As mentioned in an earlier post, one thing I won’t miss during my training is the wonderful journey on the late night ‘Drunken Express’ – AKA the scourge of all Londoners.
I had barely a night out last month, so I was pretty unlucky to have encountered the following trip, which I’m sure many of you will be able to relate to in some way, shape or form. Having had a few beers, I got myself on the 10.23 from Kings Cross to Hitchin. I was aware of a girl sitting next to me who was on the phone, but all seemed well as we pulled out of the station. Little did I know…
I had my headphones on and thought she was having a barney with her bloke. It quickly became apparent, primarily from the expression of the people sat around me, that she was actually completely hammered. In what is every late night ‘Drunken Express’ customer’s worst nightmare, after hanging up the phone she then tried to engage me in conversation. I politely refused, which obviously wasn’t acceptable, so she started punching me in the arm to get me to speak. It was at about this point that the two people sitting opposite me got up and left.
Now, I should say at this stage that I am a bit of a stoic bloke, and as such getting up to leave would make me think I was being rude. After all, despite her punching me, the girl is in a right state and more unscrupulous characters have been known to prey on them. So if my arm taking a battering is the worst that can happen, then that’s not actually that bad a thing. In fact, the other passengers should be grateful to me for keeping her preoccupied.
Having decided to sit tight and grin and bear it, I proceeded to take a punch to the arm about once every two minutes, in line with her goldfish brain’s pattern of remembrance. After about fifteen minutes of this I struck lucky. One of the other passengers knew her but had obviously sat tight, hoping she’d fall asleep or something. She obviously began to feel sorry for me and sheepishly came over to start talking to her. She looked very embarrassed but my arm is eternally grateful that she did.
I thought that would be the end of it, but unfortunately the fun didn’t stop there. I got up five minutes before my stop to stand by the door for some respite, but it was just my luck that she was getting off at the same station. And it was highly symptomatic of the journey I’d had when the train ground to a halt 300 yards outside the station. It was absolutely pitch black outside, so it’s obvious we’re not in the station. Obvious, that is, apart from to my lovely friend, who started shoving me in the back and into the door, shouting ‘open the doors you t*at, I want to get out’.
It was all I could do to stop myself saying, ‘we’re parked outside the station but if you insist, I’ll happily open them and shove you under a train you moron’. But as I alluded to earlier on, I’m far too polite for that. So I just ignored her, whilst hoping that I would bump into her on the platform the next morning to get my revenge – you know the deal, loud headphones, bacon sandwich, phone keypad sound on, rustling newspaper etc, the tools of the annoying commuter are endless.
Her friend spent the next couple of minutes whilst we were stopped trying to distract her. She phoned her brother, but that wasn’t spectacularly successful as drunken moron insisted to be put on the line to him. ‘Have I ever told you how wonderful you are Dave? I really love you, you’re a great bloke. You are. No really, you are. I love you’. I was beginning to wonder how much more of this I could take which, evidently, was more than him as he hung up having no doubt witnessed it countless times before. Fortunately for me, the train started moving shortly afterwards and my ordeal was over.
I’d like to say this was an isolated incident, but then I spent the entire train journey back from a Christmas party last week listening to three different people ralphing their guts up in the toilet. So it really isn’t. Other wonderful things I’ve encountered over the years are a tramp that actually had a whole Piccadilly Line carriage to himself going through Covent Garden at 10 o’clock at night. How did he manage that I hear you wonder? Well, let’s just say he was so drunk he wasn’t entirely in control of his bodily functions. At either end. We all think tube drivers are overpaid, but whoever had to wake him up and get him off of the train at Cockfosters that night would have earned every penny.
My particular favourite however, just for sheer visual excellence, had to be an incident at Farringdon station in the middle of the rush hour six or seven years ago. It was Christmas and I’d crammed into a train as you would on any normal working day. I could see a bloke a bit further down who’d obviously been to his office party and who looked a bit worse for wear. He’d been given an exclusion zone of sorts, but as the train was packed, it was reasonably small.
I was only on for one stop, but it was one stop too far for this guy. He started retching before throwing up all over four or five seated rush hour commuters, who had absolutely nowhere to go. It was the retching that did it as it made it like a slow motion picture in a film – everyone knew it was coming, but they were trapped, and couldn’t get away. If they hadn’t been so covered in sick / horrified, I’m pretty sure one of them would have punched him. As it was, he fell out of the train at Kings Cross and probably awoke the next day oblivious as to why he had sick down his trousers and all over his shoes. It wasn’t a particularly edifying sight, but it’s not often you see a gaggle of suited and booted commuters covered in someone else’s sick. A Christmas I’m sure they’ll all remember.
I can never work out whether stories like these are a) funny, b) character building, or c) an indictment of society. In truth, they’re probably a mixture of all three. And they’re exactly why everyone steps aboard the Drunken Express with a heavy dose of trepidation. So next time you witness something similar, I’d definitely recommend engaging a bit of stiff upper lip as you’ll have a cracking story to tell everyone when you get to work in the morning.
And I’m telling you this because…
I’m running the 2012 London Marathon for the Hertfordshire Community Foundation (HCF). They help all sorts of vulnerable people in the county.
For example, last year they paid a £5,000 grant to help decorate / kit out a room in the style of the 50s for people with mild dementia in Welwyn Garden. I watched a programme on the Beeb a few weeks back which highlighted exactly the same thing, and it really is amazing how well it works. I'm no expert, but I do know that your long-term memory is different than your short-term memory - so for mild dementia sufferers, transporting you back to the great times you had in your childhood is a proven technique to put a smile on your face.
If you feel inclined to sponsor me to help the Hertfordshire Community Foundation continue their great work, you can do so here: http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BenWood2
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