Ah, the Tube. The iconic London underground. Yes it gets you about from A to B, when it's working properly (which admittedly is fairly rare) but it's not the most pleasant of experiences. Unless you're some kind of weirdo who gets off on being cocooned in a metal carriage that's hurtling along underground in dark tunnels. I'm unfortunate enough to live on the Central line. While it might be one of the faster and most well-connected lines, it's also one of the busiest, hottest and claustrophobic ones.
Since I've moved, I've found myself becoming part of the commuter Tube scrum. I'd previously mostly managed to get about on buses which are slightly more pleasant for the most part, but I now consign myself to being one of those grumpy business bastards who listens intently to headphones and tuts loudly at other passengers. What I am still coming to terms with is how bargey everyone is in the morning. Yes, we're all in a rush to get to work and deal with clients, or shout at people, or shuffle paperclips, or whatever the fuck everyone does, but that doesn't make physically assaulting someone with your laptop bag ok. Yesterday I was literally pushed out of the way of the opening Tube door by some cretin in a suit. Probably a banker. In a hurry to go and dry-bumfuck the economy a bit more before spending our cash on overpriced champagne in a twatty city bar.
As if the proximity of other people wasn't bad enough, I've noticed that the average Tube carriage plays host to a variety of smells. Firstly the classic body odour. Some people haven't discovered either soap or deodorant. When you get a whiff of the cloying body odour from these people, it's enough to make you want to puke up your first cup of tea. There should be some sort of hygiene gate people have to pass through before entering the train.
The next delightful Tube scent? Food. FOOD. Who finds it acceptable to eat on a scummy, grey, polluted train? Putting your hands in your mouth as you scoff your pungent egg sandwich? You must be some kind of pervert to think it's ok to consume food underground.
Lastly, people who think they're covering their BO by dousing themselves in scent. It's never a nice one. Never someone who wafts about in Jo Malone (except me.) It's always sickly, potent, lingering cheap scent. Enough to make me want to get off the train and snort a line of Vim powder (that's an old school cleaning product by the way, not some trendy drug that all the kids are doing) to ensure that my nasal senses are so obliterated, I never have to be exposed to it again.
As everyone knows, the Tube is fucking hot. I genuinely don't get why people actively shut the windows on the Tube in summer. Unless they're trying to make large swathes of people pass out so they can carry out some sort of mass mugging. OPEN THE FRIGGING WINDOWS!
Everyone also knows that the unwritten rule of Tube travel is Never Make Eye Contact. The thing is, I get bored on my journeys. I'm also quite partial to gazing at people and taking in the details of their appearance. The girls with immaculate makeup, the people with faces only a blind mother could love. Thing is, I'm not that subtle and often get caught which results in a hot flush for me and a glint of steel in the eyes for them. I can't smile. I'd look a mental. And get escorted off the train by men in white coats. You just don't really smile at strangers in London.
I'm a hypocrite though, of course. If someone looks at me and I catch them, I am overwhelmed by paranoia. Has my eyeliner run down my face? Am I wearing clown-levels of blusher after blearily applying my face in morning half-light? Is there some crap on my face? Generally it IS one of these things.
Tonight, The Pinup and I made our way home when the Tube carriage was invaded by a gaggle of exciteable Spanish teenagers. Joy of joys, they were filming each other. I'm pretty sure the conversation only consisted of them insulting each other's Mums, so I couldn't understand why they were filming. I'm hot, tired, grumpy and I don't want your fucking camcorder stuck in my face when I am travelling home.
The sweet relief of reaching your destination is normally tempered by further idiocy, as some muppet swipes their Oyster and it doesn't open the gate. Instead of moving out of the way, they adopt a puzzled look, like having a little think might magically open it. All the while, a swell of pissed-off commuters gathers behind them, risking pushing them straight over the barriers. This is my favourite. Along with people who clearly use the Tube all the time, who decide that they don't need to find their Oysters in their cavernous handbags until they're stood AT the actual barrier. Hey don't worry, I'll wait behind you while you drop your tampons and change all over the ticket hall.
I'd love to see the stats for Tube-related incidents of anger. I bet they get to court and the Judge goes, "Ahhh, he stopped in front of you at the ticket gate for five minutes? Provocation."
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