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A funny thing happened on my way to work this morning. I almost got into a fight over a girl.
My day began the way my work days always begin; with an internalised scream of existential despair at the soul-rending horror of having to go to Stevenage. I hopped out of bed, performed my morning ablutions, leaped from home to station to train to Victoria, and got onto the tube. As the doors closed there was a rush behind me and three blokes piled on, laughing and shouting. I say "blokes" because they were blokes. Lads. Call them what you will. And they all stank of booze and were clutching open cans of more of it. At 8:20am as well, which is a good way to get me to form an instant value judgement and no mistake.
True to form in such circumstances, they generally lowered the tone on the train. They shouted, made loud and personal comments about the other people in there, and made the place smell of drink. Then one, the loudest (and, I'm guessing, the self appointed leader) leant over to a girl standing in the end of the carriage by the interconnecting doors and shouted "Talk to me, darling!"
She didn't reply, as one doesn't under those circumstances, and he kept at it, shouting "Come on, talk to me! Talk to me! Talk to me!". She tried to make herself as small as possible.
If you've ever been on public transport when that sort of thing is happening, you'll know how the other passengers react. They hunch their shoulders down a bit, bury their faces in newspapers, and act like they can't see or hear anything. Their eyes glaze over and their ears fill to the brim with wax. I've done it myself. But the thing is, I don't like it and never feel overly good about myself when I do it. So I reached over and grabbed the handrail which put my arm between the bloke and the girl, forming a barrier. The bloke swung round from the girl to face me.
"What d'you think you're doing? What you doing?" He shouted. He went on to shout a lot of other stuff as well, mostly suggestions I perform acts which I'm pretty certain are physically impossible but he appeared to think I might find diverting. He gesticulated and made rude hand gestures. I didn't reply at all, but just held eye contact and didn't blink, aaaaand...
...he folded.
He dropped his head, stopped shouting, turned away, and started muttering to his mates and casting evil glances at me out of the corner of his eye. It was great. It was all I could do not to thump my chest and yodel like Tarzan. You know those nature documentaries where the alpha gorilla chases away a young challenger? It was like that, but a million times more awesome. The train slowed, the doors opened at Green Park, and they all got out.
And the girl?
Completely blanked me and got off at Oxford Street. A kiss would have been traditional.
My day began the way my work days always begin; with an internalised scream of existential despair at the soul-rending horror of having to go to Stevenage. I hopped out of bed, performed my morning ablutions, leaped from home to station to train to Victoria, and got onto the tube. As the doors closed there was a rush behind me and three blokes piled on, laughing and shouting. I say "blokes" because they were blokes. Lads. Call them what you will. And they all stank of booze and were clutching open cans of more of it. At 8:20am as well, which is a good way to get me to form an instant value judgement and no mistake.
True to form in such circumstances, they generally lowered the tone on the train. They shouted, made loud and personal comments about the other people in there, and made the place smell of drink. Then one, the loudest (and, I'm guessing, the self appointed leader) leant over to a girl standing in the end of the carriage by the interconnecting doors and shouted "Talk to me, darling!"
She didn't reply, as one doesn't under those circumstances, and he kept at it, shouting "Come on, talk to me! Talk to me! Talk to me!". She tried to make herself as small as possible.
If you've ever been on public transport when that sort of thing is happening, you'll know how the other passengers react. They hunch their shoulders down a bit, bury their faces in newspapers, and act like they can't see or hear anything. Their eyes glaze over and their ears fill to the brim with wax. I've done it myself. But the thing is, I don't like it and never feel overly good about myself when I do it. So I reached over and grabbed the handrail which put my arm between the bloke and the girl, forming a barrier. The bloke swung round from the girl to face me.
"What d'you think you're doing? What you doing?" He shouted. He went on to shout a lot of other stuff as well, mostly suggestions I perform acts which I'm pretty certain are physically impossible but he appeared to think I might find diverting. He gesticulated and made rude hand gestures. I didn't reply at all, but just held eye contact and didn't blink, aaaaand...
...he folded.
He dropped his head, stopped shouting, turned away, and started muttering to his mates and casting evil glances at me out of the corner of his eye. It was great. It was all I could do not to thump my chest and yodel like Tarzan. You know those nature documentaries where the alpha gorilla chases away a young challenger? It was like that, but a million times more awesome. The train slowed, the doors opened at Green Park, and they all got out.
And the girl?
Completely blanked me and got off at Oxford Street. A kiss would have been traditional.
