Thursday, March 20, 2014

Snow white and the seven commuters

I have worked out, (and it might be something to do with my alright A levels in Sociology and Psychology, that there are seven main types of London Tube commuter. Yes, sure, you can be a cross-breed, but try not to be; it's dirty.

1. The Fan.

Now, the fan loves nothing more that to get intimately acquainted with your belongings and body. These people are easy to identify, simply because you will feel them. When there's plenty of space in the carriage, or even a spare seat, they will still prefer to stay close, inhaling you, fingering the tassels of your bag (don't be crude please), rubbing up and down your...Enough! Essentially, they will sexually assault you, and claim it's accidental.

Tips - They're frightened off by direct eye contact. They have no balls (though oddly no issue with trying to find yours).

2. The Pretender.

They act exactly the way they would in the comfort of their own home. They are the ones who:

-Read their paper on your face (pretending you are not there)
-Let there kids climb up you/on you (pretending you are an empty chair)
-Board with a massive backpack, and insist on dramatically spinning round at regular two minute intervals and smacking your bitch up with it. (pretending they're not actually wearing a backpack)
-Hold onto the pole with their hand over yours (pretending you are the pole).

Tips - Kick off, go completely nuts over it. They can't ignore you if you push them into the gap between the train and the platform. It's especially effective, if you lean over their broken body and choose then to say, 'Ha. Mind the gap.'

3. The Dramatic.

Normally teenagers. You will find them:

-Alternating flawlessly between French and English, and find yourself absolutely fuming that your parents never armed you with any real life skills.

-Using the top bar of the tube for a series of pull ups.

-Vomiting. To be fair, it's normally more a thick trail of saliva hanging down from their lolling head, held by a mate at each armpit.

-Singing. Oh yes, and it's always the men. They tend do opt for a Diva classic.

4. The Zombie

I'd say this is the most popular type of commuter, and place myself firmly in this category. We're the ones who've shut down such a huge proportion of our brains in order to endure the trip, that we can hardly respond to anything. As we step on the tube, we say to ourselves, "Okay, the thirty minutes have begun. If you spot a seat, take it. Sit in it. Stare at things. That will be all." On cue, as we approach our destination, we begin to charge back up, slowly regaining our more impressive motor functions and speech. If you try and engage with a Zombie during this process, they will either:

-Jump out of their skin, and drop everything they were holding
-Initially reply to you with noise - along the lines of, 'Watghcfdf', before clearing their throat a few times, and giving conversation another go.
-Get incredibly angry. You have after all, interrupted their perfected survival state, and once more, brought them back down to the horrifying reality of where they are. Shame on you.

Tips - Leave them well alone.

5. The Sleeper

Easy mistaken for one of The Pretenders, the sleepers are closest to the fun-time loving animal, we have entitled - The sloth. Fascinating to observe in their natural tube environment, Sleepers will promise themselves for a few stops, that they are merely resting their eyes, before eventually drowning in a deep, mouth wide open, sunk in the seat sleep. Ah, bless. If you are lucky enough to spot one of these during a long journey, they will be the regular subject of the following exchange:

A "Do you think we should wake him up? He might miss his stop."
B "No."

Tips: Take a photo. I hear they last longer.

6. The Fighter

Has someone just punched you in the back of the neck? Is there no room in the carriage, but a woman has launched her small body at you, in hope that the sheer force of impact will create some? Is that man using his arse as a brutal, yet effective weapon? Then my friend, you're in the presence of a Fighter. Usually they:

-Have been commuting in London for five plus years, and no longer have any feelings whatsoever for their common man. In the early days, they wouldn't challenge a pregnant lady for the only available seat. But now, well, she's just collateral damage in the narrow tunnel of their goal.

-Look really, really angry. It's not a front. They will take you down. Try not to look weak. Try not to get in their way. Let it happen.

-Will hurt you. Yes, they're not about gently manoeuvring you round with little shimmies. It's brute force. It's elbows. It's a sharp kick to the shin. They've been training for this for years.

7. The Tourist

The Tourist has no idea what's going on. They might genuinely be a map wielding, tour of Europe Russian, but just as equally, they can be an established Londoner. The Tourist doesn't know any rules, not just the unspoken rules of the Tube, ANY rules. They move very slowly and never know where they're going. They consult each other and their phones at the most inconvenient of places. When their Oyster card isn't working, they remain at the barrier for a sustained period of time, pawing at it, shaking their little, clueless heads. 

We've all been The Tourist, but it's very important to grow beyond The Tourist.

Tips: Help them. And to enhance this tip, I'll share a personal story with you. When one of them tried to get on the train before I'd gotten off, I stepped very close to her face and aggressively asked, 'What are you doing?' and my words pushed her back onto the platform so that I could pass.

CROSS-BREEDS

The Fan-Fighter - Molests you aggressively for a brief period of time.
The Zombie-Sleeper - Fakes sleep for escapism purposes
The Sleepy Pretender - Will happy let everyone bash them around, like driftwood in a strong current.
The Pretending-Fighter - Passively dominates. E.g. Wears a 'Baby on Board' badge without actually being pregnant.
The Dramatic Fan - Assaults you with the unnecessary size and scope of their gestures.

Others available.









Friday, March 14, 2014

VomitGate

Now, before I moved to London, I assumed that a good 70% of evenings experienced by Londoners' were painfully cool.

I thought, they probably can't help but glamorously sip away at Mojitos in Soho, on a sunny Tuesday night, then accidently wander into a Kasabian after party. It's not their fault. That shit just happens to them.

I've spent the past eight months patiently waiting for my quintessentially London moments. Did I nearly have one, when a fat woman hit me in the nose with her arse? Sure. Was I almost there when I walked passed Les Dennis, and my friend said, 'There's Les Dennis!' And I said, 'Who's Dennis?' Pretty much.

And then it happened, and it was sexier, and more fabulous than I ever thought possible.

Don't get jealous. It's one of those emotions that rots you from the inside. Nasty stuff.

I'll set the scene. (Have also changed names to protect identities).

Five of us are out on a girls' night in Shoreditch. We've reserved a private table, and we've booked a taxi. (If you haven't noticed, things are already bang on, stinking of London awesomeness).

There's GingerNinja (please note that the woman in question has no martial art abilities which I have witnessed, or has even shown me evidence of stealth, but I like the rhyme.)

BarbicanBabe.

I'm really struggling at this point because there's a second ginger girl. *Bashes head*. We'll call her StrawberryBlonde. The final character (aside from moi) in this night of almost unbearable London chic, is called ZumbaQueen.

I know that they all sound like really bad nicknames on a dating site (some of which would have drastically more success than others), but you'll just have to deal with it.

SO

It's 7:30pm. BarbicanBabe has already knocked one of my six White Russian Happy Hour cocktails onto the floor. But it's okay, because we're in London, and we just don't give a shit about anything.

10pm. Happy hour has ended. ZumbaQueen is busting some serious moves. We've made friends with a group of men. I don't know where they're from. They don't speak much English. Roll on, good times.

11pm.  BarbicanBabe has had to evacuate the premises because she can't stay awake.

11:30pm. We're in the nightclub, in the basement. StrawberryBlonde and I have the dance floor to ourselves, and we look like we've attended numerous professional dance lessons. ZumbaQueen is laughing. That's okay. Let her laugh. We can't all be Queen's of Zumba. It occurs me, as we step up our routine to counter accusations that our moves are more hilarious, than they are smooth, that ZumbaQueen might merely be shaking as she throws up.

This is indeed the case.

It seems she has thrown up next to our pile of coats.

Sadly for GingerNinja, her coat had slipped to the floor, and is, as she herself described 'marinated'. ZumbaQueen is asked to leave, and we loyally escort her out. StawberryBlonde puts her coat on outside and discovers that it too, is covered in sick. She wears it anyway. It's very, very cold.

12pm. GingerNinja emerges from the bathroom. In trying to clean the coat (which it turns out is borrowed from BarbicanBabe), she has thrown up. Goes back to bathroom.

Vomited - 2
Wearing vomit - 2

12:05am - Man with strange plaited hat approaches StrawberryBlonde and says, 'Why did you look at me like that, you c**t?' Then turns to me, 'And you, you smiled at me.'

'Yes,' I say, with the level of confidence that only Gin, vodka, wine and rum can provide. 'I smiled, because I like your hat.'

'Are you joking?'

'No. It's fantastic. What do you do?'

'I decorate prisons.'

GREAT. After twenty minutes of telling him, in very specific detail, why I like his hat, he hugs us, and leaves.

12:30am - We've been in a pub for 5minutes. Someone says to me, 'Your friend is throwing up outside.' I go take a look at ZumbaQueen.

Vomited - Still 2
Wearing vomit - Now 3

I decide it's time for ZumbaQueen and I to depart.

And it only takes us three buses, and two hours to get home, which is lovely. Mostly it's lovely because ZumbaQueen passes out, and I hold her, so she doesn't fall into aisle, and get some time to reflect on how far I've come in life.

Number of girls who were not sick, or had sick on them/their possessions - 1/5

My secret weapon, is that I was sick the night before, and thus probably got it all out of my system.



It's almost too much.