Diaries Magazine

October 22nd

Posted on the 23 October 2009 by Portishair @portishair
After a day where everything went wrong in the last ten minutes I ended up running for a tube to connect me to the last possible train that would get me home in time to watch another drab Manchester United Champions League game.
I made the tube. I made the tube because I am a fast walker. I made the tube because over the past years I have developed a passive aggressive look on my face and voice in my head that kicks into action when anyone or thing has the gall to stand in front of me when I’m on my commute. Murmurs and grunts of “Fat bastards”, “ugly bitches” and even the odd “old wagon” all mutter through my head as my Italian heeled boots clip clop their way to platform number 2, Northbound. This deranged state lasts for only a few minutes and is very effective, and slightly worrying. Is this what I’ll be like when the war comes?
Anyway, I made the tube. Barring any bullshit delays, anyone living in London will tell you there are many of these, and I should make my train and be in the living room by half past five, supping a beer, munching Hoola Hoops (57p for a family bag in Tesco) and watching Anderson once again prove that he’s not of an Old Trafford standard.
Speaking of standards, because I had been marching quickly and had no seat my free edition (loving these) remained furled in my fist allowing me some time to slyly inspect my fellow unfortunates.
Gawking at commuters is an odd art and sometimes there is simply nobody to look at, which is when we’re forced to read insurance ads and bad poetry*. Mostly though a lovely lady, a tattooed man or a loud talker will grab your attention and make your journey slightly less excruciating.
On this particular day I didn’t even have to browse the carriage as the pair next to me immediately grabbed my attention. What hooked me first was a response. I caught the end of a sentence, “Halls” the man had said. A torn and mishandled nearly empty packet of Halls (other brands are available) was produced with a grunt. The pair was a he and a she.
Colleagues I figured. Colleagues who have had the bad luck to end up traveling home together. Colleagues furiously thinking of sober small talk suitable for rush hour (there is none).
But wait. Suddenly I noticed a flash of intimacy. Is this pair of dullards involved in some sort of lurid interoffice tryst? I wondered, piqued. No they’re not my brain shouts, upon further evidence of tenderness – it’s more than that! They’re a bonafide couple, dating, seeing each other, in a relationship, partners. He mutters like a wimp. He asks about dinner and she, possibly because of her ailment and possibly because she’s a complete tool, responds, IN BABY TALK, “Fried calves liver with gravy” or something to that affect she chirps like an infant otter.
All doubt is now gone. They are a couple. They co-habit.
So what I hear you ask? Surely the tube isn’t only used by nosey degenerates and asshole bankers? Of course some of these sweating commuters must be happy people, happy people who share their lives with other happy people. Yes. Happy people do take the tube. Commuters do consummate with other commuters. I am one of them in fact. But I did it properly. I consider myself a high six or low seven in the looks department – hair, weight and general upkeep dependent, the teacher (my other half) I reckon to be an eight and a half. It is because I am a good man and stump for dinner and wine that I have bagged an eight point fiver – this is not unheard of, quite common in fact.
What is uncommon is a differential above five. And this is what I concerned myself with while the tube chugged onwards. The couple were young. Between 23 and 25 was my guess. He was sallow skinned, with brown hair cut without style. He wore a dark coat and nice jeans. His shoes were a little shit. He probably smelled nicely. He was a six all over. (If he doesn’t watch his tummy though he’ll soon be a four) Perhaps he’s aware of the rules and is trying to reduce the differential because she’s a one all over.
I don’t want to sound like an uglyist because I’m not. Some of my best friends are ugly. In the past I have been hideous and am quite sure I will be again at some point. But this girl would win awards. She looked like a girl Timothy Spall with red wine thrown over her face. She had no neck. Her hair had clots of dandruff that for a period resembled lice. As with most of the ugly she was also quite fat.
It’s nice really but I still don’t understand what that guy sees in her – I’m guessing they met traveling when she was going through a thin and tanned phase. Those days are long gone now and yet there she was all happy and in love, even when she’s being sick and annoying.
It’s shallow but also reassuring, in a chick flick kind of way, and it’s what I saw on the tube today.
* London Underground provide free poetry on some advertising spaces as a gesture of cultural goodwill to those forced to suffer and wait miles beneath the soil everyday. I love the idea but is this the best they can find? Where have all the poets gone?

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