Several years ago I treated myself to a day out in London, some sightseeing, a trip to the South Bank, some culture, a refreshing walk along the Thames and an opportunity to break up the monotonous routine of work and home life, but first I had to negotiate the Victoria Line.
Sitting comfortably in the centre of the carriage I avoided eye contact with other passengers, there was a non-descript feel to everyone then at Kings Cross a seven foot African drugs baron marched on to the carriage and stood in front of me scrutinising an advertisement for insurance above my head. He had more than a striking resemblance to Samuel L Jackson yet more menacing, wearing polished cowboy boots, a black polo neck and an expensive beige long coat lined in green fur with cream labels. He looked confidently hard, and almost certainly dealt in class A drugs, held a knife somewhere on his body and possibly also an unlicensed hand gun. He was handsome in a rugged way and would not have thought twice about murdering someone if they got in his way.
As we approached Warren Street I stereotypically assumed his destination was Brixton then to avoid any eye contact I rubbed my face and without any premeditation I decided on impulse to extract an errant bogey from my left nostril. I soon started to roll the extract in a furious manner thus removing all recognisable moisture and leaving a perfectly dry sphere between thumb and forefinger. Having worked through this process a zillion times before I then took aim and flicked the tiny missile to the floor, but I screwed up the trajectory and it landed on the one spot where my life could be put in danger. Yes, it landed on Samuel L Jackson’s lapel. I could only imagine that his lapel was made of Velcro because the bogey took a grip so tight it would have needed a cold chisel to scrape it off. The cream background set off the round ball of mucous to perfection, and it was less than six inches away from his chin!
A woman in a yellow dress looked away as I glanced in her direction to avoid any contact with Samuel L Jackson. It’s possible she had caught sight of the blemish on the lapel, I half expected her to say something like ‘hey Samuel, that fat guy there has just flicked a huge fucking bogey straight on to your label, what are you gonna do about it?’ and of course that would have been curtains for me. With great anti-climax he shuffled off the train at Victoria, one stop before me, and took his trophy with him, no doubt becoming acquainted with my bogey sometime later in the day.
Several weeks ago I needed to make an urgent dash back to London and Sod’s Law decided to unleash it’s wrath and make me suffer. The journey from Brighton to London Victoria was uneventful apart from my secluded spot on the carriage having been invaded, at the last minute, by an unruly South London family who’s coarseness and atrocious behaviour was spectacular. Their three-year old nazi even had the nerve to rip out my right earplug whilst listening to some blues from Canned Heat. The skinhead father simply stiffened his shoulders and said ‘sorry chief, you know worrits like’, yeah well maybe I do but I still felt like slaughtering the entire family.
When entering the vault known as Victoria underground station my first thoughts were crikey there’s a terrorist high alert going on here and I need to get out bloody pronto, such was the confusion and panic all around. Whilst trying to calm my breathing there was an announcement informing us that a lunatic had jumped on the tracks near Brixton, and that he was walking along the tracks, presumably in the dark, this effectively meant the Victoria line was screwed, though it would have made more sense for the maniac to be allowed to have taken his chances with an on coming train. It makes sense now to have taken a loss and jumped on a cab to Liverpool Street and then the train from there, but I’m currently experiencing a phase in life known as ‘getting fucking tighter the older I get’.
I eventually had to change trains seven times before I arrived safely in Stansted. The most stifling part of the journey was being on the Piccadilly line to Finsbury Park. I was standing for nearly the entire journey under the armpit of a Sikh who was laughing incessantly at his saved text messages, I tried reading them but they weren’t in English. From just under the Sikh’s pit I was shocked to see Gene Wilder sitting nervously on a seat opposite to where the Sikh and I were standing. He was gripping a small parcel and resembled his Leo Bloom character from The Producers. I tried to imagine what could be in the parcel, everything from a gun, to chocolates to a vibrator passed through my mind. There was little air left in the compact carriage to share and there were several hysterical Latinos hyperventilating, however Gene Wilder remained relaxed, wiping sweat from his brow then examining his damp fingers but bizarrely had a beige scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. What was he disguising? A love bite, but unlikely? Maybe even a sexually transmitted disease? Gene also had a smug grin plastered across his face as if he was sitting on a priceless bar of gold bullion, indeed Gene, for one moment, reminded me of my deceased ex-father-in-law, he too wore smug faces and wore scarves inappropriately.
I thought Gene Wilder was dead, but maybe I was thinking of Gene Hackman or some other Gene and as if to challenge my sanity, when we reached Holborn, Gene stood, turned then picked up an imaginary article from his seat, examined it then tucked it under his arm along with his parcel and fought his way between the Sikh and me, then maybe he wasn’t Gene Wilder after all.
It was so cold this morning I could feel my nipples brushing up against my shirt and with Half Term in full swing the platform took on the appearance of a morgue. The express train to London Liverpool Street suddenly burst from a vortex and exploded through the village’s station, I stood firm, barely swaying, daring the express train to uproot me.
I assumed I was alone on the platform but I was wrong. Not far from me sat a hunched woman with a harsh Welsh accent and a face that was a cross between a demented pit ball and a mutilated goose. At first I thought she was bellowing instructions to a child, a son or a daughter perhaps. It appeared this child was incapable of pouring milk (the milk was to be found in the fridge apparently, and not in the shed, next to the old fish tank) over a bowl of cereals. This woman was hideous! She scratched her left armpit whilst continuing to screech her instructions into her Blackberry. The 8.27 was due in 2 minutes, I did think briefly of lifting her by the collar and dropping her in front of the next London-bound train, but of course this would have ended up complicated.
The ending of her conversation turned out to be peculiar. She began by barking instructions about remembering to put the toothpaste onto the toothbrush, not too much cream on her hands, and not to wear the yellow knickers (the ones in the top drawer) because they were the wrong size and were too tight and would make her feel all hot and bothered. It was only when she promised to see her the following morning and as a surprise she would bring along all the grandchildren, that I feel realised this Welsh behemoth was talking down to her demented mother!
I can’t believe automated on-board train announcements serve any purpose, apart from disrupting train journeys, and denying any pleasure associated with the journey. I feel there must be a conspiracy linked to these announcements, but I haven’t quite worked it out yet.
Equally as irritating is the on-board entertainment, where the train driver assumes the role of journey commentator, and worse still, comedian. On a recent journey to Kings Lynn (8 Nov) my entire journey was disrupted by not only delays due to a track incident, but more irritatingly with the psychological trauma caused by an opinionated cockney train driver from Basildon, probably.
I was a nervous wreck by the time the train left Ely, this was due to the pointlessly irritating automated announcements, you know the type; you are arriving at blah, blah, blah. Several miles out of Ely the train stopped. I assumed there was, either something wrong with the train, or perhaps an incident further down the track, the only other option was that the train driver, just for the sheer hell of it, had decided to pull the train up, and abscond in the opposite direction, unlikely. Within minutes Mr Charming Train Driver started the first of several sporadic announcements. Firstly he announced with plenty of gusto that the train had stopped but had no further information but would do his best to keep us informed, well how fucking useful was that? 3 minutes later, and another announcement, this time in a theatrical tone, and sounding alarmingly like Jim Davidson, stated that the train had stopped due to an incident further down the tracks, but will keep us informed, blah, blah, blah, again, so bloody useful. Minutes later, and still sounding a lot like Jim Davidson, we were informed that a cow had caught its hoof on a level crossing, then bizarrely announced if anyone fancied steak tonight! There was then a slight snigger from Jim, and I tried to imagine how this would end.
Familiar hissing sounds suggested an imminent resumption of my journey, I managed to work that one out on my own, but only just in time because Jim stepped in to announce that apparently the cow had been freed, but a signalling failure meant a further delay, and then in a cor blimey heavy East End accent announced that we’ll never get to Kings Lynn at this rate, he was obviously impressed with this remark, evidenced by his subsequent belly laugh.
After a 15 minute delay the train was on the move again, and as if I wanted a second opinion to confirm this Jim Davidson, clearing his throat, announced that we were on our way to Kings Lynn, and, if anyone was to spot a stray cow on the way they should let him know. Thanks Jim, will do, now drive the sodding train and leave me and everyone else in peace.
An unexpected day off from work today (7 Nov) enabled me to jump on a train bound for Cambridge, and with the carriage empty I sat back and stretched out, sliding my boots onto the seat opposite. I was asleep within minutes and would have slept all the way to Cambridge had it not been for someone’s voice booming throughout the carriage. I hurriedly came too and looked around searching for the offender, expecting to find a mother patronising her child, but was quickly reminded how irritating those automated train announcements can be especially when you are trying to read, sleep or eat. A middle-class white English female voice, synthetically manufactured, designed to be soothing, commanding yet also sexy all at the same time. The announcements are aimed at complete morons. Today, the first announcement, turned up to maximum volume by the masochistic and obviously bored train driver, informed me that we were arriving at Elsenham. The train, as expected, not only arrived at Elsenham, but, miraculously stopped at Elsenham. If 9 station platform signs were not enough to make it perfectly obvious we had arrived at Elsenham, then this dominatrix announced that we had indeed arrived at Elsenham, for effect the volume had been cranked up even more. The dominatrix then went on to remind any remaining passengers to take their belongings with then when leaving the train, in case any buffoon decided to leave the odd suitcase, laptop or IPad behind. I’ve been travelling on public transport for many years and have yet to find anything left behind worthy of shiftily taking home, unless you include a £10 I once found on a Southern Railways train to Worthing.
Moments later, the train sauntered on, leaving a barren Elsenham behind, but only to be reminded that we had just left Elsenham behind, really useful for anyone who wanted to alight at Elsenham, and that the next stop was Newport. I roughly estimated around 7 more stops to Cambridge; I was beginning to get frantic!
Used to know a guy called Animal, which probably says it all about me. His party trick was to stuff a McDonalds quarter pounder and cheeseburger into his gob simultaneously without breaking sweat. On a good day his gut could comfortably cover his dick (standing up position). Amazingly he beat me at squash once in 1981, the trembling blubber neutralised my coordination and put me off my game. His catchphrase was “there’s nothing more gross than a fat man stuffing his gob,” and this is so true.
Earlier today (1 Jan) I was on the 10.48 from Stansted Mountfitchet to Cambridge to capture a whiff of culture and inspiration when an odd man caught my attention. The 40 year old was ogling an enormous 99 cone with 2 deeply wedged flakes, his grin as he rhythmically licked the sides of his treat could only be described as satanic. This repulsive overweight man seemed set to enjoy this culinary experience for some time when all of a sudden he rammed the cone fully into his gob. It was then that I thought of the Animal. As we pulled into Cambridge this creature pulled out a camera phone from his pocket and then by extending his arm out he haphazardly started taking gloating photos of his face. The delight shown on his face was both childlike and frightening. He stood then stared at his own self-portraits as he bungled his way forward and eventually off the carriage. It was the most bizarre 32-minute journey I had undertaken for some time.
For those of you who are remotely interested the Animal died in bizarre circumstances several years ago. Whilst repairing a plastic roof on a poultry outhouse on a farm he lost his balance, slipped and fell to the ground, smacking his temple against a concrete girder. He was found the following day, covered in chicken shit, by a couple of Dutch ramblers who raised the alarm. The story, according to legend, becomes even more extraordinary. The Animal’s carcass was taken to the local mortuary and laid to rest. During the evening the mortuary technician picked up a faint clucking sound coming from the Animal’s resting slab. Assuming the Animal had arisen from the dead the technician lifted the shroud and to his utter shock witnessed a tiny chick escaping from the Animal’s clenched thighs. The subsequent trauma suffered by that poor chick is unimaginable; 24 hours trapped inside the Animal’s buttocks with rigor mortis set full on is not right, and to imagine that poor chick growing up and then ending up shrink-wrapped on a supermarket shelf six months later, then roasted, is again not right.
It’s always a bit of a challenge trying to find a train seat free from obnoxious, bellowing, screeching brats and self-obsessed, shallow commuters chatting mindlessly into their Iphones. Today (29 Dec) though I was in luck. The 10.06 from Victoria to Brighton was relatively quiet as I dropped gratefully onto a window seat. Ten minutes into the journey, barely over the Thames, a vile pig squeezed into the seat opposite me. He brought with him a stench of warm, partially decomposed poultry. Moments later a burger bag was ripped apart, only millimetres away from my mobile and then he proceeded to chomp through medium rare mince, an imitation Kraft slice, bacon rasher and sweating onions. The stench was overbearing; I felt fucking sick! This was the 10.06 to Brighton, the worst case scenario should’ve been an unprovoked attack from an overflowing Starbucks Caramelocino with an extra dollop of double cream! On closer examination this heathen was blatantly ex-KGB mafia type, it was the pock-marked face, enormous nose and flaky skin over a slimy forehead that gave him away. The carnage continued; ripping cartilage away from a spicy chicken wing was disgusting enough, but shoving thumb and forefinger into his gob to retrieve trapped poultry carcass was just too much. As the train pulled into Clapham Junction I stood, inexplicably barked out “WHORE!” and stiffly left the carriage. I felt exhilarated!
