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.
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