Tuesday, 14 February 2012

London transports killers...

Another strange choice of read on the bus... today the 363 provides me with entertainment... a commuter enjoying the following article from The New Yorker:

The Story of a Suicide

Two college roommates, a webcam, and a tragedy.

Sunday, 12 February 2012

Read All About It...

It was 8:45am.  The No.63 bus was packed full of morning commuters trying to get comfortable in their seats. Some were getting back to where they were before the alarm rang (their heads mostly banging off the window with every turn in the road), some were away in another world with their music and others were engrossed in their Kindles.  People doing their own thing.  It doesn’t even surprise me anymore when someone pulls out a Bible from their handbag to read on the way to work.

What did weird me out ever so slightly on this jolly jaunt was when the middle-aged chick in front of me whipped out three magazines and placed them on her lap.  Not quite so weird yet, I know, but I will get to that… She then looked at them all, thought for a minute, and finally decided on what order she would attack them in. 

Finalised reading schedule:

1st read: Woman’s Weekly
2nd read: The National Enquirer
3rd read:  Real Crime – A Summer Special…

She started to rush through the first magazine (not surprised, I think my toilet paper is of better quality).  The National Enquirer didn’t last that much longer than Woman’s Weekly (no surprise there).  Here’s the worrying thing.  The third read, yes, Real Crime (Summer Special) kept her interest for the remaining 12minutes I had on that bus.  No page was left unturned.  Her finger followed every line and paragraph.

I had to look to my left and right to see if anyone else had noticed her fascination with people being nailed to staircases, heads trapped by closing windows and cars being hijacked by thugs armed with nothing more than an infected needle… 

She was smiling, too.

I live in the South East of London where there are lots of shady stories of various goings on.  I don’t worry too much when I have to walk back from the train station at night, I don’t worry too much when I walk past or through a group of male hoodies and I don’t worry too much when I pass the man with 22  off-leash Staffordshire bull terriers.  I was however, slightly worried that I was sitting on a bus with a woman who probably features in most of the articles written and is possibly sniggering away quietly to herself knowing that she is Peckham's most wanted and going completely unnoticed.  

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Jog on...

Do women really want to add to the infinite list of stupid stories and one-liners that already exist in our “honour”?

I swear, the next time I see a woman thumb a lift from a sodding bus WHICH by the way is ALREADY STOPPING (the giveaway being that little flashing amber light – yes, the sodding INDICATOR), I will take the palm of my hand and strike her with force on the back of the head without any fear that she might actually get struck by the bus.

I would love to see a bus driver refuse these women entry onto the bus or better still, just keep on driving while mouthing to her “serves you right, you f**king idiot”. 

This gets on my tits as much as those on the underground – again, women – who are so desperate to make that tube that they are willing to lose their breasts or (for those without breasts) their handbags to the tube doors!  THE NEXT ONE WILL BE HERE IN 2 MINUTES!!!  Seriously, how much further on in their journey do they expect to be by insisting they get on that train? Certainly not 2 minutes ahead, no, that’s lost as soon as the fat wench in front of you decides to take half an hour to figure out whether she has to disembark here and waddles slowly to the doors, by which point the train has already moved on from your destination and those 2 minutes are certainly lost when the blind man leading the mobs off the carriage at your destination drops his white stick through the gap between carriage and platform.  The only way you will keep that 2 minute advantage is if you carry merrily on your way (or as upbeat as you can be on the underground) and not help said blind man.

Shame on you.  

Friday, 28 January 2011

Journeys to the great north...

What a journey…

After working my butt off during the working day so that a request to leave early to catch a train to Scotland didn’t sound too cheeky, it all went to pot…
I was granted the permission to leave early, and at 5pm (when I was meant to be leaving) I got caught up laughing and joking with the bosses (you can never leave a moment of banter with the bosses half way through…)and when I looked at my watch, it was 5:20pm.  I started to panic.  My train was as 6:57pm, I still needed to get to Euston from CharingX AND get into one of the queues to get my tickets from the “fast ticket” machines. 

As I RAN out of the office, I realised that the bra I was so impressed with in the shops FAILED me… its nifty option of ‘straps or no straps’ blew up in my face.  The sodding bra strap unbuckled and draped over my shoulder leaving my right breast completely unsupported.  Did I mention that I was running?  My word, I had to haul ass to the basement to get my suitcase and make it to the underground whist pulling my heavy suitcase with my left hand, supporting my handbag on my left shoulder and supporting my right breast with my right hand! 

I managed to make it onto the tube and had fastened my blazer shut so that it was less obvious that I was hanging about.  When I got to Euston, I forced my way through the crowds and made it to the escalator only to be placed behind this little old man who didn’t seem to know that when you get to the top of an escalator (he probably refers to them as ‘moving staircases’) you need to keep walking... poor man, I ended up falling into him when the escalator levelled out at the top, and the person behind me falling into me and so on.  We ended up in a heap.  I rushed to the fast ticket machines only to be faced with a lot of queues.  I sweet talked myself to the front of a line occupied only by men  and managed to get my tickets with relative ease and ran (still very much unsupported) to  the platform that was being called for my train.  Once I got to the platform and lugged my suitcase down the set of steps, I gave my ticket to the ticket mistress  and while I was searching for my young persons railcard, she tapped me on the shoulder… “this ticket is valid for travel tomorrow”…

Well.  I nearly collapsed.  I was sweating, my breast was sore and I was out of breath.  I couldn’t believe it.   She started scribbling away on the ticket while my face was still in shock and anger, and gave it back to me saying “don’t worry love, this should sort you out.  Get on and have a safe journey”.  How lovely!  I profusely started to apologise for my choice of language and fit of rage that she had to witness and I ran to get to the carriage where my seat was waiting for me – 54A.  It was only when I got on board that it struck me that the seat allocation was valid for tomorrow and therefore tonight, 54A, was dedicated to someone else - someone who made their booking correctly…  Well, I thought I would just sit down regardless until someone asked me to move.  So many people reserve and then don’t turn up.  This might be one of those occasions. 

I located the baggage rack and made my way to my seat where this extremely portly gentleman ( massive, I’m not going to lie) was sitting and I had to ask him if I could get past him so I could get into my seat at the window.  I would have normally just suggested that he move in to my seat and I take his, but gauging by his body-size, this would have been an exercise (and his only exercise) that he would rather not take part in.  I sat down, started to catch my breath (and breast) and de-sweat a little. 

I started making myself comfortable and reached up to the little reading lamps overhead, and as I switched on the light, I caught a glimpse of the digital panel with the seat numbers.  I was sitting in 45A not 54A and this poor gentleman was about to have to pull his sides out from under the armrests and let me out. 

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Interfacing... Optional

On the tube, I would say roughly 80% of those on it have their heads buried in a newspaper or magazine (fake reading or not) and more and more (sadly so) focused on their games for the iPhone…  So, you don’t really get to see many faces – just the tops of heads.  Some follically challenged and others who could do with a touch more moisture on their scalps. 

Often, you end up focussing on the one same person – whatever the reason - for the duration of your commute.  I don’t know why this is but it is true.  We start to observe… The shoes? Nice.  The jacket? Very nice.  Top? Just lovely.  Handbag? Well, let’s just say that if she had a looser grip on it I’d bloody well knick off with the damn thing!!

Then she looks up.


With headphones on, I honestly can’t say whether my gasp was in my head or whether it was out loud…

What could the poor person have done that was so bad in a past life that made her deserved of having a face like that?  I think I have seen pugs with eyes deeper set than hers and she had a mouth that could rival any collie lacking 14years worth of dental attention.    

Panic sets in.

Where the HELL do you look???!

You start to quickly search over all the adverts on the carriage – preferably the ones with the most text -so to keep you occupied and focussed on something as long as possible other than what is in front of you.  Maximum effort is needed to lose the facial expressions that clearly show how shocked you are and quite frankly, a little wierded out…

Tuesday, 6 July 2010


I don't understand men who have big feet (I'm talking KingKong style here)  and insist on following the Summer 2010 trend of wearing espadrilles.  I was cruising on the Northern Line, I was sitting down and the offender was standing up, and the tube carriage was like a sardine can that had been ridiculously over-packed.  I had two options. Neither welcomed, but forced apon me nevertheless. 

1: Staring at backsides
2: Large pair of mens feet squeezed into a pair of red espadrilles

If you are familiar with this type of shoe, you will know that the loose canvas material sits nicely on and around your foot.  People free to purchase such a shoe will be men that have nicely formed size feet and women (this would NOT apply to transvestites - they would have to adhere to the rules for men).  This man had gorilla feet and every toe was prominent, right down to the nailbed because the canvas was so tight on his foot. 

I had been reaquainted with the human emotion that is "Repulsion"...

I found this sight more offputting than the image of an ugly man and every bit of his manhood outlined by the material of illfitting speedos... Close up...

At first I thought the reason for him looking so stupid in the espadrilles was because of the intense heat on the underground and this perhaps caused his feet to swell as if inflated by air.  But no.  I saw the bone width of his foot, and they were genuinely just ridiculously mahoosive feet.  Just buldging.  Ooooh, doesn't that word just give you the heebyjeebies?  Now you will know how I felt.

I think because he seemed like a poser and was all blinged up* that I thought it looked all the more 'greasy'. 

If I see him again, wearing them again, I will feel compelled to tell him to put them away.  There are kids on-board.

*please refer to urban dictionary