Mathew Browne

I’m such a prick for quoting myself all the time, but my site, my rules. Besides, this one’s a good’un.

Picture the scene: Packed tube train arrives at Bermondsey tube station. Did I mention it was packed? I won’t wheel out the tired “sardines” analogy, but I will say this: it was unpleasant and bloody uncomfortable. Helpfully, nobody got out at Bermondsey (or maybe they couldn’t) and I was the only person facing outwards as the door opened. A lone sour face sneered at me from the platform. If I was a kind person, I would describe her as ‘jolly’ or ‘portly’. But I’m not a kind person. She was a fat, rotund, greasy big tugboat of a woman. A chavtacular, grotesque mess. With an attitude.

In the most Sahhhf Landon accent she could muster, she growled at me “Can you move please?” Well, I could move, but only out of the train. A fact she probably wasn’t aware of thanks to her piggy face sandwiching her eyes half-shut. About three people shuffled politely but went nowhere, and I said back “I’m afraid there’s nowhere to move to”.

She rolled her eyes, huffed a bit, then spat back condescendingly “Well if you moved a bit I’d be able to get in”. I responded, “Don’t flatter yourself”. And with that the doors closed and we shot off, leaving Jabba huffing and wobbly on the platform. The empathic giggling of fellow passengers echoed sweetly in my ears.