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

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

Rubik’s Tube

This guy was stood in front of me on the London Underground this morning.

Wearing a Rubik’s Cube T-shirt whilst completing a Rubik’s Cube one handed.

I couldn’t decide whether to ridicule or respect him. Could I do both?

It’s a puzzle.

image

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’.

Seeing Red

I had trouble walking through London Victoria station this morning due to some idiot in front of me pulling a big red holdall on wheels.

Slowly.

I tried as hard as possible to pass him, but he blocked me at every attempt; zigzagging like a shark swimming through an ocean of directionless pillocks….sorry, pollocks.

Is it wrong that I wanted to punch him out of the way?

He was a menace, nearly taking out my legs and those of others around me.  He was oblivious to the carnage he was leaving in his wake.

It might also explain why his bag was red; stained with the shin blood of the capital’s masses.

Eventually I managed to get past him and felt the same sense of freedom as overtaking a tractor on a narrow country road.  I had the urge to run through the station, flailing my arms in the air screaming “Yes! Yes!  I’m free!!”, but I decided against it as I wasn’t entirely convinced my wife would join in.

Although she IS American, so there was a chance.

Still, I wasn’t going to chance it and frankly I was just too tired.

The excitement and energy of passing the holdall hauling halfwit meant I really didn’t have the strength to do anything but place one foot in front of the other.

Anyway, we traversed the concourse and headed towards the underground station, joining the throng of people shoving themselves through the entrance.

As we joined the back of the crowd, there in front of me was the big red holdall on wheels.

How the fuck?

I looked behind me in case there was another big bag bearing bell-end, but only saw a trail of hobbling commuters; limping and clutching their shins.

I turned back in disbelief and it was then that I noticed the writing on his bag:

‘London Fire Brigade – Keeping London Safe’

(clenches fist)

punch a shark

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

“London Bridge is failing Dan, failing Dan, failing Dan….”

London Victoria underground station was closed tonight due to ‘someone being taken ill’.

Bollocks.

There’s no way someone said “I think I’ve got the flu coming on” and they shouted “Stop everything!”

I suspect it’s a more subtle version of “someone being liquidated by a train”.

If it’s not I can assure you that I, and about a thousand people frantically redirecting to other stations to escape the city like a frantic piss out of a pair of leaky rubber pants, will be hoping they feel better long enough to fall under the next train that’s “not stopping at Victoria”

It was utter bedlam tonight with agitated commuters strutting around directionless looking for an alternative way of getting home, and failing.

I made my way to London Bridge station as I knew I could get home from there and stood waiting for my platform to be announced.

It’s always been platform 5 whenever I’ve travelled from this station so I went through the barrier into the station, up the escalator and waited patiently by the platform entrance.

And waited.

And waited.

It was 6 minutes until my train was due to leave and the platform still hadn’t been announced.

And then….

‘Platform 9’

What??

Where the fuck is platform 9?? There’s only platforms 1 to 6!

Cock!!

I ran down the escalator, back through the barriers, out of the station and saw there was another entrance which had platforms 7 and up.

Grrr!

There is nothing more infuriating than the possibility I was going to miss my train despite having been there for ages!

And, true to form, all the commuters had been switched to ‘slow, ambling, zombie fuckwad mode’; making my run that much more varied with slaloming, hurdles, chicanes, twists, turns and twats at every step.

I bolted through the masses, up the escalator, through the barriers to the platforms and ran (a concept unfamiliar to the cretins around me) down the platform alongside the train.

Ideally I wanted to be at the front of the train, but it was about to leave so I boarded halfway down and continued my journey inside.

It was at this point that some suited prick boarded the train at the next doorway and cut in front of me, only to then stand still.

Oops, my mistake, he WAS walking but at a speed which I could be forgiven for mistaking as ‘stationary’.

In fact, ‘Mr Stop’ here was so piss-achingly slow, I got off the train, walked down the platform and boarded ahead of him (on the same carriage) so I could continue at a pace that actually involved putting one foot in front of the other.

No sooner had I traversed another carriage than a woman did the exact same thing and cut in front of me; moving at sloth-like speed while she decided where to sit on this virtually empty train.

It amazes me how these people function day to day.

I sat down and took out my phone to begin writing this blog entry.

It took around 40 minutes to write (as autocorrect can be a bitch) and, as I sat thinking about how I could end it, I looked up and saw Mr Stop finally taking his seat.

Perfect.

image

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

Piss de resistance

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)

i need to pee dog

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

Mind the gakk!!

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.

image

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.

A game of squash anyone?

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.