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.
