The tube door shuts and clouts a woman across the head. She stumbles a bit and tries to style it out by acting unbothered.
Mildly amusing
The door opens again and smacks her a second time across the head in the other direction.
She almost drops her phone. Less styling.
Very amusing.
A guy takes this opportunity to jump on the train just as the driver announces we should ‘mind the closing doors’.
The doors close, twatting him across the head.
Downright hilarious.
Even the woman is smirking.
Whilst riding the tube this evening I was witness to something you don’t see often; a man covered in blood.
Now allow me to quantify that by pointing out that it’s Halloween. Even so, it’s still a little unnerving when the guy who gets on the tube next to you is, indeed, covered in blood.
Did I mention he was covered in blood? Well he was, y’know, covered in blood.
So there we were stood side by side on the packed train as it slowly departed the station. It was then I noticed the reactions of the other people crammed in with our crimson pal, or rather, the lack of them.
Here he stood, covered in the red stuff and no one even bats an eyelid (no pun intended). I guess they all had the same thought as me which was “this guy must have had some sort of Halloween dress up thingy at work today, good for him”.
This lack of blind terror, screaming and uncontrollable sobbing did get me thinking. What if this guy was REALLY covered in REAL blood? What a perfect cover. He seemed so calm and unassuming, but then again aren’t they the ones we should be careful of?
I edged away from him slightly.
Some of the commuters were desperately trying to stare without being too obvious as he was, without question, covered in blood. What fascinated me the most was the way they’d quickly look elsewhere when he made eye contact. I mean, it’s rude to stare, right? And we don’t want to upset the blood soaked stranger do we kids?
Then I wondered; what if today had been a regular day? What if it hadn’t been halloween? Would we have all acted differently? I would’ve certainly filled my trousers with all kinds of nasty, but what about everyone else? Maybe one day I’ll just dress as a zombie and stand on the train at rush hour, dribbling and groaning.
Although I suspect I won’t need to stand with all the empty seats.
But the most amusing, and yet appropriate, reaction was when the train pulled into our destination. There, stood on the platform, was a small oriental girl waiting for the train. She’d obviously positioned herself so that she would be right in front of the sliding doors when they opened.
Perfect.
We all started piling off the train and I was directly behind Mr Bloody so I had a front row seat for what happened next.
As we stepped off the train, the oriental girl looked up and made a face that simply said “what the fucking shit?!?”, complete with wide eyes and even wider mouth. This was accompanied by a sudden and violent sidestep which was clearly a kneejerk reaction not dissimilar to ducking when a pigeon flies at your face.
(Although seeing a pigeon hit someone full on in the face is just a beautiful thing; at least for the spectator and not the person picking beak, shit and feathers out of their mouth)
Her reaction was absolutely priceless. I can still picture it now and I cant stop smiling; It was so bloody funny.
Pun intended.
Faaaaarkin’ hell!
What a tube journey!!
The whole thing started badly when I left work late which usually means I miss my train from London by literally one minute.
One. Whole. Minute.
I made it to the tube station, having successfully avoided black cabs and ninja cyclists, and attempted to enter the station. And when I say attempted, I mean attempted. It’s amazing how many people just stop dead when walking, or don’t know how to walk forward.
It’s not that hard; it’s the direction your fuck ugly face is pointing. Can we please fit these people with brake lights or, at the very least, indicators??
I managed to slalom these bungling bell-ends and get through the ticket barrier (which, interestingly, was the only thing that was reliable this evening). I then joined the escalator and started walking down on the left, which is the understood escalator etiquette on London’s underground network. I made it half way down when some twat stood on the right realised everyone on the left was walking down and decided to step out and join them, taking each step at the speed of dark. The stationary people on the right arrived at the bottom quicker.
Finally I made it onto the platform just as a train pulled in. “Result” I thought to myself as I jumped on.
The train then sat there for four minutes, which, on the underground, equates to about 3 weeks.
Finally we pulled off and we bumped, swerved and jiggled our way to my final destination. Great if the carriage was full of busty bikini clad girls.
It wasn’t.
The good news is…I could still make my train here.
We all got off. And it was at this point I was utterly and violently fascinated by the speed we all disembarked. It defies logic that people in a hurry….aren’t! It’s not because of bottle-necking or anything because I managed to wriggle through the plodding pillocks like a good looking knife through thuddingly dumb butter. I now know where George A. Romero got his inspiration, although his zombies would go hungry with the lack of delicious grey matter in the vicinity.
At last i made it to the final escalator and decided to opt for the left hand side walk up. This time no-one stepped out in front of me because they were all too bloody lazy, and they didn’t need to as the person in front of me was clearly struggling to climb the steps. Would it have been wrong to grab them by the shoulders, shove them to the right and exclaims “for fuck’s sake!!” Loudly as I stomp past? Hmm….possibly. I opted for silent rage.
I made it to the top, through the rest of George’s flock, through another non-obstructive ticket barrier and onto the conc…. onto the conc…. onto the conc…
Will you get out of the fucking way people!!!!
…onto the concourse. Jesus! It seemed no-one could walk in a straight line, or continue without stopping, or control their kids, or luggage, or their knuckles as they dragged along the floor.
It’s been an emotional journey and, oh look, I’ve missed my train by one minute.
This morning, after a long and cramped commute into London, I was chatting with a friend and we began comparing our vacuum packed journies into the capital.
The subject eventually turned to women (obviously), but more specifically the different types of make-up they wear; the tones, the colours, the thicknesses and the way they apply them (brushes, pens, trowels etc..)
There seems to be a myriad of methods and styles adopted by this country’s fairer sex. Mind you, having said that, it’s not really accurate to describe them as ‘fairer’anymore when they come in so many colours, like the iPod.
For example, this morning on the underground, there was a young(ish) girl stood in front of me whose make-up was flawless. I mean it was ‘photoshoot’ flawless. I think she’d been photoshopped to be honest. I couldn’t stop staring at her, not because I found her attractive or anything, but simply because she was ridiculously unflawed and unblemished. it was truly a work of art. And stood next to her was a woman whose tone resembled a rusty car.
What a contrast.
The Oompa-Loompa’s boyfriend must be a plasterer as she’d clearly had help with applying half of Arizona’s desert to her face. In addition to this she was extremely shiny with big pink Santa cheeks and blue eye shadow that would make a porn star blush. I find it a little saddening that she’d clearly taken time to smear on half of Superdrug’s stock that morning and yet my attention was drawn elsewhere. At least, it WAS drawn elsewhere until Miss Loompa starting talking loudly to her friend through very, VERY red shiny glittery (and badly pencilled) lips.
And what is this fascination with being orange? I’ve never understood it. I can appreciate the need to look tanned as it gives that holiday glow, but orange makes it look like you’ve been on holiday to Chernobyl…and that glow is probably uranium, or Ready Brek.
But if you really want to look orange, dip your face in carrot soup. Just let it cool down first.
I do have one last observation that is actually something i’m impressed with, and that’s the ability of some women to be able to apply make-up on a moving train full of people whilst standing!
I have seen this on numerous occasions and it never ceases to amaze me. Not only can it be done on a bumpy and swervy train, but also whilst squished up against other people. I swear these women practice in their closets. They adopt the arms of a preying mantis and manage to juggle brushes, pens, pads, sponges, mirrors, curlers and mobile phone whilst bouncing around the carrriage with everyone else like some weird, emotionless, slow motion mosh pit.
And the fact they don’t have it all over themselves is nothing short of impressive; I can’t even keep inside the lines in a colouring book.
My friend pointed out that if it were us, we’d end up looking like the Joker.
It could be worse, I could be orange.
I came across a realisation this morning as I walked to the train station; that more often that not we are confused between fantasy and reality. In fact, I’m so convinced of this that I’m going to start a section entitled “Fantasy Vs. Reality”…of which this is part 1.
Allow me to explain.
Tonight I’m off to a friend’s house for the evening to play video games and probably gorge myself on dough bin lids covered in churned milk, plants and processed animal flesh…or ‘pizza’ as they’re better known. It’s going to be a proper old school video games night; you know…actually sat side by side on a sofa, rather than over the interweb. As a result I have to pack an overnight bag as I’m, well, staying overnight (duh!).
But I digress…
So this morning I walked to the station with a mini suitcase on wheels (I know it’s only for one night, but i’m not a tart; I had a complete change of clothes for work tomorrow, plus trainers, plus toiletries, plus Xbox games and a controller); rumbling along the road at 7am like a small Boeing 747…so I’m sure I didn’t wake anyone who had their bedroom windows open. I then got to thinking about negotiating the London Underground with my case.
All the people I’ve seen in the past with cases get on my tits because they just have no spatial awareness and they drag their cases behind them like horny dogs on very long leashes trying to take out the legs of anyone in the vicinity with the vain hope of buggering those who fall. Whatever happens, I’m not going to be what the train station posters call a “Wheelie Wally’…(or ‘Wheelie Wanker’ as I like to affectionately call them).
Then I made it to the station, stood on the platform and patiently waited for my train. It soon arrived and Fido and I boarded without issue.
Then I heard it…
Clip clop clip clop clip clop…
…the door light on the train was flashing and the beeping had begun to indicate the doors were about to slide shut…
…CLIP CLOP CLIP CLOP CLIP CLOP….
…the doors began to close…
…CLIP CLOP CLIP -silence-
A woman appeared from nowhere! She was small, unassuming, and was on board the train before the doors had finished closing, complete with big coat and quite a large rucksack. How the hell did she do that? She didn’t even touch the sides! (Words than can reduce a man to tears under alternative circumstances by the way)
Amazing.
She calmly scoped the carriage for a seat, found one and sat down. She didn’t even look up, she didn’t seem harassed or flustered in any way like it happens all the time; she’s like some kind of anoraked ninja.
Indiana Jones would’ve been proud.
I found a seat, sat down (otherwise I’d just be a weird guy who finds seats) and thought about the situations with my case and the slippery woman.
Here are the fantasy and reality of each.
Situation:
You strut through the station or terminal with your wheeled case behind you, proudly displaying it like a slightly over smug flight attendant.
Fantasy: Everyone looks at you with both wonder and jealousy as they’re curious of where You’re going and who you’re seeing. Let the man through…he has a case!
Reality: Everyone is avoiding you like the plague because you’re going to get under everyone’s feet. What kind of penis takes a fully packed case onto the tube in rush hour? I hope I don’t get stuck standing next to you. Idiot.
Situation:
Your train is pulling in so you make a run for it. You clatter along the platform like a deranged moose and, as you hear the beeping of the closing doors, jump on the train at the first available opportunity. You make it.
Fantasy: You not only made it on board, but you didn’t even get bumped by the doors, resulting in a flawless finish. You’re not out of breath at all and others were there to witness your awesome Hollywood entrance. No need to look around for looks of admiration and awe, you already know they’re there. Just sit down and be confident in the knowledge that you’ll be talked about around campfires for years to come.
Reality: Most people either didn’t notice or don’t care. The rest who saw you just think you’re a lucky sod because you shouldn’t have been lazy in the first place and been at the station on time, like they all were. In fact, a few if them wished you’d missed the train, just to teach you a lesson. They’re now just pissed off you didn’t.
And they know you know it…because you’re avoiding eye contact.
Yeah, that’s it, go and sit down you twat.
Whilst travelling on the tube this evening, I saw a poster for a phone network that had Yoda on a poolside diving board. Yoda!
It just didn’t sit right with me. Or maybe I should say: “sit right with me, it did not”.
Star Wars is sacred and awesome.
Fact.
I’ll even concede that the prequels, despite being nowhere near as good as the original trilogy, weren’t all bad…except for Jar Jar (I’sa wanting to punchy puncha da fishyfacey Binks betcha betcha). So to see the wise green Jedi master reduced to advertising talk plans makes me want to go all Bantha-shit crazy on their asses and shove a lightsaber up their thermal exhaust ports.
Come on George, have some dignity!
I’ve also seen Darth Vader advertising all sorts of shit in the past. Unless its Ventolin or black Turtle Wax, it’s not on!
I have a bad feeling about this.
So please don’t allow Chewbacca to start promoting hair straighteners, or Queen Amidala start advertising make up. It’ll break my heart.
And don’t even think about touching R2-D2; there will be blood.
Bleep bloop beep booweeeeee!
You said it R2.
Head In A Blender 