The accidental pervert

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.

squashed ass

Advertisements

Dress for less? I doubt it…

Yesterday I had the joys of going dress shopping with my girlfriend to find something for tonight’s New Year celebrations.  To be honest, I didn’t really mind as I needed to buy a shirt for myself, or at least something smarter than a t-shirt and jeans.
 
Fortunately for us the entire town and surrounded villages had decided to do the same thing.  This made the experience all the more exciting and enjoyable.  Oh how we adore shopping with hundreds and hundreds of people.
 
There were a few things I observed whilst swimming through the crowds and punching my way through chavs, children and slow walking couples…
 
1. The January sales were most definitely on, with posters promising ‘Up To 70% off’, but in reality nothing seemed to be discounted more than 20%.  I know that legally these stores have to sell some items at 70% off, but I failed to find them.  Maybe I wasn’t looking in the right places, like maternity clothing or guns and ammo.
 
2. The sales areas seem to take up half the floor space of every clothes shop; festooned with posters and hanging boards offering massive discounts.  It’s only to be expected.  In fact, this is the reason why you couldn’t slide a credit card between people as they jostle and fight for discounted items you wouldn’t be seen dead in at regular prices.  That said, the menswear departments in these stores have a sale area as large as one rail.
 
Yes…ONE rail. 
 
In H&M the sales posters and livery stopped at the menswear section!  How is that fair?  To be honest, New Look did have two full rails of sale clothing, but there are only so many peach coloured paisley shirts and green jumpers with leather elbow patches a man can take.  And forget looking for a shirt in these stores; it’s all jumpers, jackets and t-shirts.  If you want a shirt you have go to somewhere like Burtons and buy a shirt at full price.
 
Which I did.
 
3. Finding a dress that my girlfriend liked was an undertaking as she isn’t built like a skinny 12 year old boy.  This means that 90% of dresses don’t fit.  She is in no way fat or unsightly, but instead is cursed with lovely curves and things called ‘boobs’ (which seems alien to most high street designers).  This meant that finding a dress that suited her figure was difficult.  Thankfully when she found a dress she liked it was in every size except hers.  Oh how we laughed each and every time that happened.  In fact, we were pretty much laughing all day long.
 
On the rare occasion we did find a dress she liked, AND it was the right size, we then ventured to the fitting rooms.  This in itself should be an easy affair, but the queues are longer than the Post Office on pension day and the location of these curtained cubicles are questionable.
 
You see, the fitting rooms are always located right next to the lingerie section of the store.  This means that, whilst my girlfriend is trying on her potential purchases, I’m stood amongst the bras and panties looking like some kind of dribbling pervert.  There’s nothing more awkward than having a woman say “excuse me” because I’m obscuring the intimate lingerie she’d like to look at, or getting those looks from women who clearly want to peruse the underwear  I’m sat next to.  I suppose they feel a bit self conscious about looking through the thongs and g-strings that are inches from my face.
 
Maybe I should’ve started thumbing through the bras, occasionally holding one up against me as if I’m buying them for myself.  Then again, I’d rather not be arrested this close to new year.
 
So instead I do the only thing I can do to disassociate myself from the whole debacle; pretend to be texting. 
 
Which leads me to my next point…
 
4.  It’s interesting to see what blokes do outside the fitting rooms whilst waiting for their other halves to appear wearing something they don’t want to be told their bum looks big in.  The activity of choice is play with their phones, be it Angry Birds, texting, surfing the web for Blu-rays or blogging about shopping with the missus.  A lot of us share that knowing look of camaraderie whilst stood there holding several shopping bags, a coat, scarf and a handbag; none of which belongs to us.  On one occasion I saw a guy sitting there, between the bras and the shoes, reading a Wolverine comic book.  Here’s a bloke who knows he’s there for the long haul.
 
Kudos.
 
5. Lastly, the in-store music.  It seems there is an agreement to play the same CD or radio station throughout every single shop in town.  No comedy comment here or smarmy quip.  Just stop it.
 
Stop it now.
 
So all in all, a long afternoon spent traipsing around hot and stuffy shops full of idiots and pushchairs.
 
Oh, and she didn’t buy anything; instead deciding to put something together with what she already has at home.  And then, upon returning home, remembering she’d bought a dress the week before that would be perfect.
 
C’est la vie.
 
I’m sure whatever she wears she’ll look fabulous in it.  And if she doesn’t, I’ll be too drunk tonight to care.
 
Have a great New Year people!!