The guy next to me on the train right now smells like shit.
And that’s not in the context of smelling generally bad; he actually smells like actual shit, actually.
I’m starting to suspect it’s not a fresh deposit, but instead has been maturing in his pants for most of the afternoon.
Luckily he’s ready a newspaper that wafts it my way with every page turn.
So that’s nice.
Every morning when I get to the train station, I walk past the single ticket office to join the platform.
Every morning there’s a bloke standing by the ticket office chatting to the occupant behind the glass.
It’s clear they’re mates.
For context I need to explain that the guy in the ticket office is massive. I mean huge. He basically resembles a professional darts player, complete with a full on cockneyed ‘saaf Lahndan’ accent. His mate can simply be described as Ray Winstone, although he’s not.
Every morning when I walk by I catch a snippet of their conversation and it usually involves “some fucking muppet” or how the country’s going to shit. They basically put the world to rights like a couple of builders over a pint.
This morning as I approached, I noticed they were joined by a woman; a really ‘classy’ older bird with massive hoops in her ears and far too many rings. It was apparent that Ray had said something contentious as both the woman and the behemoth behind the glass were clearly not happy.
I wonder what it is today? Is it the local council? Is it the fact that today is Margaret Thatcher’s state funeral?
Nope.
As I got closer I heard something come out of the Winstone wannabe’s mouth that I didn’t expect.
He said, “yeah, they changed the animators”
What? I’m sorry, what did he just….what?
I slowed down for this one.
“Really?” said the stunned woman, as Shrek in his oversized uniform looked on with contempt, “Tom and Jerry?”
“It’s fucking disgusting. Is nuffink sacred?” said the fat controller.
“I know mate, I know”, said Ray.
I kept walking.
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?
London underground at rush hour is, in short, a fucking nightmare.
Never before have you seen so many people squished into such a confined space in such a short space of time.
It even gets to the point where it simply isn’t possible to get any more bodies onto the train because there isn’t a molecule of space remaining.
That is… until someone throws up, like they did this evening.
Then suddenly a whole shitload of space miraculously becomes available.
I call it the Moses Effect.
Picture the scene…
The train out of London Victoria was going to be departing late this evening. It was sat in the platform, but wasn’t going to be moving for at least another 15 minutes. My friend Barney and I were sat at a table talking bollocks and watching the train fill up with an overabundance of commuters who took advantage of the delay to get an earlier train than they usually catch.
Stood next to us was a couple, although I suspect they weren’t romantically linked; merely colleagues. He was dressed in a full length business coat over his business suit, carrying a business briefcase and sporting business hair. I think he may have been a businessman, but I may have been wrong; maybe a plumber? She was dressed similarly business-like with pearl earrings, starched skirt, Margaret Thatcher hair and perfume that could strip paint.
They were poshly discussing that the train should’ve left four minutes ago. He said it was unlikely we’d have to wait a further 11 minutes until we departed. She agreed that it would be ridiculous for the train to wait until the delayed time displayed on the boards if a space in the ‘traffic’ opened up.
This went on for a good 2 minutes, which may not sound like a long time…but it really is.
The train’s doors then closed and it began to pull out of the station.
It was at this point that Mr and Mrs Business stopped talking, smiled at each other and…without saying a word or indicating any premeditation…they high fived each other.
Full on.
Up high.
It was so out of place that it stopped Barney and I mid-bollocks.
I can imagine it would be like hearing your mum say “Booyah!” or having your dad get down to Dubstep.
There’s nothing wrong with it, except everything.
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.
Today I left the office about 7 minutes early in the attempt to get the earlier train home.
I walked past my usual underground station and instead walked to the next one, thus avoiding a change of line and therefore saving time.
Im so bloody clever.
I entered Warren Street station and flashed the guard my paper ticket which meant he let me through the empty barrier and I didn’t have to queue with the Oyster zombies who get stopped by the barriers every 10 seconds, and who then touch and retouch their cards against the reader as if the words ‘Please seek assistance’ lit up in bright red somehow don’t apply to them; meanwhile the queue of shuffling undead behind them are getting increasingly hungry for more ‘braaaains!’, presumably for the twat at the front with the defective card.
So as I said, I sidestepped the masses and whizzed through.
I’m so bloody clever.
I nipped in front of a family of suitcases being pulled by imbeciles who clearly couldn’t drive them and did the quickstep down the left hand side of the escalator and onto the southbound northern line platform, where there was a train waiting to leave.
Now usually I would let it go, walk to the front of the empty platform and join the follow up train so I’m at the exit when I reach the busy Victoria platform at the end of my journey…because, well, I’m so bloody clever. However, as I’m in a hurry, I jump straight on as the train doors are closing with a master plan formulating in my ‘braaaains!’. At every stop I’m going to get off the train, walk down the platform and rejoin the train. This means I’ll still be at the exit when we reach Victoria.
I’m so bloody clever…and a bit smug.
At Oxford Circus I do exactly that and managed to move forward 3 carriages.
I’m seriously so bloody goddam clever.
(Why doesn’t everyone do this?)
We pulled into Green Park and I did the same again, only this time I made it to the front!
I’m so bloody cle….oh shit. I couldn’t get on. Too many people.
Shit shit shit.
Ok, the next one was in 2 minutes and there was only one person in front of me on the platform, so I’ll still get there quite quickly.
Ah, I was denied access on that one too.
Cock.
I ended up missing the earlier train I was so desperate to catch and ended up on my usual service anyway.
I’m so.
Bloody.
Clever.
This morning’s train journey into work has been a cavalcade of events.
The first annoyance was some tracksuited rudeboy who looked a lot like Akon boarded the train and sat there with headphones on talking into his phone like it was a walkie talkie.
I hate when people do that (see https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2012/10/19/hello-is-anyone-actually-there/)
His voice was a combination of Jamaica and African with a hint of stoner and a large splash of penis. He spoke incredibly loudly and nobody seemed to want to sit near him for some reason.
As the train decided to crawl at fuck all miles per hour, constantly being stopped at red signals and awaiting platforms at various stations, the monotony of the journey was broken by two guards who were checking tickets in tandem. At first I thought they were doing half a carriage each to save time, but no…we had to provide evidence we’d paid for this embarrassment of public transport a second time.
What I did revel in slightly was the fact that Akon didn’t have a valid ticket. I think he was hoping that the guard, being a black guy, would somehow cut him some slack as a fellow ‘brother’. I’m not being racist; he leaned towards the guard and said “come on brother”. That was my first clue.
It wasn’t working.
This was evident the second time the guard pointed out that his train pass was in fact a staff pass for London transport and not vaild on trains outside London. Akon feigned ignorance saying he didn’t know and that no one at his company told him. He was fooling no one and got charged his penalty fare.
It was at this point I decided to have a snooze. After all, the speed this train was going I had at least 6 hours until we reached London.
The train started to get busier and busier. Every time I opened my eyes I was was surrounded by more and more people, all of whom were coveting my seat like a hyena to a feasting pride of lions.
At one point I was woken by a guy loudly offering his seat to a pregnant woman. The tone of his voice suggested he was pissed off no one else had done it. The reason I sensed this was because he said “it’s ok fellahs, I’ll make sure she gets a seat”. I’m sure the woman didn’t feel guilty at all after that.
Soon enough we stopped about 3 stations outside London. The guard’s voice blared over the tannoy in his best broken English to announce that although we had stopped in a station they were not opening the doors as it wasn’t a scheduled stop. This was despite the fact that the train was crammed solid and there were people collecting outside the doors like children around an ice cream van.
We sat there. We sat there some more. We sat there a bit longer and other passengers I noticed were starting to get restless. The huffing had begun.
The guard’s voice came over the speaker system again to point out that there had been someone taken ill on another train at the next station and we couldn’t move until the ambulance had sorted them out. My fellow commuters had that ‘i’ll give them a reason for an ambulance’ look on their faces and the huffing had evolved into sly comments and moans; desperate for someone to acknowledge them so they could enter into a mutual bitch about the rail service and how late they were going to be for work. The guy opposite me tried, but I was having none of it.
I texted my partner in crime and fellow manager at work, Sarah, to tell her I was running late. She then promptly rang me.
It’s at this stage that I feel it important to point out that the carriage was deathly silent, despite being wall to wall with people. All that could be heard aside from the huffing and puffing was the click of phones and keyboards, no doubt moaning digitally to the world about the inconvenience they were having to endure on the nice, warm, comfy train.
Sarah told me she had made it into London, but Victoria underground station was closed due to a fire. When I replied “Victoria is closed?” you can only imagine the reaction of my sardined brethren. I took this opportunity to smile and reply with, “I think you’ve just made me the most unpopular person on this train!” . This earned me a couple of grins but mostly a mass ‘for fuck’s sake’ groan rose from everyone. They were all staring at me like I’d just laid my manhood across the table and asked anyone if they wanted to plug in my dongle.
Sarah told me she’d decided to attempt getting a bus to work and we ended our call so I could begin fielding questions from my new ‘friends’. They were so happy to hear that the stress was going to continue when they reached London.
The guard came over the tannoy a couple more times to tell us we weren’t moving, which we’d figured out considering the scenery had stopped going past the window.
The guy opposite me stopped huffing and puffing long enough to jokingly ask the pregnant woman if she was planning to go into labour. Personally I thought she should start looking at good schools because we may be here a very, very long time.
Eventually we started to move and there was an inaudible, but definite, sigh of relief.
Three minutes into our breakneck journey of 1mph the guard then announced there was a fire at Victoria and the underground was closed.
Cue a massive groan.
Everyone looked at me and half smiled. I held my hands up, smiled back and gave my best ‘see I told you…don’t shoot the messenger’ face. Suddenly I felt cool and current with my finger on the pulse of shit going down. Mostly I was just thankful that I was no longer the misguided focus of their blame.
So after 3.5hrs commuting into work and subsequently turning up late, there was nothing I loved more than “so glad you could join us” and “good afternoon” quips from my lovely colleagues.
I need a coffee. Now.
The London Victoria tube station was a nightmare this morning.
It was packed solid with bodies all desperate to mash themselves against the stranger in front of them, just to get to a place that deprived them of a lovely lay in this morning; work.
As I watched each train come and go, taking with them various sized chucks of the masses, I was edging closer and closer to the front of the herd, and subsequently the edge of the platform.
“Stay behind the yellow line ladies and gentlemen!” came a man’s voice, barking over the tannoy.
I looked down, and sure enough there was a yellow line a few inches away from the concrete precipice of death that I was unnervingly close to. I tried to shuffle backwards but considering there was a wall of iPads, handbags, newspapers and groins behind me, I didn’t shuffle very far.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please continue to move down the platform!”, came the earsplitting tannoy again.
He was starting to sound annoyed. I suspect he wanted to bookmark his sentences with “For fuck’s sake” and “What is wrong with you people?”, but had decided against it for his love of a salary. I had read between the lines.
“Please continue to move down the platform! There is heavy congestion at the back of the platform and there’s more room at the front of the platform; please continue to move down the platform!”
There was a small pause before he continued; this time with an air of lighthearted sarcasm.
“You never know, you might actually be able to get on the train”.
I smirked. Good for him.
There was another short pause before his exasperated voice came back.
“Or alternatively you could just ignore what I’m saying and stay exactly where you are, getting nowhere!”
A few of us chuckled. None of us moved.
The guard on the train just made the usual announcement as we approached a station.
She then stood there for a second, turned to the nearest passenger and asked him; “Did I just say Horsham or Haywards Heath?”
The guy looked at her with a mortified blank expression and replied with an astute and calculated, “wha, what?”.
“Did I just say Horsham or Haywards Heath?”, she repeated.
He was clearly shitting himself now as other passengers had started to look up from their reading material and were watching; fully aware he didn’t have a clue.
And then, in a heartbeat, she grinned at him and said “You werent even listening were you?”
Ha ha, awkward.
She then shrugged, uttered something like “meh” and strolled up the carriage, leaving him to sob gently inside.
Brilliant.
There’s a guy on the train having a full blown argument….with the door.
He’s getting very animated and at one point I thought he was going to drop his rapidly depleting six pack of beers.
He’s really going for it… talking with a proper ghetto swagger and saying “you get me?” a lot.
Other than sliding open and shut, these doors are pretty inanimate… and yet he’s still losing the argument.
Welcome to my commute ladies and gentlemen.
I assumed the guy who sat down next to me on the train was listening to rock on his headphones as there was a distinct weird tinny hissy noise coming from him
I’ve just realised it’s the sound of him breathing out through his stupid fat nose.
This morning I overslept.
In fact, I woke up precisely 57 minutes later than I’m supposed to leave the house. This was not a good start to my day.
I opened my eyes, realised it was 7:57am and bolted upright in bed to utter my first word of the day;
“Shit!”
I promptly followed this with “shit shit shit” and “how the fuck did that happen?”; although why I didn’t just ‘think’ it is beyond me as my girlfriend had already gone to work at 5am and I was alone. There was no one there to appreciate my BAFTA winning performance of a guy who’s going to be seriously late for work.
But was I to blame? Well this is the weird part.
I checked the alarm settings on my clocks (yes, clocks; plural) and they were both set correctly. I thought that maybe I’d snoozed them to death, but they were still showing as having not actually ‘gone off’ yet, despite them being set for 6am and 6:05am. Strange.
Maybe fate has something in store for me today. Or maybe fate has prevented me from some disaster that would’ve befallen me had I followed my usual morning routine. Maybe the headline ‘commuter snaps and beats man to death with his own hands, repeatedly screaming “stop hitting yourself!”‘ will never get printed.
These are all things I pondered in the shower whilst I washed myself at speeds unmeasured by today’s technology. My arms were a virtual blur and the water was turning to a fine mist.
I was most annoyed when, whilst drying myself at the same speed and causing my towel to catch fire twice, I heard one of my Judas alarm clocks kick off from the bedroom.
You have got to be shitting me.
I managed to leave the house at 8:30am which was pretty good and briskly walked to the bus stop that would take me to the train station which would take me to the tube station that would get me to work.
I decided not to walk to my usual station this morning because it’s snowing, there are no direct trains after 8:44am and my new shoes are tearing my heels an new asshole each. So a bus into the main station in town it is.
Right now fate wasn’t impressing me.
The roads were gridlocked due to last minute car commuters and school runs, which meant that my bus was painfully late. If only there wasn’t one adult and one child per car we may have got moving a little quicker. The words ‘car pool’ came to mind. Mind you, so did ”common sense’ and ‘birth control’.
The bus finally arrived and it was packed solid with children screaming and crying, and these small pockets of adults ignoring them desperately (who I later learned are referred to as parents). In fact the only adults keeping an eye on the children were the non parents who had looks of trepidation and self righteous judgement in equal measures.
When one of these ‘parents’ decided to talk to their cherubs it was clear how much love they had for their offspring, particularly one woman who was missing a few teeth, some patches of hair, some brain cells and who was clearly a Spandau Ballet fan; “Oi Hadley! (yes, Hadley) Oi Hadley, will you and Jayden sit down and shut up!”.
Loving.
But for authenticity its important to point out that certain words were pronounced differently;
Down = pronounced Dayan
Shut = pronounced Shart
It was not only her, but her mother who basically looked like an older and fatter version, with a few more stains on her velour tracksuit…and a beard.
Usually this bus is so blissfully empty and quiet.
Fate was starting to piss me off.
I got to the station, boarded a train and prepared for the utter fuckwit that will inevitably sit opposite me.
It took three stops until he got on with a female friend. I knew it was just a friend because, well…he would only have women as friends if you know what I mean. He looked like a cross between Wally from ‘Where’s Wally?’ and Doctor Who himself Matt Smith. Add to this an extremely plummy voice and ridiculous little round glasses. He also talked really loud with his equally plummy ‘friend’ and was quite abrupt and intrusive in his questions and statements. I dont think he had any malice, he just didn’t have any etiquette filters. This was confirmed when he started going through her phone.
Maybe we should publish a new book called ‘Where’s Wanker?’. It would be quite easy though as he finds you.
Fate, you can kiss my asshole…all three of them.
Another eccentric on the train. This time it’s a guy with OCD (or, as they like to call it, CDO because it’s in the correct alphabetical order)
He sat down, looking a little like Elton John complete with ear studs, a scarf tucked under his shirt, a tweed pinstripe jacket and a glass of wine. I could be wrong though; it could be a glass of his own piss.
After settling into his seat (right opposite me!), he got out his iPad.
So far, so normal.
He then got out a packet of wet wipes which he used to meticulously clean the surface area of his iPad until it was fingerprint free. Then he pulled out a packet of tissues (with balm) and dried off the excess wet wipe wetness.
Whilst he was lovingly and delicately massaging his tablet I couldnt help but wonder just how he got this piece of kit, that he clearly adores, so dirty and smudgy.
Actually, that’s a lie. I had a pretty good idea how.
Yuck.
Anyway, this cleaning and preening process happened twice more.
Once he was done he then clipped his tablet into a keyboard so it now resembled a laptop. This begs the question; why not just get a bloody laptop? They cost about the same and the iPad can’t do half the things a laptop can do, so why try and use it like one?
I’m very aware that iPad users will want to argue this, but let’s face facts; they’re wrong.
It’s like having carrot sticks instead of chips in an attempt to be healthier, and then deep frying them anyway.
He’s still touching the screen and not even using the keyboard. And to make things even more ludicrous, he keeps stopping to wipe and dry.
I think he’s taking the piss…or certainly drinking it.
Sat on the train waiting for it to leave London Victoria station with my headphones in and playing a game on my phone.
A woman sits opposite me, also with headphones in, and we exchange a glance that suggests a mutual appreciation of music on the move; or it could’ve been ‘what the fuck are you looking at pal?’
I’ve never been great at picking up these subtleties.
Anyway, no more than a minute had passed when the man sat next to her tapped her on the shoulder and gestured that she should turn her music down.
I took out my right earphone just in case she kicked off, which I didn’t want to miss. Plus it’ll give me something funny to blog. Alas, all I heard her say, with a smile, was “of course, no problem”.
Damn.
She then rolled her eyes, stood up, muttered ‘prick’ and moved to the next carriage.
‘Thank you’, I thought, as I turned my music down.
The suited and booted businessman opposite me on the train is clearly watching something funny on his iphone.
Every 30 seconds or so he does his best to suppress his laughter, which he’s failing at miserably.
He’s mostly snorting a lot, but occasionally he pauses what he’s watching, looks out the window and tries to calm down. It really ain’t working for him.
There’s nothing quite like trying to pull a normal face when all your face wants to do is resemble a cat licking piss off a thistle.
I’m not mocking this guy in any way. In fact it’s just a reminder that life should not always be taken so seriously.
Ah, he has totally lost it now, complete with wheezing, snorts and rocking in his seat. Good for him.
The young girl next to him is desperately looking around for somewhere else to sit, but the train is packed. Just sit there and enjoy the moment like I am, you miserable cowbag.
That’s it mate, mop your brow with your handkerchief; you deserve it.
😀
The young Japanese couple who have just sat down opposite me on the train are starting to get on my tits, and they’ve only been sat down for 10 minutes.
Firstly, they’re talking to each other in that baby style adopted by overly sugary couples who call each other honey bunny and cuddly bear, which I now realise is annoying in every language.
Secondly, they haven’t broken eye contact at all, not once; not even to blink.
Thirdly, she keeps flicking his ear, poking his cheeks, running her fingers through his ginger hair (yes, ginger), stroking his nose and grabbing his jaw with one hand so she can use her finger and thumb to force the corners of his mouth up to form a smile.
All of this while sharing a pair of headphones.
I’ve now realised the poor guy isn’t really enjoying his half of this relationship.
Interestingly, whilst writing this, she’d grabbed his hand and was rubbing her own hand with it affectionately.
It mildly suggests YOU WILL FUCKING LOVE ME!!
He pulled away for a second to scratch his nose (I guess from all the stroking) and her tone completely changed. It went icy cold and bitter. She’s now sat there, arms folded, with a face like a smacked arse. In fact, he’s having to lean in towards her just so he keeps his end of the headphones.
Oh, hang on…I think things are ok again as she’s pinching his nose and sticking her fingers up there repeatedly. He seems to be REALLY enjoying that! He threw her a smile that, in my opinion, had tones of “get the fuck off me woman” and she snarled at him. Yes, snarled!
Now she’s playing his overturned hand like a piano, making ‘ding dong’ noises for every finger she presses like a key.
We’re now back to the baby talk and sticky out bottom lip…and plucking an unshaved hair from his chin, or is she picking a spot? All I know is she hasn’t left his face alone since they’ve sat down.
Oh, now shes taking his photo, tugging his earlobes, pulling the corners of his eyes like a western child pretending to be oriental before their understanding of racism, pulling his bottom lip down, sticking her fingers in his mouth (go on, bite down hard!), pulling his bottom eyelid down and pinching his cheeks…
Faaaarkin’ hell!
Now I know why samurai warriors would fall on their swords.
Someone’s phone rang on the train very loudly just now and it was a terrible, terrible ringtone. The guy looked at it and let it ring and ring for ages before figuring out he should maybe divert it to voicemail, mainly because he was getting the meerkat treatment from the rest of us.
The rubbernecking bloke sat opposite me at the table turned back from meerkatting to face me once again. I stupidly made a nanosecond’s eye contact with him which was apparemtly invite enough for him to try and engage me in mutual tutting and rolling of the eyes that says ‘bloody ringtones eh?’
Sorry, I’m not getting involved. You’re on your own twatboy.
The situation was exacerbated by the woman sat next to me across the aisle whose phone then rang and she proceeded to explain to her partner which train she was on and where exactly in the journey it was.
Cue more invites from King Tut.
She then spent several minutes looking out of every window with such exaggerated intensity it looked like she was on a rollercoaster without proper restraints. I guess this was to somehow demonstrate to her partner that she was really keen to explain where she was, despite the fact he can’t see her and It’s pitch black outside so all she actually saw was her stupid face reflected in the glass, jerking all over the place like a pervert with a live chicken up their arse.
Anyway, she managed to tell him which station we were at.
At least he now knows how long he’s got before he has to kick her sister out of bed.
He he…
Too dark?
Possibly…but consider this; he rang her a further 5 times for a location update whilst I was writing this blog.
Head In A Blender 