usual social scene; complete silence whilst staring at a small screens and desperately trying to ignore the annoying fucker talking on her phone. In fact, it was this annoying fucker…..https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/05/28/blooble-fabwa-sibbladoo/
I really have to pick a different carriage….or just punch her in the face.
We finally pulled into London Victoria and I made my way to the ‘customers needing to pay additional fares’ desk. It should be called ‘customers who tried to pull a fast one, realised there were automated gates and now have to reluctantly pay for a ticket which they will say was from the station just before Victoria’.
I shamefully joined the queue of people like we were waiting outside the headmaster’s office, feeling the judging eyes of all the other commuters as they passed by. The people in front of me were taking forever to buy their tickets which I thought was odd. It then dawned on me pretty fucking quickly that they weren’t simply buying excess fares. No, they were haggling for the cheapest way of paying for the journey they’ve just done.
No rush folks, I don’t have a job to get to.
The woman commuter at the desk had a ticket for off peak travel and hadn’t realised it wouldn’t let her through the barriers at 08:30am in the morning, in central London, on a Monday. I could see her confusion. This is the sort of woman who needs to ensure her Vagisil and Colgate are kept in separate rooms.
“I didn’t realise I couldn’t use this ticket”. Yes you did, now fuck off.
She continued to argue this for a good two or three minutes, as if somehow it would change the circumstances. At this rate we were going to hit off peak travel times. This could’ve been incredibly frustrating if you were someone worried about being late for work. Not me though, I had aaaaaaaaall the time in world.
The guy that followed her wasn’t any better.
“I’ve come from Gatwick, but I’m here to see my brother, so I need to get to Kensington, but my ticket from Gatwick was a staff ticket, so I need the cheapest ticket to see him and then I’ll be coming back, but that will be today, but tomorrow I’m with my brother at his flat, so do I need an oyster card? I basically need to get back, but the ticket I’ve got isn’t valid on the times I need to be out of my brother’s place”.
I’m sorry, what?
The massive Nigerian train guard behind the glass looked right through this little man with a stare that sat somewhere between utter contempt and not giving a shit. It was a beautifully crafted look and one I plan to master myself. He clearly gets this kind of idiocy all the time.
Where’s that dithering twat from earlier? I’m feeling a bit punchy.
I was on the train this morning, minding my own business and sending messages on my phone and generally living in my own happy little world.
The train pulls into some station or another, and this guy boards and plonks himself down in the seat next to me.
After about 10 minutes I’m aware, from the corner of my eye, that he’s watching me type out my messages! Cheeky fucker.
I own a Galaxy Note 2 which is like having an LCD TV in your pocket, so it’s massive and it’s difficult not to look at it when someone whips it out…a lot like the camera crew on the set of ‘massive dongs’.
He was also furiously biting his nails, so all I could hear was the occasional loud click when he’d chipped a piece away, accompanied by heavy nostril breathing on his fingers. What was even more unnerving was the fact he wasn’t spitting any of them out (which in itself is disgusting), so this meant he was consuming them.
Basically, to him, this was the commuting version of watching a subtitled film whilst munching popcorn.
I started to wonder what his reaction would be if I started typing stuff specifically for him to read, like…
I needed to do something; his breath was starting to smell like burned hair.
Traversing the concourse at London Victoria station is challenging at the best of times, with people erratically crisscrossing in front of you at breakneck speed; most of whom not having the slightest clue where they’re going… but desperately trying to get in front of you to get there nonetheless.
On occasion these cretinous comets have a tail that leaves a wake of devastation behind them in the form of a fart. The sort of fart that is the result of a poorly chosen lunch with the nutritional value of a carpet sample.
All because “fuck it, it’s Friday. I’ll have another pint of bitter”.
For those of you who have seen Tron, I want you to recall the lightcycles and the wall they leave behind them. Walking into these farts have a remarkably similar effect.
Stops you dead.
Small kids don’t stand a chance.
And why can I now taste it?
This morning my train terminated after two stops due to some signalling failure further down the line.
I wasn’t annoyed at all, considering I was running late this morning and had run around like a headless chicken trying to get to the station on time.
Still, there was nothing I could do. My train was terminating and soon I was going to have to get off my warm, virtually empty train with the comfy seat, and stand out on a frosty platform to await a packed sardine tin of a train that everyone else was going to be getting on.
But, as expected, the two people over the aisle, who clearly didn’t know each other, decided to bond by mutually moaning and whining.
I could go into detail around the guy complaining about the price of tickets and the fact that he only needed to go one more stop blah blah blah…but it was what she said that made me smirk.
“What I don’t understand is why they don’t just go back to manual signals. All these computerised electronic signals; all they do is break down”.
A fair point, I thought to myself.
It’s not like there are literally thousands upon thousands of varying types of signals up and down the country is it? That would suggest that, somehow, railway capacities, schedules and speeds have increased over the years…which is nonsense.
His reply was brilliant, if not a little understated, “They just don’t have the staff”.
Really? They don’t have, like, a billion staff members to man these signals day and night? That’s ridiculous… I’m writing to my MP.
Surely there’s an opportunity here to tackle our unemployment issue in Britain. I’m sure there are loads of people out there who’d love nothing more than to stand out in the cold, right next to a live rail, risking being hit by high speed trains, for hours on end, for minimum wage.
And will it be a set salary for this job? Surely it should be graded somehow based on geography? The signals at Clapham Junction are far busier than, say, Coombe in Cornwall.
And what if someone falls asleep on the job, or is close to a high score on Angry Birds? Surely then it could be said that we have a signal failure…only this time with no advance warning sent ‘electronically’.
Manual signals indeed. What next?
Should I wash my clothes on a mangle to avoid the inconvenience of a washing machine breakdown, or go to a library if my ISP let’s me down and I need to look up one of britains quietest stations to contrast Clapham Junction?
Sorry love, you’re talking bollocks.
Standing on the platform waiting for the platform number to be announced for the train we’re all waiting for, despite the fact that we all know its the train in front of us on platform 19. So here we all stand, adamant we have the right train, but unmoving until its made official in bright orange letters on the black backed information board.
And we wait.
And wait.
And we start shuffling around, checking the boards for other platforms in case we might’ve been wrong, even though we know its the one sitting at platform 19. It’s always platform 19.
It’s approaching 5 minutes late now and we’re all getting fidgety, especially as the train at platform 19 has just been vacated by a sea of people with expressions ranging from beaming smiles, to smacked arse.
And we continue to wait.
People are now starting to call friends and family to loudly announce how late they’re going to be, and to dramatically describe the inconvenience it’s causing them.
One guy in particular gets my attention, mostly because he’s stood right in front of me, but also due to the nature of the conversation I can hear at this end. He clearly has a suspicious and untrusting partner on the end of the line.
“Hi it’s me”
“Yeah I’m still here waiting for the 18:02 but its not here yet”
“Yeah I’m stood right in front of it, and it’s not here so I’m going to be late”
“Well I don’t know”
“How can I if there’s no train?”
“I’m telling you, I’m AT the station and there’s no train announced yet”
“Honestly, there really isn’t!”
“I don’t know (sighs), when I get there. I’ll text you when I leave”
“I will!”
“No idea, they haven’t told us anything”
“There’s no-one around to ask”
“I don’t know”
“I said I have no idea; we’re all waiting for the boards to say which platform”
“I AM on the platform, but we’re waiting for it to come up”
“Ok”
“Ok”
“I’m sorry”
“I said I’m sorry”
“Bye”
Jesus!
He’s got a great Friday night to look forward to.
The train is finally announced.
Platform 17.
Train cancelled this morning.
As annoying as that is, I can’t help but be amused at the identical behaviour being displayed by my fellow commuters.
1. Look up and see the yellow scrolling billboard.
2. Stop.
3. Look around with a “for fuck’s sake, are you serious?” expression.
3. Try to get a “I know how you feel mate; I share your pain as I too am plagued by this turn of events” look from another commuter.
4. Fail to get any form of acknowledgement.
5. Get Your phone out and text the boss.
6. Take a photo of the scrolling billboard with the word ‘cancelled’ on it (as your boss probably had no issues getting into work this morning and has already been there 3 hours)
7. Walk along the platform shaking your head and huffing/tutting loudly to make sure others know just how inconvenienced you are.
8. Post it on your blog.
😉
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.
Head In A Blender 