Tube Rage

London is big. Very big. And getting round it can cost you money, time - and possibly your sanity.

It's not the transport itself. I like them many buses. I like those 'Boris Bikes'.  I love the Docklands Light Rail where you can sit at the front and pretend to be driving a super-speed monorail. 

What I don't like is that commuters can sometimes flick a switch in their minds and turn from perfectly pleasant people into angry monsters that will persecute you for the smallest of transgressions.

Transfer that 300 ft below the ground to the Underground and you get the phenomena I most fear  - Tube Rage.

I’d just finished a hard days work and was dragging myself to a meeting on the other side of London on the central line. The only way to cope is to shut my brain off, and daydream. As I disengaged, my eyes began to wander. Thoughtlessly, they pointed over the shoulder of the man in front of me, and focussed on the free paper he was reading.

Oh look, the economy is buggered again. oh look, that celebrity lesbian couple are back together. Ooh Look, the man has turned round and is glaring at me.

Fear and anger gnarled his face. Daggers of indignation flew from his eyes. This is the first symptom of Tube-Rage - a delusional paranoia that everyone else is deliberately trying to make your journey ever so slightly less comfortable. Small impoliteness becomes huge insult.

I mean, ok, what I was doing was a bit rude. But he was over-reacting. I was only reading his paper, for crying out loud, I wasn’t stopping him from reading it - its not like I was licking it or something.

It’s a free paper, not a top secret government document. He didn’t even pay for it. I SHOULD be allowed to read it. Who the HELL DOES HE THINK HE IS!

Tube Rage, you see, is highly infectious. And they’ve not invented the mind condom to stop it.

I'm not proud of this, but I began to plot my terrible revenge. Slowly, I moved myself in front of him, so only the paper separated us.

Then, as ostentatiously as possible, I started to read the front cover.

How d’ya like that, sunshine?

My eyes scanned every word slowly, my anger burning through his paper and piercing his soul.

He looked up, speechless. His hands trembled, his legs shook. But not with fear. He was so full of Tube Rage, he was beginning to physically transform.

Thick black hairs sprouted through his pores. His teeth sharpened into fangs, his hands into claws.

Screams filled the carriage. He’d grown to superhuman size, his bulging muscles tearing through his suit (which is perhaps a blessing as its old and badly fitted anyway).

Before me stood a monster, engulfed by tube rage. His razor sharp talons tore the paper to confetti in front of my eyes.

“NOW NONE OF YOU WILL READ IT! RAAAAARGH” he bellowed

It struck me that paper guy and I may not be the only sufferers on this train. Anyone can carry the virus. It only takes a misplaced look, a clumsy nudge or an un-caught sneeze to set carnage in motion.

I had to get out of there. Leaping off at the next stop, I legged it up the escalators and burst through the gates as fast as my oyster card would let me.

Fresh air filled my lungs. The rage evaporated like a vampire in the sun. I’m safe. For now.

Next week, I’m taking the bus.

A solution for Ex Lovers

I’m rubbish at letting go.

Great for hanging off cliffs, a pain when it comes to splitting up with people.

The problem is, although I know it hasn't worked between us, I don’t really want my ex's to go out with anyone else. Ever.

I dread walking into a pub/restaurant/library (they could be anywhere) and seeing them with another bloke. Especially if he’s better looking than me.

Don’t get me wrong, I want them to be happy. Just happy in a celibate kind of way.

I imagine I’m not the only person who feels like this which is why I want to share my radical solution with you.

Last week, I built my ex-girlfriends a nunnery.

I bought a plot in the (very) deep countryside and set to work. It’s a beautiful place, the stuff of fairy tales, where I hope my former loves with live a life of blissful chastity.

The nunnery has everything a woman could want. A pretty garden. A Body Shop. Every DVD box set of Sex And The City ever made.

At its heart is a small chapel. If you peer through the old oak doors you’ll see a stunning stained glass window, a row of twinkling beeswax candles and a huge picture of my face.

Its here the ex’s will sit in quiet contemplation, pondering what they’ve lost. Occasionally, they’ll glance at each other and sigh.

Of course, this idea has drawbacks. Investing in property in these credit crunch times is a financially risky move.

But, more importantly, how do I get my old girlfriends to come and live there? I’ve spent my bribe money on building it, I don’t know any gangsters and my kidnapping skills aren’t really what they used to be.

It’s a wonderful place though, I don’t know what could stop them wanting to go. I’ll just give them a call and use my charm. I bet they’ll really appreciate it.

“’Ello you” I say to the first ex I ring, sure she’ll fall my flirty tones

“Erm, hello. Who is this?”

“Anton! Don’t you still have my number?”

“Well, yes, I mean no, I mean I kind of lost my phone you see….”

“Right. Well. Do you fancy becoming celibate and living in my nunnery?”

The phone goes dead. I adopt more cautious methods with ex number 2

“Hey, so, long time no see, how you doing?”

“Fine thanks. I’m engaged!”

“Do you want to come and live in…. Engaged? Right. Well. That’s great. Who to?” I say in a voice so casual it's become an octave higher.

“To Steve, you remember, that guy we used to hang out with….”

“Steve?” I interrupt, calmly. “STEVE???”

“Anton, we split up four years ago…”

“FUCKING STEVE!!!”

Once again, the phone goes dead, and I’ve not even pitched the nunnery idea to her.

Ex number 3 gets a direct approach

“Hi Its Anton, I want you to come and live in my nunnery because its too painful to think about you with anyone else”

“Anton, I’m married and I’m pregnant”

“Its got Crèche facilities….”

Its been a complete disaster. I’ve found out so much stuff I really didn’t want to know.

And my nunnery is empty.

I pace up and down its deserted gardens. What a waste of time. Why do I secretly wish that every girl I go out with still has a candle burning for me, even though our lives are perfectly fine without each other?

I retire to the chapel. I sit in quiet contemplation, sigh, and stare at the huge picture of my face.

On the forehead, I’ve written three large words

“GET OVER IT”

Am I Nice?

I, like many people who live in London, Hate the tube.

I mean, I like how it gets me from one place to another in a short space of time, I just wish it could do it without making me ride in sweaty, depressing swine flu incubators. 

The one pleasure I do get from the underground, however, is the rare occasion I see old ladies with heavy bags struggling to get up the stairs.

Not because I'm sick or twisted, you understand.  Quite the opposite.  Its because I want to help them with their load.  I want to brighten their day. I want to be a hero.

I saw such a damsel in distress recently, slumped on her suitcase at the bottom of the escalator, her pleading eyes scanning the platform for a gallant knight in shining armour.

That's me!  I thought. Me.  All I'm missing is the shining armour. And a knighthood, which, If I do this heroic deed,  is sure to be coming my way pretty soon.

I imagined beaming my most reassuring smile at her and saying "May I?".  I imagined her look of eternal gratitude.  

I imagined my girlfriend (I had to, I haven't got one) watching me, face flush with pride, turning to her friends who would all be giggling and looking at her as if to say "He's the One. Marry him."

I'd reach the top, and gently place the bag down.  The old woman would thank me. I'd wink and say "No worries, Love", which would somehow sound neither patronising nor camp. 

I'd walk off hand in hand with my girl (the one with the giggling mates, not the 80 year old) safe in the knowledge that I had done a good deed and everyone liked me for it

By the time I got back to reality, the old woman and her bags were gone.  I looked all over the platform, fearing she might have tried to lift them herself and become squashed under their weight.

Then I caught sight of her, half way up the escalator.  Next to her, a kind looking man of about my age was carrying her bags without pomp or fuss. My chance was gone.

As I stood there, watching him ascend to glory, I began to wonder if I could ever do an altruistic deed, or would my motivation always be a desperate desire for people to like me?

Is anyone who does nice things actually nice? Are the only genuine people those who are overtly selfish?

Sod it, I thought as I escalated to the exit.  I like people thinking I'm nice.  They get nice things done for them.  Everyone's a winner.

Next time, I'll even carry the old lady as well as her bags.