Sordids Law

 

 

Sods law.  Don't you just fucking HATE it?  You all know the crappy age old adage,  if you drop toast,  it lands butter side down, thats Sods law.  I actually think it would be rather disgusting to eat toast that landed on the floor any side up but hey, I guess I'm just hygenic.  I'm talking about sods law that just makes your stomach sink to the floor like your trying to digest a paving slab.

So,  it's 4pm on a Friday.  The last Friday of the month we call pizza friday in our workplace.  This is where my employer decides that its okay for us to have a social life, and that we are free to leave the office a whole 2 hours earlier than usual.  That's after they have stuffed us full of pizza.  Basically hoardes of us make vows not to eat any of the said pizza for fear of our figures.  But by the time the smell of 20 large pizzas wafts down from the 4th floor, promises are forgotten and mini skirts are a tad tighter that evening.  And that's just the boys.

So anyway, its 4pm, I have managed to avoid the pizza.  Purely because I've had nandos for lunch.  I had a veggie burger but I stink of chicken.  I have a feeling no, leg enhancing mini skirt could pull a bloke this evening.  I've left the office and I'm desperate to get home.  I haven't felt very well this weekend and have had 2 days out recovering.  I dash to the train station.  Its freezing cold, I mean Scotland cold.  I can say that, I'm Scottish.  The wind is bitter as hell and it feels like a thousand tiny knives slashing my face.  My cheeks are stinging and no matter how fast I walk, the station doesn't seem to get any closer. 

I'm laden with bags as I decided to clear out the wardobe I seem to have built up under my desk.  2 pairs of shoes, 2 dresses, 3 cardigans, a pair of tights, 2 cake boxes and 3 belts.  I work in fashion apparently so I don't feel so bad.  I eventually arrive at the station and I suddenly feel wary.  There are too many people.  Far too many people.  What's going down?  I look at the board and I cannot see my train anywhere.  I see the London Midland trains in the opposite direction.  But none my way.  Eventually I spot it, but my stop seems to be missing from the calling points.  Hmmm, strange.  On every train in my direction, my station is missed out. 

I look around the waiting area inside.  Its warm, cosy, sheltered.  But full of fucking idiots.  Harry Potter fans with armfuls of souviner shop bags are everywhere.  This is a peados paradise.  I opt to wait outside favouring the bitter cold and numb face to a bunch of prepubescent children and grown men and women obsessed with Harry, Ron and Hermione.  Guys, you do know Hermione is actually legal now, the fantasy is dead so give it up.

I've been waiting 40 minutes for an update.  The platform announcer is getting on my TITS.  He LOVES the sound of his own voice.  I've heard him before, and remembered he loves to speak.  The first time I heard him, it was funny.  Now your just being a cock mate.  My train is stuck at Euston.  No real reason is given but the announcer.  It's "just stuck"  Oh well that's okay then,  jesus I thought it would be something really vague like "held up".  I'm becoming increasingly anxious.  4pm is long gone along with my hopes of being home warm and cosy in time for countdown.  The platform is starting to fill over with idiots and I feel unclean.  There is a boy sitting next to me, sniffing.  Constantly.  Now I have been unwell for a few days, I have a runny nose, but have the good sense and manners to carry a tissue in my pocket to stop such leakages.

I feel like slapping him.  I'm just about to reach breaking point when another sniffer sits down on the other side of me.  I say sniffer, more grunter.  Every few seconds a deep sniff that evolves into a grunt that comes from the back of his nose.  I'm worried he may inhale his own face.  I check his hindquarters for evidence of a curly tail.  There is none.  I'm incredulous that people are oblivious to those around them.  I tut loudly, that ought to do it.  SNIFF! Nope, its not working.  I sigh loudly and say, "fuck sake" perhaps a little too loudly and the grunter snaps his neck up and stares at me.  I stare straight back.  He holds my glare, neither of us giving up.  I can do this all night piggy, I've got no market to get to.  Now fuck off wee wee wee all the way  home.

After what seems like an eternity, a train pulls into the platform.  It misses my stop out completley, but I am not waiting around this farmyard.  I hop on it and tell myself I'll get home somehow, someone will collect me and deliver me to my house.

The train is packed.  I see no where to sit, there's barely enough room to stand.  I spot a small space near the door, I squeeze myself in.  There would be a whole lot more space if the selfish bitch next to me hadn't decided to sit on the floor with her legs out next to her massive bag.  My feet can't move and I'm stuck.  I feel like a weeble.  My feet are so tightly pressed together I'm liable to tipping at any point.  I glare at her spread out like she's on a fucking sunlounger.  Its the London Midland love, not the Orient Express!

I hear the automated voice announce a familiar stop, it's near mine.  I'll get off here.  Thank god, what a relief.  A lady that's been fighting for balance next to me, leans over and says, "you get off at my stop usually don't you, can my husband drop you off at home?". How incredibly sweet.  My faith in humans is restored.  I thank her profusely but, It's fine,  I've summoned my driver.  I'm genuinely touched.  Then I start to wonder if perhaps she's spotted me and engineered this situation to entice me back with her husband to partake in some sordid friday night action.  I regard her with a raised eyebrow.  She definitely looks like the keys in the bowl type.  I bet her husbands fit and wears a suit.

On second thoughts babe, I don't need that lift, I've managed to make my own way home. ;)  Sordids Law right there.

A. Passenger

Life's a Breeze

On my train journeys, it seems that everything will go quiet for a few weeks.... then all of a sudden everything happens within a few days.

Last week I was on the tube with a mobile salad bar (I'll explain another time) Today I got on the train to go home and was glad to see it was very quiet.  I sat in the back of the carriage where there are less seats and less riff-raff.  I was sitting in a seat without a table looking through a set of 6 seats facing in both directions.  There was what appeared to be your usual respectable looking business man sitting facing me.  I could spy on him quite easily through the gap in the seats.  He was quite happily reading the paper.  I was bored because there were no leftover Metro's, no stylists... nothing.  My iPod was flat so I had no music to listen to, epic fail.

I'm sitting quite happily when I hear this cracking noise.  I'm not sure what it is so I look around like a meerkat to see where said cracking noise is from.  There it is again!  I look between the seats and see my respectable businessman is eating some form of hard boiled sweet.  It's bloody loud!  I'm not convinced the cracking noise is him or if a brick has been lobbed through a window.  I scour the floor and seats for remants of glass but see none.  I see RBM pop a sweet into his mouth and crunch.  I say sweet, it could easily be a breeze block judging by the sound.

I'm in shock at how loud it is and try to film by stealth.  It's quite hard and a bit unnerving as he's looking straight through the gap.  He's quite engrossed in his Evening Standard though so I should be okay.  I really tried to capture the loud crunchy bits, but trains aren't very good for capturing train chompers.  It sounds awful, I can feel my teeth practically crumble in my mouth.  It sounds like he's crunching his own teeth.

He crunches away and then takes a swig out of a can of fizzy.  Hang on, thats not fizzy pop, is that... is that Stella?  The mans a hero.  Suited up and swigging from a can of Stella.  I mean he's 50 odd, not some weedy little city boy, a proper actual man.  RBM has just went up in my estimations.  He drinks quite greedily and I really tried to get a picture of him swigging but he kept hiding his gulps behind his Evening Standard.  I get the feeling he's trying to drink as much before his stop as possible.  I bet his wifes a right bitch.  Poor man can't go home and have a casual drink, he has to drink by stealth on the train.  He finishes his can and places it on the floor.  I think he must have just needed a quick refreshment, but oh no.. he opens his bag and I see a 6 pack poking out.  Seriously, I want this guy to be my friend.  Yes, he's crunching extremely loudly BUT he does chew with his mouth closed.  He does have a well ironed suit on and he does appear to be rather groomed. 

I bet he's a hoot in meetings.  He looks like he holds a position of importance at some international corporation.  I can imagine him chairing important board meetings that start off well and then end up on a slippery slope towards innuendos and riotous behaviour.  I can imagine he's the type of boss you could ask for a raise everyday and he'd forget he had given you one the day before.  I have visions of some little secretary trying to hide bottles of whiskey and cigars when the big bosses come round.  I imagine she has to endure little slaps to the behind as well.  I dreamily start to picture what kind of boss he would be and contemplate asking him for an application form for wherever he works.  There is the other side that he may have been sacked for drinking and leaves the house every morning bound for work as he's too scared to tell his slut of a wife and he drinks on train home in place of pints with the lads after a hard day ruling the world.  I would tell her, she's probably fucking the neighbour anyway.

I must be staring and he's sensed it as he glances up and catches my eye.  I hold it for a fraction longer than needed and he breaks out into a grin.  It must be the Stella, or maybe I'm looking particularly fine this evening.  I did make a special effort this morning and managed to find knickers with working elastic so maybe he knows.  I look away and smile to myself.  I look up again just as he's taking another swig from his can and he motions the can towards me as if to offer me a sip.  Now I'm not quite sure if I should be flattered that he wants to share with me, or offended because I look like the type who would guzzle beer from a can on the commute home.

I think I quite fancy this guy, I might want to be his friend.  I feel the overwhelming urge to take him away from his bitch of a wife.  The next stop is announced and I pray it's not his.  It is.  I'm devastated.  I try to look as attractive as I can and make my eyes as sultry and as welcoming as possible as he jumps up to get his coat from the overhead rack.  He looks at me and he regards me with a wary look.  My sultry half shut eyes hasn't gone down well and I might look like I've finished the rest of his six pack off.

The train pulls to a stop and my RBM bounds merrily off the train with sleepy eyes and I feel a pang of loss for what might have been.  I make a mental note to get on the train at this time tomorrow and look out for him.  I make a promise to myself to casually buy a case of stella and carry it to the station and sit it innocently beside me on a seat of its own, corner poking out. 

This time tomorrow I'll be getting merry on the commute with my very own respectable businessman, living the high life, munching bite sized breeze blocks, sipping Belgiums finest.

If I end up in Manchester, someone tell my other half - send money.  For Stella.

A. Passenger.

Rockafeller Skunk

 

 

Hi lovely eight twenty four-ers!  Its been a few weeks, I've now fully recovered from my Italian transport adventures and back in the gloomy UK!  I'm missing the intense heat of Italy a little bit.  Waiting at the station this morning I was freezing and wished I'd worn long johns under my tights!  I'm shivering, I think its because I'm practically Italian now.

This mornings journey was very uneventful, so much so that I fell asleep with my face squashed up against the window.  I'm ashamed to admit that I drooled also.  I'm pretty sure that people waiting to get on the train as it pulled into other stations declined to board, assuming it to be some form of special train for adult learners.

So, I arrive at my stop, my bright red squashed face sporting a little dried in dribble and start the walk to work.  Nine hours later and I'm back at the platform for the journey home, I'm depressed.  Its getting dark and the dark, quite frankly bores me.  Its dull, (obviously) weirdos come out, everything looks so flat and 2 dimensional and I instinctively think its time for bed at 5pm.  I love going to bed when its light.  There's something about climbing into bed at 10pm and the the last remnants of sun pour in the window.  Now, my mother will attest to the fact that when I was little I'd have to be dragged kicking and screaming to my bed when it was light.  There was just too much nonsense to be getting up to, and I was at the age where the cover of darkness was boring.

So, anyway, I digress.  My train pulls into the platform and I wait for everyone to get off before getting on.  I can't be bothered to stagger down the carriage and sit in a double empty seat right next to the door.  I'm on my own, and I get my book out and loose myself in the world of FBI agents, murder and lies.  I'm blissfully unaware that we've pulled in to the next stop and people have boarded until I feel someones leg brush mine.  Awkward.  Its a dude but I can't see his face as he's sitting at a stupid angle.  I curl into the window and carry on reading and ignore him.

All of a sudden my nose begins to twitch.  I think I can smell a rotten smell, and of course I begin to sniff to check.  Yes, I can definitely smell a rotten smell.  I continue to sniff just to confirm that the smell is still there.  It smells like pure dung.  The corners of my mouth turn downwards in disgust (I'm still sniffing)  it smells like a thousand egg sandwiches have been opened and I begin to retch as quietly as I can.  
 

The man next to me moves to get up, even though were in between stations.  His bum lifts from the seat about a foot and he sits back down again.  Its him, he's farted.  I can smell it as the full force of his anal assault hits me square in the face.  My mouth is open and I feel the gas creep in and swirl around violently inside.  I see the pages of my book flutter and curl inwards from the nuclear fallout.  I half expect to see oxygen masks fall from the ceiling.  I make a mental note that if they do, I will not be helping others before placing my own mask on, that's what they tell you on British Airways anyway and I reckon they have it sussed.

I can practically see the gas seeping out of him.  The hairs up my nose feel singed and my lips are stinging.  I pull my book up to my face and try to inhale the smell of paper and ink but it makes it worse.  He turns himself round and sits side saddle on the seat, which only serves to disperse the smell in another direction.  He now has his back to me and I feel like painting a thick white stripe down his back.  Skunky bastard.  

 

My face feels like a melted welly and I contort it in a way that I never knew I could before.  I try to move in every direction in order to find a pocket of air like sonic the hedgehog underwater. Its futile and Dr Eggman has defeated Sonic with noxious gas from the ass.  I know I'm in cattle class but I didn't expect it to actually smell like cow pat.

I darent open my mouth again for fear of toxic inhalation.  I try to hold my breath but I'm useless.  I try breathing through every other orifice but I'm afraid I might accidentally let one off myself so I stop.  I have no option but to breathe through my mouth.  I think I can already feel blisters on my tongue, I'm sure I don't have eyebrows left either.  Hair may never grow there again.

I gulp breaths when I have to and just when I think I'm about to pass out we pull into a station and he gets up.  Inside my heart is jumping for joy, I've never been happier.  My new found joy is crushed when lifts his arse and disperses the remainder of the stale gas he had been sitting on and leaves a trail of devastation in his wake.  I look around for any children who may be carrying recently won goldfish in bags to get a handle on how serious the fallout is.

Just as were about to pull away from the station I notice a dead pigeon on the platform.  Irony.  I'm pretty sure its supposed to be canaries they sent down to check for gas?  Either way, were all fucking doomed.

A. Passenger

The Italian Job

Well hello!  I'm back again! Sorry I haven't blogged in a while, I've had my nose stuck in a really good book so my train journeys have been bearable.  Plus, I've went to the pub a lot after work so I've been drunk on the way home regularly!  I've been in Italy a few times in August, just got back from Naples where I've been for a week with work, no train journeys but plenty of commutes and other interesting moments.  Why do I always find myself involved or in the centre of drama? I can't help it, it just seems to follow me around!

So there I am, in Naples.  In the 40 degree scorchio heat.  I can't go outside as the sun is heating up my kirby gribs and burning my scalp.  I'm sure ill look like a self harmer when I part my hair a different way.  I think I have sunburn on my eyelids.

I'm told that there is a delivery for me but the driver won't part with it until he speaks to me, I hope he's fit.  I walk outside and the heat hits me like I've just opened the oven door, its intense.  There is a DHL van with 14 boxes, the driver is refusing to part with them unless I give him some money.  Now I have been warned that Naples is rife with Mafia so I wonder if I've met a real life don who has a sideline as the DHL man.  He demands €460 in cash from me for the payment of import tax as I've bought goods from China.  Fucking great.  Who carries that sort of cash around, strippers and pimps? 

He speaks NO English and my Italian is limited to Grazie Millie and Pronto and even still I get them mixed up.  We go round in circles for about 40 minutes as I try to explain I have no cash and can pay it on a credit card.  No, credit cards are not allowed.  Apparently there are too many scammers and cards get cloned.  Oh, okay then, let me give you this cash that I carry around in my sock and get no receipt instead then.  Good one.

I am exasperated and eventually offer to show him my tits if he will just give me my delivery.  He doesn't understand as he looks at me blankly.  I resort to actions and pretend to get them out and then look at him quizzically as if to say "is this enough?"  He laughs and he has lovely eyes.  This is the point where he agrees to take a credit card, I don't want to know where he wants to swipe it.  The only problem is he doesn't have a credit card machine so i'll have to come to the depot with him which is a 20 minute drive away.  I can't help but wonder if I hadn't suggested the peep show, if this would have been necessary or not.

I see no other way.  I agree, he offloads my delivery and I have to go with him.  I try to hide once he's offloaded but it doesn't work.  He's waiting for me.  I grab a stanley knife and stuff it in my bag.  Well you never can be too careful and I don't want to end up sleeping with the fishes!

It's awkward as hell.  We don't speak each others language.  After 5 minutes of contented sounding sighs and waving my hand in front of my face to signal that yes, Italy is hot, I've run out of conversation.  Small talk with an English speaking taxi driver is bad enough.  Small talk with a fit Italian delivery man is torture.  "Habla Espanol?" I ask him.  He says no.  My Spanish is limited to asking for a table for 5 or for a glass of wine so it's not a bad thing he can't speak it.

He drives like a maniac.  And I mean a fucking maniac.  I'm actually worried for my life as I see the Italian country side disappear at alarming speed at my side.  I have my hands across my mouth in fear to stop me from screaming.  He looks at me and says "okay?" I try to style it out as a yawn and he smiles. 
We have several near misses along the way and I have to try and communicate that he's frightening the life out of me.  If I talk loud and slow, he should understand.  I say, "ITALIANO, drive.. FAST, SI?" He looks confused so I resort to using my hands to simulate a steering wheel action and try again.  "ITALIANO, drives (with actions) RAPIDO!" Surely rapido means fast no?  He understands and nods, then puts the foot down!  I'm thrown back in my seat as I see the speedo hit, 130 kilometres an hour, 140, 150.... Up and up.  The seat feels damp.  I think I've wet myself.  It could be sheer panic sweat though. 

My Blackberry has been a permanent fixture in my hand since I climbed in, just in case of emergency.  I'm not sure who I'd call that could help me, or even where I am for that matter.  Google maps has let me down and won't load.  It still thinks I'm in England.  Nice one Google, saving womens lives since never!

I have an idea, I "check in" on Facebook, the place, "last known location". If I'm not back at work in a few hours, surely someone will come looking for me.  Mind you, I've been traded for a delivery, so I'm worth nothing any more.  Dammit, I should have taken the delivery with me!  I curse my own stupidity.  Always have something to trade!

The countryside gets more and more remote, the roads get windier, civilisation is disappearing before my eyes and I'm increasingly anxious.  I'm certain that I'm about to be murdered or handed over to the Mafia and sold.  If not, then surely certain death awaits in the Italian Wacky Races.

Finally, just as I'm about to give up hope and write a will on my Blackberry, I see a massive DHL sign!  I'm saved!  We pull into the depot and I heave a massive sigh of relief.  I jump out and gratefully pay €460 for nothing more than a certificate of Import Tax.  I clutch my receipt like a trophy.  I can be traced, I was here.  I was ripped off for €460 but I was here!

I turn around to go back in the van with the Don, he's gone! I spin back round to the counter assistant and ask where my driver is?  I'm told he will be back later.  Later? Fucking later? No, I need to go now!  Stuck in a DHL depot, deep in South Italy is not my idea of fun.  There's barely air con in here.  It would be cooler if someone came and yawned on me.  I pace up and down anxiously and think about what I can do.  I have no cash on me, I'm not sure Italian taxi drivers take credit cards, I can only pay in kind.  Eventually I resign myself to the fact that i'll spend the rest of my life here.  I'll grow old here, become an Italian mamma and cook pasta for all the drivers, i'll speak no Italian and have to communicate with my hands and talking really loudly.  I slump down in a chair contemplating my future here.  Maybe it won't be so bad.  Ill probably have Mafia protection and if I order stuff on Amazon i'll always be in for the delivery. 

I wait for what seems like an eternity and I hear the "toot toot" of a horn outside as my driver has returned!  I never thought I'd be so happy to get in a van with a stranger before!  I climb in and buckle up and relax in my seat for the 20 minute hair raising, white knuckle ride back to work.  The second time around, its not so bad.  I've chilled out, I'm used to this crazy driving.  I'm practically Italian now I think.  Another driver cuts us up and we have to swerve.  I raise my hand and pinch my thumb and finger together and limply shake my wrist in a typical Italian manner.  We share a moment as he bursts out laughing and his eyes sparkle.  I think that means were married now.

I've been too busy saying my prayers, sweating and wetting myself in fear to notice how handsome he is.  We near my drop off point and I feel a twinge of sadness as I realise ill never see this man again.  My bottom lip trembles slightly and I make a mental note to send a monthly shipment from China to Italy with outstanding duty to be paid. 

We arrive, I turn to him and say, "I hate goodbyes". He smiles and nods, he doesn't understand.  This is so hard, I linger in my seat a moment too long.  Although, I'm still not quite sure if I've wet myself or not.  I smile and shrug my shoulders, I say "CIAO" as breezily as I can without my voice breaking.  I feel cheap.  I've just paid €460 for a few hours with a man dressed in a DHL uniform.

Import tax on a delivery from China - €460.  Whizzing through the Italian countryside with a tall dark Italian man who your not quite sure if he's going to pounce on you....

Priceless.

A. Passenger

It's Not Easy Being Green

So, back on the train after almost a week of sheer bliss and not having to deal with my fellow idiot commuters.  I've come back from a super long weekend in the countryside and I feel rejuvenated, relaxed and at peace.  I hope I'm not turning into one of those hippy mother types, minus the kids of course.  Though, in all honesty - I could very well still be drunk from the weekend.

This morning was a frantic dash to the station as I took a bit too long getting ready.  I blame the re-runs of Will and Grace on Channel 4.  I arrive at the station and head to the ticket booth to renew my travel pass.  I stand patiently in line waiting for the old geezer from the cafe opposite to finish his casual chat with the station staff.  Tapping feet and tutting loudly commence.  Perhaps he's the one who feeds sausage fingers and her elderly mate in the morning.

Ticket purchased surprisingly quickly actually and I'm on the platform in record time.  I can't stop sneezing this morning, the air is thick with pollen and I sound pathetic.  Through my watery eyes, I spot FPG.  God, straight back into the commute then.  He turns round as though he can feel my eyes on him.  To my surprise he doesnt glare.  His face softens when he notices my runny eyes and nose, he too is sporting a rather rudolph-esque nose.  He's either sick or suffering with hayfever like me.  I feel a twinge of guilt for my nemeisis as I secretly hope its an allergy to chewy sweets.

I notice quite a few people are sneezing and can't help but spot this one man who has all the right props for doing an impression of a respectable business man.  Briefcase, check, broadsheet, check.  He has the loudest sneeze ever which infuriates me.  I mean, it sounds like breaking glass.  He crescendos up the scale to an almighty CHOOOOOOOOOOOO!  Which lingers just that little bit too long.  It makes my blood boil.  My grandfather sneezes like this and he may be 70 odd but not too old I'd unplug the stairlift as punishment.  I don't have the perfect sneeze but it's quiet and unassuming.  It does the trick and gets the stuff out of my nose.  I see no reason to make a show of it.  Hang on maybe I'm missing a trick.  I could strap a drum to my back and cymbal to my head and start a one man bad and maybe bring in a few extra pounds in the morning.

Anway, this respectable guy is sneezing away and I think he's even annoying FPG who glares at him.  Respectable guy has obviously run out of tissues as he sneezes into his plam, inspects the contents ad wipes it on to his trousers.  That has to be one of the most fucking disgusting things I have ever seen.  Although, it looks to me as though he has plenty experience inspecting bodily fluids in his hand.  This one cannot have taken a wife.  If he has it was under duress or ordered on the internet.  I think I might be sick.  Do people have no manners?  My friend at work once told me a guy on the train snotted into his hankie and polished his shoe with it.  I'm not sure if thats resourceful or just plain disgusting.  Takes going green to a whole new level.

The train pulls into the platform and I cannot wait to get on it.  The doors open right in front of me and FPG is heading in my direction.  He stretches his arm out and motions me on first.  FPG has manners?  Really?  He must have been reading about himself and decided to shape up.  Really though, if you want a girlfriend its been a long time coming rubber face.  Anyway, he let me on first but then his arm sort of hovers in the air around me protectively as I step on.  Yes, I am a woman.  I require protection from all sorts of dragons etc.  Could this be a new found respect between nemesis and super commuter?  The world is out of balance, Lex Luthor and Superman cannot co-exist in harmony can they?

I find a seat on train on my own, then some hippy mother sits next to me with her brood of about 17.  She pulls out a broadsheet which takes up her space and most of mine.  I have no choice but to read her poncy paper.  Actually, its the Guardian which I really like.   I hope she gets off before me and leaves it.  I hear her sniffing and realise shes a fellow hayfever sufferer.  Shame.  Her children are annoying me as I hear them snuffling like pigs and pulling her newspaper.  God please get off soon.  Then, all of a sudden she throws her head back and her face explodes into her newspaper with an almighty CHOOOO as she rains little droplets of snot into the centrefold.  The page is pebble dashed with the contents of her nose and mouth. She doesn't even have the good grace to say "excuse me"

Just lovely.  I hadn't had breakfast this morning.

A. Passenger

Doggy Style

So, I hadn't planned on writing tonight.  My journey today was another uneventful commute.  I've managed to get a copy of Metro for the past few days so I've turned into a loud page turning bastard.  I did end up face planting someone earlier.  I hate when people wander in to the station and walk slowly across the foyer, then stop suddenly and crane their neck up at the boards to check the times.  A quick glance up is fine.  After 10 minutes, your taking the piss mate.

I generally know what time my train leaves, the general platform and what way to go.  Now this is obviously because I am a seasoned commuter.  But what I can also do, is look at a board and walk in the general direction of the ticket barrier.  However, when I'm walking and fiddling around with my BlackBerry I cannot see when you decide to stop right in front of me.  I rather think that nose print suits the back of your tracksuit.  Must exfoliate face this evening.

So, just a quick update.  I find myself back at the platform for the journey home, electing to wait inside as its very chilly out.  At least I don't have air conditioned tights today.  The waiting area is pretty empty, just one other guy sitting opposite me.  A business man type, respectable looking.

Away in my own little world day dreaming of a day when I can get driven to work in a blacked out Merceedes, not really paying any attention to what's around me and fully engrossed in Ben Howard singing sweetly into my ear.  Definitley a good thing I don't have air conditioned tights.  Then, out of nowhere, Baaaa...BUMMMM.  What the hell?  I look around for someone playing the tuba, but there is no sign of a brass band approaching.  I wonder if my commute has finally driven me insane.  NO!  I hear it again, there it is.  A deep bass sound, then followed by a melodic hum.  I turn round and see my respectable business man is rocking in his chair conducting an imaginary orchestra.  I recognise the tune but can't quite name it.  I burst out laughing initally, loudly.  It's awkward, it's just me and this guy and I've pretty much laughed in his face.  I quickly scour the ground for a scruffy hat or guitar case in case he expects coins.  There is none.  There's no dog or handmade "will impersonate tubas for food" sign either.

I sit there, my jaw loosens and hits the floor.  I am incredulous and can't quite believe the scene unfolding before me.  I quickly snap out my blackberry and try to film as covertly as possible, but it's really difficult without getting spotted.  I'm nervous as it's just me and him and its totally obvious that I'm filming.  I hope I've managed to pick up the sound, probably turn the volume to catch the musical prodigy at work.  I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing out loud again.  Sadly, I haven't caught the best bit of this, but if you listen closely, you will hear the BAAAA BUMMM!

I finally realise what song he's singing, it's "how much is that doggy in the window...baaaaa.. BUMMM"  What a beautiful rendition.  More people sit down, but he doesn't stop.  But I do have to stop filming.  My blogs been getting loads of traffic and I don't want to draw attention to myself!  I try to get a closer look at Respectable Businessman and realise that all is not as it seems.  He has scruffy hair, and stubble, not deal breakers but hardly acceptable in the likes of Citi or Lloyds.  He looks like he's been out on the randan all day, maybe he has.  His eyes are like pissholes in the snow.

I should have known that all was not what it seems.  The icing on the cake is when he throws his hands in the air, the big finale, BUMMMMMMMMMMM!  Then slices his hands through the air as if to silence his orchestra, clears his throat and then makes his way on to the train.

I think the commute has claimed its first victim.  Shoulda started a blog mate, saving sanity since 2012.

A. Passenger

Suits You Sir

Another evening update, live from Platform 8! This morning was a fairly uneventful journey, nothing of real note which was nice to travel in relative peace and quiet for a change. The only thing that offended me was on the walk to the station.  I saw this hippy mum carrying a little girl walking towards me. She seemed to be struggling to carry the child.  As I get closer, I realise she isn't walking towards me and that she is actually holding a squatting child as she takes a piss in the middle of the street.  That's exactly what I wanted to see at 8 o'clock in the morning.  Some people have no manners.  Didn't she ask the child if she needed to urinate before they left the house?

This reminds me of another story which is disgusting and hilarious.  I was at a music festival a few years ago, it was very muddy as per the lovely British weather.  In between acts, we were standing, chilling, drinking cider as you do. All of a sudden a group of people surrounded this one girl.  I feared for her life for a split second and wondered if I should help the poor lass and fend off the attackers. In my drunken cider state, I felt like I could go Jackie Chan on their asses.  Realisation dawned as she too squatted and took a piss in the mud.  The worst thing was hearing it splatter and dribble.  The best bit was when she lost her balance and fell backwards into her own concoction of mud and piss.  It was a beautiful moment. Anyway, the pissing child was the only real thing of note this morning.  It was a semi relaxing journey to work and I managed to get a copy of the Metro and turned the pages really loudly.

So now I'm back on the platform for the journey home, its quite sunny.  I just wish this weather would last.  I can never seem to decide what to wear.  It was beautiful this morning, then rained in the afternoon, then got really warm again.  It wasn't a day for thick tights, but not to worry. I managed to rip them right at the crotch this afternoon, fresh air for the beaver.  Thank god I didn't wear the crotchless pants this morning as well.  Going up stairs may be an issue. 

I spot tons of Potter fans again, there's a gang of about 15 girls and I'm tempted to take a picture for you all.  Perhaps I better not, some of them look very young and I don't want to end up on a list somewhere.  Mind you, for being so young, the outfits are shocking! If I had kids I'd never let them go out dressed like extras from The Rocky Horror Show.  I feel like shouting across the platform "a skirt would go lovely with that belt!"  I swear I caught a glimpse of flap.  I feel old and disgusted all at once.

Train is early today which is a turn up for the books.  I'm on, my carriage is really quiet and I get a whole section to myself!  I even sneakily put my feet up on the seats.  I know, its naughty, but I have a recovering ankle that needs to be elevated, so don't judge me. Sitting, watching the landscape whizz by.  We stop at a station and a business man gets on my carriage. Its still empty, there are even window seats with tables available.   The Suit walks by me and up to the entrance to the first class carriage. Very fucking posh.   He presses the button to open the door and nothing happens.   I grin outwardly. 

He pushes again, still nothing. I now have a beaming smile.   A quizzical look creases across his face and he continues to push the button and stare at the uncooperative door. That door is staying firmly shut.   Perhaps the door is offended by your cheap polyester Primark suit, Sir.  Each attempt results in more frantic finger pushing.  Which is then followed by a slump of the hips and a shrugging of the shoulders which is then followed by quiet snickering my me. I don't get the point of paying for first class on the daily commute?   I mean, there's less likely to be chavs, FPG's and the like.  But more chance of Blackberry tappers, laptop hammerers, and loud conversationalists "Yes, hmm get Shelia to type up the minutes from the Smith merger at once"  How about I merge your face with the wall. 

I once gazed in wonder when the doors were open for an exceptionally long time and saw what life could be like up in first class. I'm not sure if its worth it. I saw a guy having a conversation with a Bluetooth headset. Seriously? your on a train, which requires no hands. Unless there's a particularly sharp deviation on the track. But I hear in first class they have people on jobseekers and those earning under £60k a year running along side the tracks to stop the first class carriage rocking.

Even though we've left the station he got on at, he's still standing at the first class door not quite sure what to do. Should he sit down among us minions, should he knock on the door and ask one of his fellow ponces to let him in, or is that a dent in pride?   Finally after 15 minutes of trying the button, he slumps to the seat opposite me.   He looks terrified.   I almost feel sorry for himself. He doesn't know quite what to do with himself.   The table seems smaller and he struggles to fit his broadsheet across it.   How will he manage to do the giant crossword at the back?   Two down is "TWAT"

At the next stop a fellow Ponce exits the first class carriage through to the minion section, The Suit spots his opportunity and jumps up from his seat.   Him and his fellow Ponce exchange a glance. Some Masonic-esque secret code as if to say, I was in trouble help me out mate?   He dives through to the the First Class section and I see him sit down and breath a sign of relief in familiar surroundings and mop his brow with his monogrammed hankerchief Chuckle chuckle.   I find it all highly amusing. 

I continue with my gazing out the window watching my word whizz by as yet another station comes into view.   I watch the suit get up and exit the carriage and the train and make his way through the station. Really mate?   Was it worth that 5 minutes in First?   Oh damn, you got off just after the bare chested woman started serving canapes. Shame.

Tomorrow I'm gonna superglue the door shut and piss myself like that child this morning.

A. Passenger

Pottering Around

Blogging yet again live from platform 8 eagerly awaiting my carriage home. I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, in desperate need of a wee and sick fucking fed up of the volume of people squeezing through my platform. 

To the organisers of the Harry Potter Studio tour.  Fuck you.  Every evening I arrive to packed platforms, squished overheating trains and hoardes of pre pubescent teens and mothers wearing long floaty skirts and moustaches.  Its not fun, really its not.   Giddy teenagers and damp at the crotch mothers eager to catch a glimpse of Harry's wand.  Call me the Golden snitch, but its not fucking real?! Harry Potter, who.. The guy who got naked on the West End and fantasised about horses? 

I've waited about 10 minutes to get through the barrier, there are only 2.  For a major mainline station?  Nice one . I then have to endure another 10 minute wait to get up the stairs to my platform to let people get down.  Waiting patiently remembering my own rule of letting people off the train before getting on.  After 10 minutes, said rule is screwed and I force my way through the crowd.   I really think this tour thing needs its own station. How about, all trains departing from platform 9 and fuck off eh?

A phone call from a friend lifts my mood and I chew the fat for a bit. There are loads of delays but what can I do, its par for the course these days. Cannot WAIT for the Olympics to start. Turns out some poor soul has been hit by a train. I hope it wasn't FPG after eyeballing me this morning.  I'd miss my nemesis.

There's this one member of staff at this station who LOVES the sound of her voice on the intercom.  She's ruining a perfectly good conversation.  You may have realised that I have a complete inability to zone out so I'm listening to her waffling on as well as my friend and its not a good combo. I say to my friend, "Mate, can I call you back, I can't hear a word over this fucking bitch who loves the sound of her own voice".  I hang up and realise I've said that rather loudly and everyone is now staring at me. I have rather poor hearing so I assume everyone else then has. Reign it in, reign it in

Oh hear she goes again, every little movement within a train station does not require an announcement! Train at platform 8 approaching, fair enough. Delay on platform 6, fair enough.  Just frigged myself in the staff room listening to myself on recording.  Too far.

Train has just pulled into the platform, I wait for people to empty and get on.  Its still packed, I'm going to have to stand.  A train journey standing, movement, trying to retain balance on a recently fractured and recovering ankle.  Brilliant.  Maybe tomorrow I should dig my crutches out. Surely I'd be escorted through such a busy station?  Still maybe its an extra session with Mr FIT physiotherapist who has an amazing 6-pack.  I know this because my feet have felt it whilst they were pressed against that rock hard chest testing my suppleness. 

Every cloud eh?

A. Passenger

Full Fry Up

Another day, another glorious ride on London Midland rail. Oh the joys and blessings bestowed upon me.

I had every intention of going to work early but I was just too tired to make the 0646 so here I am, yet again waiting on the 0824. I've been lucky enough to get a lift to the station this morning so I'm over the moon that I've managed to avoid hippy mums, screaming brats, fag smoke trailers and general idiots.

I've arrived and my train isn't for 15 minutes and I need to renew my season ticket. There's only 2 people in the queue at the booth so I dutifully stand in line and wait patiently. I keep waiting, and waiting.. Seriously? There is one booth open and I see the woman behind fumbling with her sausage fingers typing in station codes and sipping a massive cup of coffee. Maybe put a few more shots of espresso in there love, I've got a train to catch.

I'm still standing in line and now I'm getting really pissed off. The massive station clock overhead flips over the minutes and I'm increasingly anxious. I make all the right noises for an impatient "far too important to stand in line" commuter. I tap my foot, roll my eyes and tut loudly as if somehow it will make the line go quicker, it doesn't.

The guy waiting patiently on his ticket realises that he actually has to pay for the benefit of this magical train journey. Fumbling around in his RAF rucksack he manages to produce a wallet, hurrah! Fucking hell people, why is it a revelation to you all that when you ask for a service, you have to pay? This annoys me across all walks of life and not just station life! Yummy mummies in Waitrose, "Oh hang on yah, what I have to paaaay for these olives and foccacia yah? Rupert, hand mummy the diamond Amex please, tut". Anyway, how fucking expensive is Waitrose? I blew my weekly shopping budget on chocolate chip shortbread, crisps and orange juice.

Anyway, I digress once again. I'm still waiting in line for sausage fingers to produce a valid ticket for travel and for rucksack guy to produce valid sterling for said goods. I don't think he's actually in the RAF, otherwise I'm sure I'd show a bit more patience. I bet he bought the rucksack of eBay. My tuts get louder and my foot tapping becomes more frantic which isn't good for my healing ankle. Oh fucking great, its a debit card payment. In the card reader, that's it, clever boy. Lest we forget our pin number! At last, Rucksack is done and ready for travel. I shuffle down the queue very aware that I only have a few minutes til my train. I stare at sausage fingers willing her to look up at me. She does. I bore my eyes right into her and they say "will you hurry the fuck up". It seems to work as magically one of the blinds on the other booth rolls up and a small ancient member of staff sheepishly pokes her head out and beckons me forward. I huffily stomp forward and grunt that my ticket needs renewed and before she's even typed it in I've thrust the money through the slot smugly as if to say "yeah, I've been here before. I know how this shit works, fucking ticket now. Please"

I spy at the corner of her mouth a blob of what I think is tomato ketchup. So whilst I've been tutting and eye-rolling in line, she's been stuffing her face on bacon or sausage rolls. I wonder what sausage fingers had or did she just lick her own fingers? Great, so I've got the full fucking fry up.  I'm not outwardly rude to staff members, I would never shout or abuse them. I just quietly seethe with rage and inwardly plot how I can seek revenge. Its just occurred to me that if anything ever happens to anyone mentioned on this blog, then I'm pretty much screwed.

Money and ticket exchanged, I storm towards the platform with about a minute to spare. I'm standing next to this woman, who I can only assume bathed in perfume and coconuts this morning. This is a SUPER day. Why douse yorself in SO much fragrance? My head begins to pound, I fucking hate strong smells. Again with the tutting and eye-rolling, but she moves away. Maybe I smell? Totally hating life today! Still could be worse. My friend is on a train somewhere in London cursing her own shitty day after spending 2 weeks on a beach in Spain. Sorry, I have no sympathy.

At fucking last, train is here. I wait patiently for the doors to open and I spot FPG! He actually eyeballs me! Now, this could be because I'm looking particularly fine this morning. Or, it could also be because he's spotted himself on my blog. Surely not, really? I mean I've been getting a lot of traffic. Could he know it was me? Is the fact that I'm frantically tapping on my Blackberry a giveaway sign?

I scurry onto the train and AVOID him like the plague, he's still looking at me! He knows! Well if he reads this blog then he definitely knows! Well mother fucker, serves you right for eating like you have something wrong with you.
Finally sitting down I sigh. Drama done. Now all I've got to do is contend with extremely loud Metro page turner. Perhaps you'd like me to stand next to you with a loudspeaker so the whole train can hear you?  Dick.

A. Passenger

Fruit Pastille Guy



Man's Best Friend

Well, I'm off for a week.  Sweet bliss, no having to face my idiot fellow commuters in the morning and at night!  Unless I elect to go somewhere that requires a train journey.  Of course you can guarantee that I will avoid rush hour at all costs.

I thought I'd enlighten you all as to who Fruit Pastille Guy is.  Now, quite a few of you have seen the video on my Facebook wall but I thought I'd provide a bit of background chatter on this knob.

There I was, as per usual on the platform waiting for the 8:24.  This was a few weeks ago, earbuds were working fine, iPod was fully charged, the sun was shining.  My mood was okay (ish)  My walk to the station was a tad fraught though as I was running late so walking very quickly.  My recent ankle fracture meant that I looked like I had one leg shorter than the other as I scurried down the hill like an extra from Lord of The Rings.  I ran in to a few annoying characters along the way who felt the full wrath of my steely glare.  Namely the hippy mother with about 12 kids who clearly believed that discipline was for the stuffy parent types.  You mean the parents who can actually be ARSED to raise kids properly instead of letting them run up and down the pavement, swinging school bags in the air and wearing their jackets like capes and screeching loudly.  I bet their lunchboxes are full of tofu, bean salad and nuts.  Poor bastards.  Maybe I should have slipped them a bag of tangy toms?

There was also the chain smoking speed walker who I just couldn't seem to escape.  Anyone who knows me, knows how much I HATE cigarettes.  I mean, if people smoke, it's fine.  I just really don't want to inhale its foul smell.  There was this one stupid boot who smoked about 6 cigarettes in the space of a 10 minute walk.  I felt the full backlash of her smoke trail as I walked behind her.  No matter how hard I tried I couldn't seem to escape the blue smoke trail, it seemed to follow me.  I tried in vain to overtake her, but my hobbit legs couldn't build up enough speed to get past her, continue the pace and escape the trail.  So there I am, zig-zagging along the pavement.  I look like an out of breath dowser, "Tharrrs water under here, I'm surrrre!"  I'm resigned to the fact that I'll arrive at the station stinking of John Player Special and Cancer.

Anyway, I majorly digress.  The platform is quite empty, I'm glad as my walk has been less than enjoyable.  I'm too wired to really notice anything around me and my train pulls in right on cue.  Storming on, the carriage is practically empty.  Table seat in the direction of travel it is then.  I close my eyes and lean my head against the window and sigh outwardly.  I'm quite relaxed considering.  I sense someone sit opposite me but my music is too soothing and I don't feel the need to open my eyes and glare at this intruder.  The train pulls away, and my playlist comes to an end.  I sit for a few seconds in internal silence.  Then I hear it.  My eyes fly open and I see the man sitting opposite me.    He looks like a a trainspotting extra.  Heavy looking eyes, a bit dopey.  I bet he speaks like Yogi Bear.

I'm more interested in the noise that is coming from him.  I say interested, I mean appalled.  He has a large bag of fruit pastilles in his hand.  The noise as he roots around in the bag with his paw is deafening.  It's like he feels the sweets in there, but his hand doesn't quite like the feel of a particular one.  So he roots around some more, ah.. there we go.  I watch in what seems like slow motion as the sweet travels through the air and into the cavernous space otherwise known as his mouth.  He has huge lips, I mean really huge.  For some reason I image what he's like as a kisser and my stomach recoils.  What a slobbering mess, and I bet his tongue would take the plaque of your teeth.  That's your scale and polish sorted for the year.

He seems to place the sweet at the back of his tongue and begins to chew and those massive lips begin to smack around.  I think I can feel a small breeze from his gob.  He chews and chews and it sounds like my washing machine at home.  If I chucked a dirty sock in there, it would come out pristine.  And fruity smelling too.  I sit there and my mouth forms an O shape.  I am actually incredulous, I cannot believe that this disgusting filthbag thinks its acceptable to eat like this.  I've said it before, Train Chompers are a bunch of bastards.  My jaw hits the deck and GLARE at him.  Even my music won't block out this.  I mean, it will.. but I'll still KNOW he's chomping away.  That's it.  I have no option but to glare.  This is unreal.

In order to deal with my blood boiling rage, I decide to film him on my Blackberry.  It's the only way.  The bag is nearing its end so I whip out my phone and try to discreetly film him.  I whistle casually and look in every other direction so as to appear normal.  Fuck this is easy.  I could have been in MI5.

I mean look at this CUNT!  That isn't even the worst of it, I've captured a few seconds of what was 20 minutes of utter torture.  This will stay with me for a long time.  I curse my bad luck.  On a practically deserted carriage, he decides to sit next to me, WHY?  I mean obviously my warm and friendly disposition.  I radiate "approachable"  And yes, I dropped the "C-Bomb" back there.  I'm sorry if I offended anyone, but it has to be one of my favourite words.  It's very effective in situations such as this.

I think I've left my body, I am spitting imaginary feathers, bunching my fists and imagining how satisfying it would be to take a cheese grater to those lips.  So engrossed, I nearly miss my stop.  I'm disappointed to be getting off as I'd like to stare at him some more and tut loudly and wave my hand around the carriage, wide eyed, nodding my head to the rest of the carriage in a Goodfellas style voice saying "This guy, right?!!??"

If he gets on my train again, I'ma stab him.

A. Passenger.

Sliding Doors

Another day, another exciting train journey home.  It's pissing it down with rain, and I mean chucking it down.  Train stations in the rain make me nervous.  I am quite uncoordinated and rather accident prone and that coupled with too many slippery surfaces is not a good combination.

The only thing the rain does is to calm my frantic charging past idiot commuters and shuffle slowly across the tiles as I repeat a mantra to myself NOT to slip.  Naturally no one is standing outside, the platform is quiet, everyone opts to stay inside.  Which is fine with me as I head outside to wait in the rain as I really hate my fellow commuters.

Now what really fucking annoys me about waiting on a platform... the doors open.  If you are waiting to get on, you generally display manners and wait for people to get off the train before alighting yourself.  You also expect that same courtesy when you disembark said carriage.  Well, really its quite simple.  This obviously fails to register in the brains of this group of about 20 neanderthals who are crowding round this tiny door, gazing expectantly, grunting and fidgeting eager to push past people.  I am right at the front eager myself but I wait patiently displaying MANNERS.  I can feel this one whore behind me gradually nudging me closer and closer to the edge.  I'm sorry love but I'm well past the yellow line now, and the man on the loudspeaker says your supposed to stay behind that.  I have visions of me slipping down the the gap that you always get warned about, especially now its wet!  If I fall down it and accidentally roundhouse kick you square in the jaw, then its your fault love!

Not my photo - but sums up my point! 

Every time she tries to nudge me or move round me, I move.  I'm sorry but we are ALL probably going to get on the train.  If you have some special need to get on first, such as a crutch, or are with child then say and I'll gladly let you on before me.  However I suspect you simply want to get on so you can get a seat out the way where you can gleefuly devour the contents of the brown paper bag you hold in your hand like a fucking trophy.  Train chompers.  Now there's a group of bastards.

Once one group of neanderthals have emptied from the carriage, I purposely get on super slow so as to annoy Chomper behind me and wander idly down the aisle to find a free seat.  High-fiving my good luck, I find a table seat at the window in the right direction!  This might be okay I'm thinking as I swiftly aim my arse in the general direction of the free seat.  Sitting down, right direction with a free magazine that someones left behind.  It's only bloody Stylist magazine as well, this might be the best train journey for a while.  I am still sans earbuds from this morning though, so no music is clearly taking the sheen of my good table and free magazine.  But not to worry, there's a bloke behind me who is very thoughtfully playing his music at full volume through his perfectly working earbuds so I can sing along to The Killers.

Thoughtful bastard isn't he?  Let's see if they still work when I shove them up your arse shall we?

A. Passenger

Buddy Hell

My first live blog from the platform and I cannot believe that before my train has even pulled into the platform, I'm already livid.

Firstly, my earbuds have packed up. This is a disaster of monumental proportions. I want to run and hide, or be sick behind this flower bowl sponsored by London Midland. So, my journey today will consist of trying to block out key annoying individuals. I've already identified one, and I don't think I'm the only one he's pissng off.

He's talking loudly, and I mean VERY loudly into a blackberry, complaining of some sort of server issue and how Samson is going to fix it. I'm pretty sure the volume of his conversation has been elevated a few decibels for the benefit of us uneducated, apparently un-IT literate. Your a middle aged man, with more than middle spread, in fact I'd say a full blown spread. Your belly is peeking out from under your shirt and you have a massive bunch of keys attached to your belt loop. Why? Do you moonlight as a janitor?! No one is impressed by your technical sounding conversation. Unless you can fix my desktop, there seems to be some sort of driver missing.

My attention is now brought in another direction as I spot my ultimate nemesis, Fruit Pastille Guy. My heart sinks and panic has risen in my chest. I will educate you on who Fruit Pastille Guy is later, but a video says it so much better than my words possibly can. I realise that I'm staring him out, my eyes boring into his very being and he shifts uncomfortably from one perfectly white pristine trainer to another.

Nice! Train is here and I can hopefully escape from FPG and Server man and walk down the platform. FPG gets on my carriage FUCK!  I've no option but to hover in the door to see which direction he goes. Right, right.. Yes, he's gone! I've slunk to a seat right at the very front facing in the opposite direction of travel with a tiny section of window to keep me from going insane and I can concentrate on the rain that's battering against it. There's something quite calming about the rain.

FPG and Server Man are nowhere to be seen. Now all I have to contend with are excessively loud Metro page turners. Sounds extreme I know, damn my super-sensitized hearing!!

I'm staring longingly through into the first class carriage. Would it be any better in there? Do these fat cat business men like peace and quiet or are they the worst? I can imagine pissing contests to see who has the best smart phone, laptop or briefcase. Or who can have the loudest, most inane and completley ridiculous conversation to a PA called Sharon instructing her to pull the Bankman files immediately and to alert the board of a possible meeting this afternoon (overheard from a previous journey!)

So, I actually feel calmer today and I think that tapping manically on my blackberry has helped. I've only got 2 stops to go, and the woman sitting opposite me sniffing is barely bothering me at all, TISSUE? MOTHER FUCKER?!
A. Passenger

Train Pain

I thought I could do it, and by "it" I mean.. be a proper commuter.  I'm not doing too badly, but I am fundamentally flawed in that people just annoy the hell out of me.

I've tried plugging in my iPod and letting the music take me to another place.  But that place is also that of rage and annoyance.  If I know someone is annoying, I can still sense their annoying-ness through my tightly shut eyelids.  I'm gonna have severe wrinkles.  I think my only option is to arrive at the platform with my eyes closed, earbuds firmly in, fumble onto the train and remain sans sight until my stop is announced.

Surely rail journeys should be a time of quiet reflection?  Were the journeys of yesteryear so bloody annoying?  Although, we didn't have smart phones, laptops, iPads and the like to contend with.  Which makes me sound really old, I was born in the 80's so I'm no OAP.

I can't seem to switch off from people on the train and I don't know why.  The slightest things enrage me, make my blood boil and cause me to become lairy and outwardly rude.  I've decided that the only way I can deal with it, is to publicly vent, I refuse to accept that I'm the only intolerant passenger.

So now I share with you, my Train Pain.