Going underground

After my call to ranty action yesterday I’ve had a fab guest post from Emma. Now I don’t live in London but I have experienced the joys that are the London Underground, hot, cramped and filled with people you’d rather not be sharing air with.

Over you Emma.

Ah, the tube. The best way to get around London they say. Shame about the complete dickwads that have to get on it too. First off there’s the guy with the asymmetrical haircut bringing his stinky Red Bull on to the tube for him to drink while he reads Wallpaper. I know you got on at Old Street but that doesn’t make it ok to look and act like a twat. Why are you leaving Shoreditch anyway? Is it safe for you to go South?

Then there’s the woman across from him who has decided she will subject everyone to her eating her limp, Shapers sandwich. I can’t even look the other way, I can still see it out the corner of my eye – her mushing that disgusting excuse for food around her mouth (which lies below what looks like a snout) while she peers at the packet to congratulate herself for making calorie space for the supersize Maltesers bag she’s about to inhale. It’s ok though, it’s the lighter way to enjoy chocolate, right?

The next character is The Starer. The kind where you look back and they continue looking at you. What is the matter with you? Were you not taught any manners? You were probably one of those personality void snotty kids who sat on his mums lap and stared whilst picking his nose. Can you not read a book or something like everyone else?

And why the hell do I feel so cramped? Oh, it’s because the bloke next to me might as well be sitting on my lap. Have you never heard of personal space? I mean for crying out loud. It’s bad enough that I have the arse of Mother Earth right in my face but no, you have to use your seat like it’s a throne. Just because you’ve got a job at a big bank in City it does not make you any more important than anyone else sitting on the train you utter cock.

It doesn’t stop at the tube either, these morons are everywhere. Here’s an idea – how about you find somewhere else to stand to figure out if you want to go left or right other than the top of an escalator. Then you might not be so shocked when I bash right into you. Or maybe you’re guilty of walking down OXFORD STREET at a snails pace while texting. Can you not just stand out the way? Oh no, because that would be far too clever for your tiny mind.

Finally, people who eat fried chicken on buses and then smear the disgusting battery farm strength grease all over the poles – I hate you.


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