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.