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