When life does a full 180

Time for an update methinks.

My last entry was a little over a month ago, and since then there have been some massive changes in my life that have been on the horizon for over a year now.

Time to spill the beans.

As you know I was made redundant at the end of February.  This was a little saddening and…and….oh who am I kidding; I was over the moon!  I practically cart wheeled to the tube station to catch the last tube home.

homer skip

I am not going to miss those hot, sweaty, vacuum packed metallic cylinders full of joyless, shuffling, mouth breathing vacuous twats.

So long, suckers!

Outwardly – to most – I was melancholy at the loss of my job, but the truth is I was relieved.  I hated my job and most of the people who worked there.  Not all, but most.

They ones I liked, know who they are…and I will genuinely miss working with them.

Unfortunately my wife still worked there, so I had to be diplomatic.  If the company had found out the following piece of news, they would’ve got rid of her quicker than a teenager hides porn.

keep-calm-your-mom-is-coming

Plus, we still needed money coming in…for now at least.

So why wasn’t I freaking out about having no job? Why wasn’t I worried about money?  Well, this is where it gets exciting.

My wife, as you know, is American.  The whole reason she came to the UK back in 2013 was so we could be together whilst we sell my house and arrange my US visa so we could move back to her home town of……..

……..LAS VEGAS!!!

las vegas

Yes, you read that right; LAS ‘holy shit, I can’t believe it’ VEGAS!

However, once we started the visa process it emerged that being married less than 2 years added complications and fees.

Bollocks.

So we decided to stick it out until our 2 year anniversary and then bugger off.  Our 2 year anniversary is this August so in three months, off we shall bugger.

My house sold back in February to an investor looking to buy a property he could rent out.  My estate agent was so slick he got the guy to view it BEFORE we even put it on the market.

First viewing.  Full asking price.  Boom!

He even agreed to rent it back to us until we leave for……..

……..LAS ‘Seriously, i’m so excited I peed a little’ VEGAS!

The tedious paperwork and legalities came to a head in April and we finally got the money from the sale.  My wife quit her job 20 minutes later.

In three short months we will depart these UK shores for the desert and I can honestly say it can’t come quick enough.

As much as I have loved England growing up, I’ve outgrown it.

I’ve outgrown the weather, the cynicism, the bad attitudes and the stiff upper lips.  It’s time for a new chapter in my life.

So stick with me people.  In August this blog will take on a whole new life as I share the trials, tribulations, frustrations and lunacy as a Brit in……..

……..LAS ‘Jesus, it is fucking hot’ VEGAS.

I can’t wait.

excited!

Fast food and unicorns

This morning on the tube I saw a man eating a McDonalds meal like a man possessed.  Well, I say ‘eating’; it would be more accurate to say ‘pushing his whole face into the burger that was resting on his lap’.

After he’d stop burrowing into his meal like he was bobbing for apples he emerged for air and I couldn’t help but smile; he had a piece of burger stuck to his forehead, just above his right eyebrow.

Hilarious.

But, after it had been sat there for a minute or so, I realised it wasn’t a piece of burger but a skin tag!  This wasn’t your everyday skin tag the size of a rice krispie, no this one was almost an inch long; like a small penis!

I tried to avoid looking at it, but I just…couldn’t…stop.

Every fibre of my being was resisting the urge to do this:

door stop twang

Let’s go visit your grammar

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything.  To be honest it’s been a hectic couple of months which I will no doubt write about in the coming weeks.

Aren’t you excited?

Anyway, to ease myself back into the habit of writing, I just wanted to share an interaction I had the pleasure of witnessing on the Tube this morning.

There was a couple.  I would say they were mid-to-late twenties and very posh.

How did I know?  Well…

He had immaculately combed back (and yet thinning) hair with glasses and was wearing cufflinks.  Yes, he was one of those people who actually wear cufflinks to work.

She had straight strawberry-brunette hair with enough make-up to choke a rabbit.  You could still see her freckles which gave her that posh ‘England Rose’ look. Her handbag looked stiffer than a Scotsman’s drink.

They were both wearing those long expensive coats you only ever see in magazine adverts worn by good looking people walking and laughing under trees in autumn.

Anyway, as the train filled up I was herded in their direction until I was stood inches away with my back to them.

This, they had decided, was the time to engage in a very posh and plummy conversation.

“I say, what time will you get to work?” she asked him with a voice that emphasised the ‘h’ in ‘what’.

“Not long now”, he replied, lacking any hint of enthusiasm; “I am so frightfully tired”.

“Mmm, yes me too” she said; “I ordered some new contact lenses but I ordered the wrong ones and they’re actually making me tireder”

There was a pause.

I’m sorry; did she just say ‘tireder’?  That can’t be right.  Surely it’s ‘more tired’?

A few seconds passed.

“Do you know; I don’t think tireder is a word” she said, emphasising the ‘h’ in ‘word’.

I smirked.

Neither is ‘twattiest’, I thought to myself, but I think I’m going to use it anyway.

stupider

The stereotype doesn’t match the stereo type

On the London Underground there were two black guys stood not too far away from me, both dressed virtually identically and both with shaved heads.

They weren’t travelling together, yet they had both hit the stereotype perfectly on the head with their choice of attire, hairstyle (or lack of) and the fact they were both sporting red Dr.Dre Beats headphones.

They were both casually bopping their heads to whatever they were listening to.

RnB or Hip Hop probably.

Is that a bit presumptive?

(Well, stereotypes exist for a reason).

We all got off the train and headed for the lift (elevator) to the surface, packed in tighter than a takeaway carton at a buffet.

The headphone twins both adopted the stereotypical swagger of someone with one leg shorter than the other, holding up their jeans with one hand and showing us too much underwear.

Like all lifts (elevators), it was deathly silent as we ascended, despite there being approximately 25 people in there.  It was at this point I realised I could hear music coming from one of our ‘gangstas’.

In the silence I could make out what he was listening to.

Shirley Bassey.

will the fuck

Occupeed

I finish work at 5.30pm, so at 5.25pm I thought I’d nip to the toilet to empty my increasingly aching bladder before the 2 hour journey home.

2 cubicles. Both in use.

Alright, that’s fine. I’m clearly not the only one who’s had that idea.

I waited for 3 or 4 minutes before deciding the occupants were clearly masturbating or dead and gave up. There are another 2 cubicles near the entrance to the building so I thought I’d use those on my way out.

Both also in use.

I waited outside for about 5 minutes, calling out loudly to my wife sat in reception that “I won’t be long as I’m just waiting for these people to finish using the toilet!”

Despite there being noises from within, including flushes and the washing of hands, they weren’t taking the hint or showing any signs of emerging.

“I think they’ve fallen in darling, they’re taking forever!”

Still nothing. I think I heard one of them re-sit down for another performance.

What were they doing in there?

I decided, with bursting bladder and a wife reminding me that we could miss our train, that we should leave the office.

A full bladder is one thing, but proving my wife right is another!

So we left and joined the throng of London commuters and their inept sense of direction.

I tell you, attempting to navigate heaving crowds and packed underground trains with a hairpin bladder is an adventure. A nervous, sweaty adventure.

We made it to Victoria station and straight onto the train. Unfortunately, because we’d left the office so late, the train was really busy.  Thankfully there were 2 seats available at a table, so my wife and I grabbed them.

I removed my shoulder bag and put it on my seat like a tourist with towel on a sun lounger.

“Watch my bag, I really need to use the toilet!” I said, hopping from one leg to the other.

I walked through to the other carriage and found the cubicle.

In use.

Fuck!

I waited.

I waited longer.

I looked at my wife in the other carriage in disbelief.

I even asked some kids I’d they’ve seen anyone go into this toilet (in case it’s out of order).

“Yeah, a girl went in there, innit”

Eventually, after 10 minutes I gave up and joined my wife.

We’re still sat on the train and the toilet is still occupied.  We’ve been on this train for 45 minutes.

I’m about to test the absorbency of these seats.

image

Getting your fear on track

This morning I saw a man on the London Underground accompanied by his wife who was dressed in a Burka.

Some people unfairly assume that, being a Muslim, he is probably up to no good like bombing the train or something equally insane.

This is, of course, ridiculous. It is an irrational fear created by the few extremists out there ruining it for the rest.

I have to say that I disagree with the oppressive nature of the burka, despite the excellent UV protection it provides.  Having said that, I do have Muslim friends and my experience has taught me that their religion is no more or less peaceful than any other (except maybe Buddhism).

Also, this dude had his wife with him.  There isn’t a man alive (or dead) who wants to be greeted by 72 virgins with his wife!

Unless that’s their thing.

Which I doubt.

So I wasn’t worried.

However, this guy was wearing a T-shirt that wasn’t doing him any favours whatsoever.

It read:

I must not think bad thoughts

I must not think bad thoughts

I must not think bad thoughts

 

Hilarious.

There were some uncomfortably sweaty people on the train this morning.

train-scream

Commuting is a blast

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.

wind face

Are we becoming a nation of idiots?

In the past I used to believe that America was home to some of the dumbest people on the planet.  After all, they have no clue about anything outside America and their grasp of sarcasm and humour (or ‘humor’) is as tight as a slut’s vagina.

But after meeting my wife, who is from Las Vegas, I’ve had a lot more exposure to them (Americans, not sluts’ vaginas) and I’ve come to realise that this belief isn’t true.  I mean, it’s true of a lot of Americans, but it’s not fair to tar them all with the same brush.

Since my wife came to England I’ve started seeing the country through her eyes and cracks are beginning to form.  I’m slowly noticing that we are a lot more flawed as a nation than I realised, or cared to admit.  It’s like peeking behind the curtain at a magic show to see levers, pulleys and a white rabbit taking a colossal dump into a top hat.

England is also home to some of the dumbest people on the planet.

Case in point:

Last night, on the London Underground, my wife and I got off the train at Victoria station and shuffled with the masses towards the two upward escalators leading to the surface.  There were two guys in front of us and as we approached the escalators, one of the guys took the left escalator and the other took the right.

Neither of us paid any attention until one of the guys started talking to the other.  With a distance of around six feet between them and the combined noise of the escalator and the throng of chatting commuters, I should say one started shouting to the other.

Guy 1 – “So what happened next?”

Guy 2 – “What?”

Guy 1 – “I SAID, WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?”

Guy 2 – “Oh, right. Well she decided she was going to work Saturday instead”

Guy 1 – “She was going to what?”

Guy 2 – “PARDON?”

Guy 1 – “SHE WAS GOING TO WHAT?”

Guy 2 – “WORK SATURDAY INSTEAD!”

Guy 1 – “AH, I THOUGHT SHE MIGHT”

Guy 2 – “WHAT?”

I couldn’t believe it.  These two guys were together!  It wasn’t that busy in the station which meant they weren’t herded accidentally onto separate escalators; they’d CHOSEN to do that.

I looked back at my wife who was staring at them in disbelief.  She looked back at me, rolled her eyes and mouthed the words “Why the fuck?”

As we reached the top of the escalator my wife shared her thoughts with me.

For fuck’s sake England!

When an American living here rants about the sheer stupidity of people around her, it’s time to sit up and pay attention.

england fail

Common sense gets the shaft.

This morning at Goodge Street Underground station I heard the following announcement:

“Ladies and Gentlemen; please be aware that lift number four is currently out of service while we perform essential routine maintenance”.

Fair enough.

There are no escalators at Goodge Street station but there are four lifts*, so we’d either use one of the three remaining lifts or take the spiral stairs to the surface; all 136 of them.

Fuck.  That.

But the announcement didn’t stop there (although I wish it had); “Please use the remaining lifts one to three, or take the spiral stairs”.

Oh my god I am so thankful they told us that otherwise we could’ve been stuck down there for days.

state the obvious

*Or ‘elevators’ to our American brethren who may be confused**

**At the word ‘lift’.

The accidental pugilist

Another normal* morning on London’s fine underground network system.  The masses and I were stood on the platform awaiting the next oversized Pringles can to arrive and whisk us away.

Soon enough it arrived and the doors wheezed open as we all stood back to allow the shuffling morons off.  We made sure to wear our customary scowls as they did so, before pushing and shoving onto the train; desperate to fill the void left in their wake.

As we crammed on I noticed that the woman in front of me had a shitload of space in front of her, but wasn’t moving into it.  I’m not sure she realised the loud voice over the tannoy telling us all to “move down inside the carriage and use all available space” applied to her.

Those straddling the gap between the train and the station did.

I concluded that common sense should “move down inside the brain and use all available space”, but quickly dismissed that as futile and instead tried to push past her.

She wasn’t having any of it.

I’m 6 feet tall and this little twat was only about 5 feet tall, so it was inevitable I was going to succeed in pushing past her.  This was a further indication that common sense eluded her.

Never before have the words “Mind The Gap” been so appropriate.

Despite her best efforts I shoved past her and lifted my arm to grab the handrail bolted into the ceiling.  In the process of pushing past this brainless bint and raising my hand at the same time, I succeeded in punching a seated man in the side of the head.

Yes, that’s right; I punched a stranger.

This wasn’t a light brushing or a mild scuff; it was a full on, four knuckled, unrestrained smack across the side of his head.  In fact, the force of it was strong enough to cause his head to jerk wildly to the side.

I looked down, ready to apologise profusely and lay blame with the stubborn bitch who should’ve been the one to punch him instead of me, when I saw that he hadn’t even looked up from his phone.

Nothing.

No reaction.

What the fuck?

He just sat there and continued playing Angry Birds as if he gets punched by strangers all the time.

“So how many was it today Dave?”

“Only 3.  Although I did get a headbutt in the nuts from a midget”

I’m sure there’s a joke in here somewhere about a punchline.

oops punch

*who am I kidding?

All for one…

This morning my train was delayed due to a “passenger being taken ill” on board.

My first clue that something wasn’t right was when a man entered from the adjoining carriage and woke me up by screaming “IS THERE A DOCTOR ON BOARD!??”

No reaction.

“PASS IT DOWN!”

No-one did.

He stood there for a few seconds, shot everyone a contemptuous look and headed back to his carriage.

Once I’d wiped away the drool from my mouth and the shoulder of the woman next to me, I looked out the window and saw we were just outside Clapham Junction, the busiest train station in the UK.  I then looked at my watch and saw that we were running 40 minutes later than usual.

What the fuck?

I soon discovered it was something to do with signalling problems/electrical issues/leaves on the track/frost.  [Delete as applicable…take your pick]

It was at this point, as the train slowly trundled into Clapham Junction (the busiest train station in the UK), that I noticed an unnatural silence in the carriage.  At first I thought it might be due to concern for our fallen comrade in the other carriage, but I soon concluded it was because everyone was thinking the exact same thing as me….

“Don’t stop the train, don’t stop the train, don’t stop the train, don’t stop the train…..”

‘Crackle’

Oh no.

‘Fizz’

Oh shit.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your conductor speaking…”

Please no.

“…it appears the alarm has been pulled in one of the carriages…”

Ah, dammit!

“…owing to someone being taken ill on board.”

Here we go…

Now, I’ve ranted about the delays caused by those ‘taken ill’ before, but that was about the afflicted being on the platform, whereas this time it was someone actually on the train.

After multiple “apologies for the delay” and “awaiting a first-aider” announcements, it occurred to me….

Just take them off the train.

I mean, how ‘ill’ was the person if all we were waiting for was a first-aider?  At no point did the announcements say we were awaiting a surgeon…or a mortician; so why not take them off the train and treat them in the cool, refreshing morning air?

Nope.  As a lot of us feared, the inevitable happened.

The speakers crackled and fizzed to life again and the conductor suggested it might be a good idea we all leave the train and board another one.  After all, there were plenty of trains heading into London as this was Clapham Junction; the busiest train station in the UK.

As you can imagine, this went down as well as a vegan’s fart in a broken elevator with the packed masses who were already very late for work.

Now, I’ve estimated a train carriage holds over 100 people and this was a 12 carriage beast packed tighter that Tom Jones’ trousers, so in effect we had over 1200 rats fleeing a sinking ship.  That’s 1200 moaning, tutting, multi-directional shuffling zombies joining the crowds at the busiest train station in the UK; all heading towards platform 14 to join other equally packed trains full of scowling, miserable sods all unwilling to ‘move down the carriage using all available space’.

Amongst the crowds and mayhem I found a gap on platform 14 and, whilst silently congratulating myself, smugly waited for the next London-bound sardine tin.  Soon enough it pulled up and I discovered why there had been a gap on the platform; I was stood equidistantly nowhere near the train doors.

I couldn’t have positioned myself better if I’d tried.

The doors opened and people started piling off the train.  The rest of us glared at them as we watched the ever increasing space form behind them like a tin of cookies at a Weight-watchers meeting.  I began sizing up my fellow commuters to see who I could take down if the need arose.  The small Chinese woman, the man in front of me with the rucksack, the woman checking her make-up in a portable mirror; I reckon I could take them all with a well placed elbow here and a careful headbutt there.

As it turned out we all got on board.

Lucky bastards.

Mind you, some dude had my arse in his face all the way into London.

Lucky bastard.

Anyway, we arrived into Victoria almost an hour later than usual and everyone made a beeline for the underground station which, for some reason, wasn’t busy at all.  It was actually a breeze getting through the barrier and I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why th……

Oh wait, it was 09:25am.   Of course it was quieter; most people were actually AT work!

Oh well, at least the tube would be a nice end to this nightmare journey.

‘Crackle’

Oh no.

‘Fizz’

Oh shit.

“We apologise that, due to a signalling failure at Brixton, the Victoria line is subject to major delays in both directions”.

Maybe someone should call a first-aider.

Quickly.

Faint

Let’s face it…

This morning I was stood opposite a girl on the tube whose eyebrows were drawn 150% thicker than they should’ve been, with far too much pink glossy lipstick that reflected enough light to blind everyone around her.

And she was orange.

Why do women think this is an attractive look?

Mmm, I can’t wait to run my hands through those big man brows whilst stained orange like a baby’s nappy and covered in pink sticky glossy shit….said no man, ever.

Laughable.

She looked like this.

Brows and lips

VordSearchen

This morning whilst stood on the tube I found myself reading someone’s tablet over their shoulder.

I use the word ‘reading’ loosely as it was all in German.

It read something like this:

Kraften blitzke frausch mit aschven krau ka diftenschkraschen eins muttsen bitte lisch ja fluugan zwei genitals dreischen seib achtung zwolften schlassen cochsuckens banhofftenschlasse.


Yes, I saw that word in there too.

On a whole page of German words my eyes happened to gravitate to that one English noun nestled in there like a tick, which says a lot about me.

At least, I think it was all German. It could’ve been a wordsearch.

In which case, I won.

Rude Word Search

Knucklehead

This morning on the tube I noticed a young girl wearing one of those rings that covers two fingers like a fashionable knuckle duster.

This piece of weaponised jewellery was gold.  Well, I say ‘gold’…it was gold coloured plastic in the shape of the word ‘Bad’.

And it really was.

bad double ring

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

Commuting is the pits

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.

Tube Stench

Phlegm fatale

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.

snot hair gel

Let me clear my throat

I wake up most mornings between 6am and 6:45am, depending on whether my alarm clocks (plural) do an effective job at waking the dead.  I tend to leave the house around 7:15am and suffer the tedious commute into London every day by train.

You may have noticed.

I navigate the multidirectional London crowds, endure the hot and sweaty tube (which is the London Underground and not the duty of a bored housewife), walk the streets of London and arrive at work around 8:55am.  When I say “Good morning” to the girls behind reception I clear my throat beforehand because it’s usually the first time i’ve spoken that day.

Well, this morning whilst crammed on the tube I had a woman fall into me when the train stopped abruptly.  She turned to me, somehow surprised that Newton’s law of motion had actually applied to her despite not securing her footing or holding onto a pole like the rest of us, and apologised.

Without thinking, and without throat clearage, I said “that’s alright” in what has to be the best Mickey Mouse impersonation I think i’ve ever heard.

Bollocks.

don_t-look

Hopping mad

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.