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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Sorry. There's a lot of swearing in this one.

On Tuesday, when trying to get through the barriers at Liverpool Street to get on to my train home, some git face jumped the queue and pushed in front of me at the last moment. This isn't particularly uncommon during rush hour - I've noticed that there are a large number of people who seem to have very important jobs that require them to be in places at very specific and urgent hours of the day and night, but inexplicably also require them to travel by public transport rather than, say, chartering a private helicopter to rush them from point A to point B.

These people gad about train stations, not watching where they're going - and why should they, they've got a lot on their plates - bashing into people, never apologising, rushing to the front of queues, swearing audibly when announcements are made regarding delays, tutting and staring at their watches, rolling their eyes and calling various people to tell them that their precious time and resources are being wasted by the uncaring train companies that probably don't even realise how important they are. I'm assuming by their behaviour and demeanour that these people must be incredibly important. Heart surgeons, no doubt, perhaps brain specialists. Peace brokers who have finally come up with the solution to all the world's problems. Secret service agents, possibly. I would accept midwife or nurse as an excuse, possibly paramedics rushing to the scene of an accident, but inexplicably taking the overland train during rush hour rather than risking the roads and all of that traffic.

Funny, though. They all look like Shoreditch twats, media wankers, fucking art students and bastard bankers to me.

But that can't be right. People like that don't have precious time to waste. They, like me, should be well capable of queueing without the hysterical pushing or shoving; they should be able to sit quietly if the train is slightly delayed (rather than, as one woman did yesterday, standing up when the train driver announces that we're being held in a queue waiting for a platform just outside the station, swear at the top of her voice and stride down the carriage, slamming the door behind her as if that was going to help in any way); they should sit quietly, perhaps reading their book or soaking up the drivel from the free paper they unwisely picked up at the station. They should, in short, be more like me and the rest of the normal, unimportant, unassuming commuters. But fucking no.

And so back to Tuesday evening, when the man who had previously been behind me at Liverpool Street was now suddenly in front of me, between me and the barriers and was struggling with his ticket. He put the ticket into the slot, the ticket came out, he drew the ticket out, but instead of opening, the gates kept him trapped there. However, thanks to the fact that I had been all ready to go with my Oyster card because until he jumped the queue, I was actually next in the motherfucking line, I had already touched it down on the pad, which opened up the gate in front of him, letting his ignorant arse through and leaving me with no choice but to try and run forward before the gates closed across me. Which is of course what happened.

And so I had to limp on to my train before it left the station, the proud owner of three new bruises to my arms and legs and a right chip on my shoulder about fucking ignorant queue jumping bolloxes.

Cut now to last night, when I was on my way to my counselling class. The steam was building up in my head already from the moment I headed down on to the Picadilly Line trying to get to Kings Cross. This line is particularly filled with people so pissed off they can barely breathe. Honestly, the next time someone actually blows up on the tube, it may well be me, when finally all of my pent up rage suddenly bursts, causing me to spontaneously combust, taking half the carriage with me in my pointless unexpressed fury. Kings Cross is also a version of hell on earth, with a mixture of street savvy Londoners who know exactly where they're trying to get to, surrounded by bag wheeling tourists just trying to find the overland station and stopping to stare at each other every 10 seconds while using their bags to block off all remaining space on the platform.

Having battled my way to the ticket barriers, I was once again poised and ready to go with my Oyster to get the heck of there and be on my merry way, when once again another fucking suited and booted late-20s smug bastard with slicked back hair and pointy cheekbones insinuated himself in front of me in the queue. I was so incensed that, without really thinking about it, I kicked out at him.

I saw red, and I fucking kicked out at him, ladies and gents. I'm not proud.

Well, okay, I'm a little proud.

My foot landed squarely on his tug along laptop bag which he was casually strolling away with. Although my kick was delivered with all the fury I could muster - and that was quite a lot of fury - he was walking away at such a pace that I wasn't able to get more than a slight brush off it. Still, the force was enough to make the bag jump up slightly. He kept on walking and didn't notice a thing.

About five people behind me, however, laughed out loud, which was enough to both release the rest of the fury within me, and also snap me back to my senses, considering that, if the dude had wanted to take up my attempted damage to property right then and there, I wouldn't have had a friend in the world to defend me.

And that, ladies, gents, mother, is why I need to get the fuck out of this city as soon as is giddily possible.


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