Thursday 7 March 2013

"Get out of my armpit!"

That was about me. THAT is what a fellow peak hour morning commuter tweeted about me, this morning. Because I was reading my magazine and whenever the train yawed, it moved us all in a single mass except for the sharp corners of my magazine, which moved just a fraction further to crinkle themselves against his rib cage. I know it must have been uncomfortable. I know it was scratchy and sharpy and pointy and that's not what you want in the morning.

However, northern line tube at 8 30 am via bank is going to be hell on earth - pointy sharpy papery jabs in your rib cage would suck, let's be fair about it. But it's the least of your worries. You could have someone's backpack in your boob. IN YOUR BOOB. The pregnant hemisphere of nylon and scratchy seems ramming its round payload into your boob with every carriage yaw, smushing your breast up against your rib cage, which in turn smushes your magazine against someone else's rib cage.

But the only difference is I don't hate the owner of the bag, I don't. I don't even hate the bag, or the carriage. In fact the heaving mass of humans flanking me on all sides and their quaint little satchels full of treasures and 'necessities' endears me no end to my fellow passengers - my fellow creatures - we're all the same; we live in this great big city all together, we all have jobs we slog at even though the pay is shit and there's always an idiot and there's always the office hand grenade and we could be treated at least a billion per cent better by our manager... That's why no matter what happens I always try not to get the rage, and I always try to make room.

What's that King's Cross south-bound Bank Branch? There's no room and you want to get on? And your boss is probably a fiendish time-nazi TWAT just like mine, and you're probably on your last performance review legs because you coast on bare minimum just like me, and who wouldn't write blogs instead of working? Of course there's room for you. Come on! I'll move just a little bit and that person will move just a little bit and like a big family we all try to make room for each other. Nobody wants to be late, we all want to fuck off early this friday and we are all totally going to have a life and make our manager furious because of it, and that's why none of us can be late, and that's why there's always room for you, you, you and you. Worse, you could be our manager, poor bastard. Room for him as well, what a total shit sandwhich of a team he's forced to manage, day after day, every departmental meeting ending with him faceplanting at the myriad of lacklustre fucksticks doing bare minimum and not doing a very good job of even that, definitely move over for him, in fact you - get up - he deserves a fucking SEAT.

So mr 'get out of my armpit' tweeter, I totally understand your frustration, I even empathise with you, my magazine's corners especially glossy and hurty, but I love you you little shit so make a bit more room for me so I can read my magazine in peace and I can let you tweet in peace and we can both focus our attentions on the fucking weekend and in how many ways we are going to get massively on it and spend all our cash and have a rad time with all of our friends, and each other - our fellow humans!

Stand Clear, Doors Closing!