Oh fuck.
I’m sat at a table on the train surrounded by seven horse-teethed 40 somethings (probably with names like Tarquin, Jeremy, Marjory, Cynthia etc.) drinking wine, gin & tonic and grazing on hand made crisps, guffawing at tedious jokes and japes at a volume fitting of a jet engine.
I’m so glad I’m trying to watch Doctor Who on my phone.
The volume just won’t go any higher (on my phone, not on these plum voiced pricks whose volume has no ceiling)
Exterminate!
Exterminate!
There’s a charity poster on the train that says…
“Diagnosed with blood cancer, Chloe only has one hope…YOU”
Its a million to one chance they managed to locate me and let me know.
Some people have an inability to eat quietly.
I’m not an eating Hitler, but when you can hear the man open mouth chewing his apple from 3 seats away on a moving train…it does make you want to shove the fruit up his arse.
Or down the throat of the fat bloke who just won’t stop coughing loudly and with big heavy wheezes.
I’m loving my snooze on this train this morning, I really am.
Arrived at London Victoria station to see my train had been cancelled.
Fuck.
But I was earlier than usual so I could jump on a slightly earlier train and still make my connection near home.
Awesome.
The train was packed solid with commuters having the same idea as me.
Fuck.
And yet I found a seat!
Awesome.
But due to the train not taking the exact same route as my usual service, I forgot to get off at Three Bridges station which resulted in me having to go all the way to Haywards Heath.
Fuck!
Yet thankfully there was a train back to Three Bridges in about 6 minutes.
Awesome.
I jumped on and the train took us 98% of the way before stopping at a red signal just outside Three Bridges for about 12 minutes.
Fuck!!
When we finally pulled into the station I could see that a train going my way was on the other platform and was delayed. If I ran I could make it!
Awesome.
This run involved going down a slope, under the railway track and back up some stairs. I was wearing shoes that ‘clip clopped’ quite loudly to alert people that I was fast approaching. Most didn’t move aside; including a short fat butch dyke looking bitch who tutted me as I raced by. Eat a dick.
I missed the train by about 3 seconds.
FUCK!
Its freezing cold, dark and I now have a 20 minute wait ahead of me.
Whine and complain?
Me?
Never!
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.
Holy shit…the guy opposite me on the train has breath that can cut through steel…and my skull, via my nasal cavity.
‘gip’
(Swallow)
A couple of mornings ago the guy sat next to me on the train uttered loudly “for fuck’s sake!” whilst reading an email on his phone.
Sigh.
What was the point in that? Hmm? What did that achieve?
Nothing.
Well, I say nothing; it DID achieve a certain sense of awkwardness which was nice.
What EXACTLY was the reaction he expected from me?
I have no idea what the correct etiquette should be when all I really wanted to do was tell him to shut the fuck up because it’s early and no-one was interested in his tedious bid for attention.
But seriously, what do you say in a situation like that?
I suppose I could have turned to him with a face of deep concern and said “Oh my god friend, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you ok? Do you need me to do anything? Oh god it must be terrible whatever it is!”, whilst gently stroking his face and sporting a quivering bottom lip.
I suppose I also could have tutted, rolled my eyes and said “bad news eh?” in a knowing ‘we’ve all been there mate’ kind of way.
But I was wearing headphones so I opted instead to ignore him because he was a prick.
This morning the much coveted front carriage of the train was inaccessible and the doors weren’t working.
It is much coveted because the exit at London Victoria station is at the front and saving ourselves an extra few metres at the end of the journey is just SO important.
As a small group of us collected by the door, the allocated ‘pusher of the door button’ (which is never discussed or agreed, but still the responsibility somehow falls to one person and never disputed) started prodding away only to find that nothing was happening.
The driver had to lean out of the window and tell us, as we continued to stand there watching the ‘pusher of the door button’ moronically repeat her duty over and over, that the carriage was out of order due to a broken window and we’ll have to use the carriage behind it.
That would explain all the yellow and black striped tape covering the window. I was actually looking forward to it blocking out the sun to be honest.
There was the slightly squelchy noise as all eyes rolled in unison before we grudgingly, but with a slightly awkward walk/run, made our way to carriage number two.
What was interesting*, as I took my seat, was the fact that my fellow commuters then tried to access the front carriage from the inside, moaning and tutting when the doors were inevitably locked. It was almost as if the train company KNEW they were going to attempt that.
Clever train company; they thought of everything.
Asking these creatures of habit to find a seat in a different carriage is like asking a man to stop touching his penis or a woman to change her mind.
Possible, but not without a little drama and upset.
You know when a dog takes forever to pick where they want to lay down, and then when they do eventually make a decision they circle and circle and circle until they either finally lay down or get shouted at to lay the fuck down?
It’s the same with commuters.
*fucking annoying
The guard on the train has just announced that we will not be stopping at Clapham Junction because the station has had a power cut and the lights aren’t working.
It doesn’t affect me but it clearly affects half the carriage as they all let out a very angry and very audible sigh, in perfect unison.
To be honest, I’m now feeling a little faint from the sudden increase in carbon dioxide.
Granted it’s almost 7pm and its starting to get dark, but as we passed through Clapham Junction it was sumptuously lit up by surrounding houses and street lamps.
Apparently the closure is for health and safety reasons.
I’ve just seen the guard lock himself away for the exact same reasons.
Its bad enough that I have to change trains ONE stop before my stop, but its even worse when the connecting train is delayed.
But they don’t just tell us it’s 30 minutes late.
Oh no.
They say its 10 minutes late, and then when the 10 minutes is nearly up they add on another 5 minutes and then another 10 minutes etc…until the train finally fucking arrives.
Annoyingly I need to pick up some provisions from ASDA tonight which is practically a stone’s throw from the station I’m stood at.
If I’d known I was going to be stuck here for 30 minutes I would’ve walked to ASDA and got my shit to carry on the train for the ONE stop to my car.
But no…now I have to drive all the way BACK here.
Thanks Friday….you just had to get the boot in before the weekend.
Regular readers of my blog will remember I once ranted about automated doors and their ability to hinder the actual act of opening a door.
For those new to my blog, or those with the memory of a man under investigation for allegedly having sex with a goat, you’ll find the entry here.
Following on from this, I had another choice encounter.
Last night as I left the office, I paused for a moment as I could feel that slight tickle in my bladder suggesting there was a piss in my very near future. I was running late and, as it only takes about 20 minutes to get to Victoria station, I decided against draining the main vein until I was on the train home.
I could wait 20 minutes.
Fortunately, having walked for about 3 minutes towards the underground station, my tickle turned into a dull ache. Having consumed a litre and a half of squash in the last 45 minutes of the day I knew my bladder was not going to be filling up slowly.
I‘m now not sure I could wait 20 minutes.
I negotiated the shuffling morons, ticket barriers, escalators, platforms, trains and countless cases, bags and bell-ends to make it to Victoria station; by which time my bladder was really starting to hurt.
I walked as fast as I could to the platform where my 12 carriage toilet would be waiting. Unfortunately, ‘as fast as I could’ wasn’t very fast at all considering my bladder felt like it had swelled to the size of a small baby screaming for its mummy. If the station hadn’t been so noisy I would’ve been reported to Child Services.
I made it to the last set of barriers and was held up by some dickhead with a suitcase who couldn’t activate the barrier with his ticket AND walk forward with his suitcase at the same time. These skills appeared to be interchangeable, but not combinable. Interestingly it was the opposite with my foot and his arse.
My bladder shouted at me to use a different barrier and we were through. I walked to my platform like a wounded soldier on the battlefield and there in front of me was my train; my beautiful, beautiful train. What a magnificent sight. Tears were welling up in my eyes…at least I think they were tears. Are tears yellow?
I was starting to feel a little nervous at this point because a single knock from an arm swinger or one of the countless idiots I commute with and I would’ve basically unleashed yellow hell in my trousers.
I desperately scanned each carriage as I ‘walked’ down the platform; slaloming the directionless cretins who had just vacated the very train I was boarding.
There! A carriage with a toilet!
It was one of those automated toilets with the big curved door, but it would have to do. I frantically pressed the ‘open door’ button as I was beginning to tremble and sweat urine. The door started to rumble open at the speed of a tired sloth walking uphill through treacle whilst carrying a piano and wearing flippers.
As soon as the door had opened wide enough for me to fit through, I slipped inside. For the uninitiated, there are three buttons inside the cubicle that read ‘open door’, ‘close door’ and ‘lock door’. I pressed the button to close the door but it seemed the automated system hadn’t finished opening it and therefore I had to wait.
And wait.
It’s a big ol’ door.
Finally the door finished opening and I pressed the button again to close it. Well, I say ‘pressed’; it was more like ‘jabbed it 74 times in about 6 seconds’. The door then started to trundle slowly shut. It was slow. I mean REALLY slow.
It’s a big ol’ door.
Who fucking designed this? In fact, who fucking decided we needed an automated door on a toilet in the first place? It only serves to slow us down at a time when we’re probably in a hurry, like running away from zombies, hiding from the ticket inspector or….dare I say….needing the fucking toilet! Plus, being automated, we’re always left a little nervous that the door will suddenly and unexpectedly open of its own accord. Not what any of us want to experience, or see.
Also, these automated cubicles are massive. You could easily fit two normal cubicles in the same space. Two normal cubicles with two normal doors that open and close normally; and quickly.
Eventually the door came to rest and I pressed the ‘lock’ button whilst unsuccessfully attempting to open my fly. I was shaking so much from the pain that I resembled a person with Parkinson’s disease trying to thread a needle.
Finally I managed to free the beast and I did indeed unleash yellow hell.
Without going into too much detail, it felt like I was pissing out my soul. I could literally feel my body temperature drop and I believe I may have let out an “Oh yeah” at some point, but it’s unconfirmed.
It was emotional.
As I’ve said before, I bet Captain Kirk didn’t have to put up with this shit whenever he wanted to use the toilet.
(Insert Captain’s Log joke here)
The guy opposite me on the train keeps oinking like a pig.
I’m serious.
I don’t mean a comedy cartoonish oink or a squeal, but that sound resembling a snort. Yes, that’s it, he’s snorting; three quick little snorts in a row every 10 or 15 seconds.
What the famyarding fuck?
He’s in his mid fifties with glasses perched on the end of his nose, reading some manuscript whilst wearing headphones. I don’t think he realises he’s doing it.
Thank god the next stop is mine. I don’t want to sty here any longer.
To all you commuters who like to change direction on a whim right in front of me, often two or three times, causing me to either bash into you, do a Matrix style maneuver around you or change direction entirely, often two or three times, thus perpetuating your retarded inability to fucking walk in a fucking straight fucking line….
To all you pricks who stop right at the top of the stairs in a station to decide your next life choice, causing me and the hundreds of unstopping masses to practically fall over you; resulting in us almost making the fucking choice for you….
To all you tedious twats who are simply stood still until the moment I’m literally about to walk past you, at which point you decide to walk out directly in my path resulting in me virtually FUCKING YOU UP with a full on body slam….
To all you meandering rimlickers who get on the train and then stop in the aisle to put away your train ticket, or change the track on your iPod or locate your disappointing genitals, unaware that the rest of us are stuck behind you,followed by not rushing to move or apologising when you do….
To all you shitbiting fuckers who sensibly stop in a doorway to sort out your luggage because it somehow seems the least obstructive place to be, despite the fact everyone uses doors to get into and out of places…
And to all you festering cockwarts who desperately try to get In front of me whilst walking and then, once you’ve succeeded, choose to either slow down to the speed of fuck all or stop altogether, making me wonder why you so desperately had the need to push in front of me, or breathe in and out for that matter…
To ALL of you absolute fucking bastards on my daily commute, may I just take this opportunity to say….
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.
The woman on the table across the aisle from me has done nothing but whine on the phone about the delayed train we’re sat on.
I can’t see her because of the rather ‘stinking of booze’ mountain of a man sat directly next to me chugging wine from a selection of mini bottles in his satchel, but she’s really getting on my tits.
I imagine from her chavvy voice that she’s a bit grubby with lank greasy hair scraped back from her fat, spotty, fuck ugly face.
I look over.
It’s a little skinny man in a suit.
Well done Dan, you successfully chose the only seat on this empty train opposite the only penis who has now decided to talk at length on his phone.
I was going to blog about him but decided against it. I didn’t want to point out that he looks like Harley from Rizzle Kicks but with geeky glasses (which I assume are intentional), cute little pink sparkly cross earrings and a high top fade in his head like Kid missing Play.
I’m also not going to ridicule the fact he’s wearing a colourful plaid shirt with the top button done up and his beanpole arms sticking out from rolled up sleeves.
And I am certainly not going to comment that he has the campest, most feminine voice I’ve ever heard and is talking to his ‘mummy’ about not returning to college or university (or some establishment of learning) because of the drama and stress.
No, I’m not going to do any of that.
And do you know why?
Because I realised, as I pulled my headphones out of my bag to drown him out, that my headphones are bright pink.
Tonight at Victoria train station there was the usual rush to be the first at the platform 100 metres away despite the trains not actually leaving for another 8-10 minutes.
As usual there were all sorts of ‘people’ (I use the term loosely) moving at different speeds and, oddly, in different directions towards the same platforms.
I’m 6ft tall and have a pretty hefty pace going on, but I could feel the presence of someone desperately trying to overtake me. I say I could ‘feel’ the presence but in actual fact I could blatantly see her from the corner of my eye as she took up more room in my peripheral vision than was necessary.
This woman was big. I mean BIG.
I’m not racist and therefore I’m going to be sensitive in describing her without causing offence. In an attempt to be ambiguous and vague I’m going to refer to her as Shaniqua.
She was puffing along on my left and, not wanting to be a hypocrite by becoming one of these people…
https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2012/10/31/to-pass-or-not-to-pass/
…I moved slightly to the right allowing her to pass.
She bumped into me, possibly to indicate she was in a hurry and I was in her way, but probably because I could’ve moved 8 metres to my right and she still would’ve collided with me due to lack of space.
She was a big girl.
Once she’d barged me she muttered something like, “fucking come on!” and starting jogging slightly.
Well, I SAY jogging….
Picture this, she was a BIG girl and was wearing a very SMALL tight white dress with a VERY visible white thong underneath.
I know that thongs visible above jeans are sometimes affectionately referred to as a ‘whale tail’, but this one was to scale.
1:1
And it was screaming for help.
So when I say jog, take a moment to think about that.
Got it?
Ok… I’ll carry on.
Her ‘jog’ lasted about 2.5 seconds (which coincidentally was about the same distance in metres) before she went back to a walking pace; a pace that was 95% slower than mine.
I passed her again in about 4 seconds. I had to walk an extra 12 metres around her to do it, but in no time I was ahead of her again.
Bummer.
I was sat on the train next to the window. There was a woman sat to my left reading a book on her Kindle. The train was packed and there were people stood all the way down the aisles.
At one point the train started to leave Clapham Junction station and then abruptly stopped. The law of Inertia did its thing and threw a man onto the lap of the woman sat next to me.
She instinctively put her hands up to catch him and she succeeded, resulting in her holding his arse perfectly with a buttock lovingly held in each hand.
Is there anything more funny than a perfect and accidental full on arse grab? I don’t think so.
Without removing her hands she pushed him back to his feet and he said, “I’m so sorry!”
She said, “That’s ok”, but it clearly wasn’t.
Her Kindle wasn’t the only thing that was re(a)d.
The train guard entered the carriage this morning with the usual, “tickets please!”
Today’s guard was a woman. Well I’m sure she still IS a woman, but this tale is being told in past tense…so shut up.
She started walking down the carriage acknowledging the various cards and plastic ticket wallets being thrust towards her with a nod, a smile and a “thank you”.
Nod, smile, “thank you”
Nod, smile, “thank you”
The businessman in front of me was stood up and fumbling desperately through his backpack that was stuffed into the overhead luggage shelf.
She was getting closer.
Nod, smile, “thank you”
Nod, smile, “thank you”
He was really going to town now; elbow deep in a bag that would’ve been easier to search if he’d actually had the sense to take it down first.
Nod, smile, “thank you”
The guard eventually arrived at him, stopped and said, “Tickets please”.
The man ignored her, continuing to rummage around in a bag that had started to resemble the TARDIS; he was unnaturally shoulder deep.
She waited about 20 seconds before saying, “it’s ok, I’ll come back to you” and continuing on to me.
“I’m trying to get it out but it’s too big”, he replied.
I’m sorry, what? Did he just say what I thought he just said? (snigger)
The guard grinned, turned and without missing a beat said, “What is?”
I chuckled. The man didn’t.
Realising this rucksack ransacker hadn’t got the innuendo, she backpedalled with, “oh you mean the ticket?”
“Ah, here it is”, said the humourless bell-end.
Nod, smile, “thank you”
She then looked at me, exchanged a knowing smirk and continued up the carriage.
Nod, smile, “thank you”
Nod, smile, “thank you”
He sat back down and carried on playing Candy Crush or talking bollocks….whichever is more annoying.
Every day I keep my train ticket close at hand in my pocket, just in case the ticket inspector on the train comes asking.
Every day there’s no sign of him.
Today I put my train ticket in the deep and hard to find recesses of my bag.
“Tickets please!”
Wanker.
Head In A Blender 