London Munterground

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."

There once was a Christmas bash....

I've not blogged for a while. I'm not sure anyone reads it really, but I've been a little short of inspiration. Hard hours working and the typical Winter cold has rendered me very dull.

A few things have popped into my mind to share today though.

1) Christmas Parties

Our work Christmas party was more eventful than it should have been. A Leicester Square club was the venue, not the sort of place I'd ever normally go, but it was... interesting. A client had described it earlier that day as a "cattle market"....Certainly an experience. Upon arrival at 8ish, it was already rammed full of packed office-party revellers. At this point we were all pretty sober and gazed bemusedly at the cliche we had suddenly found ourselves in.

It's one of those bars where there's no space really for actual sitting and talking, and our table wasn't ready so we loitered round the bar. I swear that my first glass of wine was 50% in me, and 50% on my coat as I was constantly jostled by people squeezing by. There was what was clearly an office party in one area of the bar, who looked as though they probably started on the festive drinks around lunch time. You think cheesy office party. You think, man with tie round his head (why do men do that?) and girl whose dress has slipped a little further than is professional, (bra, indeed most of her boobs are hanging out.) Dancing provocatively to Britney Spears. Yep, we were living in the reality. We actually discussed how if we'd written this, it would be too obvious. Amusing for us, not for them when they wake up the next day, probably in bed together, and view the photographic evidence on Facebook.

I realised last night that I am indeed a music snob. I try and pretend I'm not. But last night there was no getting away from it. After a few wines, I don't mind some classic cheesy tunes to dance to. But I just can't hack SHIT music. Played just slightly too high, to prevent the clientele engaging in conversation and realising that there's a void where the personality should be in the person they're now finding strangely attractive after the seventh Smirnoff Ice. The music at this level ensures the only communication between people involves dubious bumping and grinding, groping and mimes about "fancy another drink?". I really enjoy having to yell my drink orders to belligerent bar staff over the Alexandra Burke tune that's on for the fourth time and is setting every fibre of my being on the precipice of physical pain.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough for me, I ate my Christmas dinner, engaged with some lovely people that I work with, drank a little more cheap wine, then called it a night and made my way home through the City to avoid the monstrous and inevitable post-office party hangover.

However, upon waking this morning and seeing 16 missed calls on my phone, I realised the evening had not panned out in quite the same way for No'rn Ir'on. I blurrily read a text from a colleague saying No'rn Ir'on had been robbed and they were at the hotel across the road. Filled with a sense of panic that she'd been hurt, I called my colleague to establish that her stuff had gone missing in the club, still utterly shit but she was fine. Just very pissed off.

She returned home late this morning after crashing with another colleague when I missed the doorbell ringing at 5am. In yesterday's make up, party dress, no coat, no bag, no keys. She was in good spiritis considering, and we caught up on the stories of the night before. Still in party dress, she heated some soup in the kitchen, just wanting to have an hour in her room away from the world before doing the hassly things you have to do when all your stuff goes missing. Going to put something back in the fridge, she somehow dislodged an open bottle of sparkling wine, which fell and practically exploded all over the kitchen. Her face fell into mock sobbing and wailing, as she looked down at her dripping party dress and surveyed the fizzing puddle on the floor.

"I smell like a whore!... And I am actually really crying a bit. It's been a rubbish 24 hours."

I tell her to go and chill in her room while I wipe up the wine. And make a brew.





2) Limericks

Office. Christmas. Secret Santa, right? No'rn Ir'on had been beyond excited about Christmas since about, oh, June, so she jumped on the organisation of the event. The spend limit was a fiver and you also had to write a limerick about the person you were buying for. As we doled out the gifts after work yesterday, I genuinely cried tears of laughter at how funny some of them were. I was inevitably embarrased by the fact that an incarnation of one of my many nicknames rhymes with "Spaz", thanks for that, dear colleague. Also the topical inclusion of my earlier mishap on the phone with a very valued client where I made what can only be described as a right tit of myself. Un-PC, offensive and including current affairs, brilliant.

As the team Skyped each other throughout the day, drafting limericks and editing each others' work, I realised I am quite good at limericks. Mainly obscene ones. I attribute this niche skill to a weird habit I have with a long-distance friend, CleverClogs, of chatting on instant messenger services and challenging each other to finishing each other's efforts. I often get random messages simply saying, "There was a young man who was bored..." You'd be surprised at how creative you can get with innuendo through the medium of limericks. Pretty much the geekiest form of flirting you can undertake, as well. I think I have mentioned before how cool I am?



3) Tube-dwelling rodents

As I made my way home last night, through the Christmas party revellers, I found myself close to the edge of the Tube platform at Holborn. I was as always lost in my extremely loud music, pretending I am in a film, when I noticed how many rats and mice were scurrying about across the tracks. I've honestly never noticed this before. The majority of the swarm had stumpy tails, presumably due to ill-judged track crossing in the pursuit of a morsel of food.

One brave animal, either a big-ish mouse, or a little rat, came across a chocolate wrapper that had blown through the tunnel. It attacked the plastic with gusto and actually got inside the wrapper. For some reason, seeing a rodent's bum sticking out of a wriggling sweet wrapper made me laugh. Out loud.

As the dusty, warm breeze started filtering through the tunnel, and the tracks began their low pre-train rumble, I was gripped with a horror that I was about to see a rodent obliterated by a few tons of metal, in a tragic comedy fashion. Thank goodness, this one had obviously learnt to scarper after losing most of its tail last time. I continued my journey with drunk people falling on me on the Central Line, smiling to myself about the comedy mouse.

Perhaps I was drunker than I thought I was.

Hotel Babylon

Saturday. 'Lunch' turns into afternoon drinking; turns into crashing a party. You know how it goes.

The Blonde and The Geordie bloke were due down for a friend's 30th party in Farringdon, so we decided to meet up for a brief, civilised lunch before they went off to the do.

It started off well, when they got separated on the Tube. Having met Geordie bloke at Farringdon station, where he looked bemused to be without The Blonde, we decided to do the natural thing and go to the nearest pub for a drink to wait. With a flurry of messages involving the words "tit" and "unsupervised" and a vocal greeting of "d*ckhead!" when she finally arrived, I knew it was going to be a fun afternoon. Mainly revolving around who's fault it was that they got separated.

We had the excellent idea of checking them into the hotel before we strolled to Smith's of Smithfields for a late lunch so we sauntered up to the gorgeous Charterhouse Sq to Malmaison. Now, The Blonde and I had been here before for corporate stuff, and noted the slightly-too-dark interior which makes you feel a bit like you're hanging out in the day in a place where the ladies come on a menu. It is tres chic, but definitely leaning towards the dungeon-in-the-basement vibe. As The Blonde sensibly checked in, Geordie and I clocked a massive painting hanging opposite reception.... Of a man and woman locked in a clinch, explicity showing him with his hand down her pants.

We looked at each other. Having done an MA thesis on perversion in Postmodern art, I'm no stranger to the transgressive artwork. But not in public places.

Me, quietly: "Bit risque for a hotel foyer?"

Geordie, louder: "Aye, a bit rapey?"

I was not expecting this reaction and of course snorted with laughter, very mature. We got berated by The Blonde for being like "children" and "we couldn't be taken anywhere". We pretty much agreed. The situation wasn't made better when all three of us went across reception and up to the room to dump their bags. Plus I was wearing leather riding boots and a trench coat, goodness knows what reception thought.

We trooped back down, and made our way to Smith's. Officially my new favourite place. Downstairs is casual and relaxed, full of obligatory media types and self conscious haircuts, with a stripped-back industrial interior. I was slightly excited and allowed myself to hope that Masterchef's John Torode would be around somewhere in his restaurant, but alas, no sight. I'll forgive his absence though, since our waiter was hot.

We had some excellent Sauvignon Blanc, The Blonde had a posh sausage sandwich, I had the homemade burger and Geordie enjoyed steak and eggs. I say enjoyed, I mean muttered "f*ck off my eggs!" as The Blonde ruined both his yolks with deliberate stabs of a chip. I had drink envy when Geordie ordered us G&Ts, while he had a delicious orange vodka. Worth going back for alone.

By this point, The Blonde had wangled me an invite to the party, and since I don't see her nearly enough, I of course was delighted to accept. So we went back to the hotel to get ready. Perpetuating how odd this looked, three of us dandering through reception, clearly a bit tipsy, we started to get a bit embarrassed.

But no, there was worse to come. Unthinking, we ordered a round of drinks to enjoy while I hung out and they got ready for the party. At this point, Geordie's in the shower, singing very happily. The Blonde has underwear out on the bed, and the both of us are doing our make up. I'd chucked a ten pound note on the bed to cover my drink on their room tab. The the door goes and it's a waiter with our drinks.

Cash on the bed. A man singing loudly in the shower. Underwear out. Two girls doing their faces. It wasn't even worth saying "It's not what it looks like." Whoops.

All this before we'd even arrived at the party. Luckily, I didn't go back to the room with them afterwards. Then reception would have had something to talk about.

Suffice to say the party was excellent, cool place, nice people and plenty of vodka tonics. I blame The Blonde for the tequila shots, and today I am very glad we declined the Gaschamber sambuca shooter.

I'm pretty sure The Blonde is dreaming about getting into her beloved JLS hoodie today, and ordering some Dominos.

Commuter Sightseeing 2

Another day, another random work commute... London never ceases to amaze me. I now expect the unexpected most days.

This morning, Nor'n Ir'on and I left the house as usual, not quite awake, ready to stick the iPod in to lose myself in another journey.

But this morning brought a sobering sight; informed there'd been some sort of traffic-stopping incident, we plodded from the bus stop towards the City to rejoin the rat race in Shoreditch.

Then we saw it. Awkwardly splayed across the middle of the road, was a crushed car, with its roof chopped off and flung carelessly onto the pavement. Our street suddenly felt like a film set- police parked haphazardly across the traffic route, the midsection of the road and pavements cordoned off with incident tape, commuters hurrying down the road on foot.

We joined the throng of people walking frantically from the East End, I was lost in my thoughts as you are when you see a sad scene of destruction.

Strangely though, for a fleeting minute, there was a sense of community. People passing messages down to the next bus stop that there'd be no buses running this morning. Sharing a few words and a smile with the girl with the lipring, and the academic looking man sporting a fetching suit and well-tailored jacket.

After a stroll, we reached the bustle of Shoreditch with traffic humming and beeping as usual. Yet on the way to the next bus, we saw further odd sights.

A pile of vintage shoes arranged artfully on the pavement, for no apparent reason. A racing bike installation, sprayed matte white and chained to a City lamppost.

A sad but somehow comedic sight of a binman swigging Stella pre 8am. A plush velvet 4 seater sofa abandoned on the pavement.

Finally on the bus, we're met with the sight of a slightly scary big bald guy, dressed in punky S&M black, with chains and rings and matrix style sunglasses. Suddenly, interrupting my thoughts of 'God, this bus is like a sauna', he recognises the man stood next to me and unleashes a camp greeting with air kisses, and flirts all the way to Clerkenwell. Certainly wasn't expecting that.

So, off the bus and heading to get overpriced coffee to jumpstart our sluggish minds for the day ahead- then I see a woman wearing purple fluffy boot slippers. As you do.

Something of an eventful journey. And all before 8:15am.

I feel sorry for the subterranean tube goers, missing out on the sights of overground London. I'm going to start carrying my camera round all the time.


-- Post From My iPhone