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.
Pah!!!! Send money, for Stella! Can I come?
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