Tube Travellers

Of all the life forms, cultures and types of people in London – you normally see the majority of them at some point on your travels on the tube. If you don’t you’re one of the lucky ones, but don’t bank on it being too long before you see one, or all in one journey.

Listed here are a few, but as communities and trends shift these will invariably be taken over by others. Note that the genders are interchangeable. For clarification I have assigned genders.

1.  The Make-Up Tube Woman:

She was out on the lash and got in at 4.30am. She awoke on the final alarm call – the alarm that sits farthest from her bed. She just about managed to make it to the bathroom to shower, although if she was on the fifth alarm call then all she could manage was a Johnson’s baby wipe around the dirtiest regions. She’s chosen her clothes – just about remembering not to wear the clothes she wore yesterday – and she puts on a clear pair of pants. Dashing out of the house and running for the bus, if it’s there she’ll just about make it to work without being too late, though it’s okay, she can work through lunch and make up for any time owing. On the bus ride or walk she’ll button her top, change her shoes and brush her hair. The time-saver comes in the form of applying her “face” on the tube.

Darling. No one wants to see your face after you’ve put make-up on, let alone before.

Contrary to the woman above, there’s another type. She uses her make-up armoury to be noticed. You’ve seen her – she’ll apply lipgloss or check herself in the mirror whenever, wherever, whatever. This category has a second part. There are the women who like to apply their foundation, mascara, lippy because they want everyone on the tube to look at them. And also because they want to legitimately look in the mirror without anyone noticing their vainglorious nature. You’ve seen her. She is someone who manages to continually apply mascara (to ONE eyelid) for five stops. If you’re a woman you wonder: how is that possible? Oh yes, somehow she makes it possible. She believes that having spiders crawling down your cheeks is vogue for this season. If she’s blonde it could be that she forgot that she’d already coated it...who knows?

2.  FT Man

You’ve seen him – either on the Jubilee line to Canary Wharf or on the Waterloo and City to Wank...I mean Bank. He finds it completely appropriate and dandy to let his pink paper drape across your body and over to your seat (that’s if you get a seat). Yet somehow, loud music coming from your iPod will irritate the fuck out of him. He’ll grunt and moan, but he STILL won’t move his paper. But it’s okay because one day the stock market will collapse and he’ll jump out of the building, if they haven’t reinforced the window - let’s hope not. Or he’ll lose his job and have to earn his keep as a gardener. Only problem is that another pink paper man (or woman) will take his place.

3.  The Pig-Eater

Dear Lord, protect us from the foul smells, the stench, the stare AND the loud chewing of food that this bretheren doth bringst about on thy carriage. Please keep the odour at bay and his oily hands from wiping on thine seats and thine poles. Or protects us from having to sit neareth the man.

You’d love to see his box of chicken and chips/kebabs/fish and chips go flying out of the carriage window. He can’t fathom why everyone looks at him in disgust as the smell of the meat stinks out the carriage. Yes there are a few fatties that start to slobber at the thought of his food, but the rest are repulsed to the point that their stomachs churn and the tuna pasta bake from lunch starts to edge its way to the top of their throat.

The “no eating smelly food” signs stare them in their face. And most of the time while they idly chew at their meat they’ll be looking at that sign, but it won’t make the blind bit of difference.

4.  YAWN...sleepy-head

He/she works 90 hours a week. The boss is demanding. The hours are hectic. The partner wants dinner on the table five hours before. Their head lolls to the left...then the right... YAWN...their eyes droop. They fight. “I must not fall asleep. Someone could steal my belongings. Or I might miss my stop.” YAWN. It’s the rocking of the train that finally makes their head drop and their paper start to fall out of their hands. They can’t fight it any longer – the Sandman has paid them a little visit and sleep...just...YAWN... won’t...YAWN... let...YAWN...them...YAWN...go... and they miss their stop. They’re so zonked from their busy day that they don’t care where their head ends up, or if dribble streams out of the corner of their mouth like a waterfall, just as long as their eyes stay shut. They have no qualms about resting their head against the Perspex glass... (the slime left by The Eater doesn’t bother them) Or snuggling up next to the person beside them. Sleep is a priority. The paper slips out their hands or they jerk in their dream. Their eyes open sharply and they look up. See the stop and realise they’ve missed their station. Damn. If only they’d taken that Pro-Plus/Red Bull hit earlier.

5.  Music Blaster

Male/female. Not bordering on being registered deaf, but may as well be with the sound of the decibels that they are playing their music at. All you can hear through the white iPod headphones is “doof-doof-doof-doof”. Or “muffle-muffle-muffle” is the sound that comes through the set and straight to your earholes as you try to tackle Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

Some days you can laugh along and try and play Guess That Tune That’s Poppin’ Out of His Ears, though other days you want to wrap the white cord around his neck and let him hang from the pole until he realises that his music is too loud.

Instead we’ll tut or look at him with a menacing smirk; we’ll shuffle our papers, clear our throats, look pointedly in his direction. Above all, we shall not, I repeat NOT say anything about the tone of his music, well we are British after all and it would be far too impolite.

6.  The “Terrorist”

Beard. Brown. Backpack.

Strikes fears into the hearts of most commuters, in particular if there was a recent terrorist attack or suspicious package. The brother’s already been checked by British Transport police as he boarded the train, and given the once over by the station staff. Now he has to put up with the stares of his fellow passengers. So he stands or sits in the furthest spot, listens to his iPod, holds his prayer book in his hands so as not to drawn attention, and waits for someone to take the empty seats next to him.

They don’t.

People fidget. They look at each other. They question: should I stay on this train and fight my prejudices, or should I jump ship and save my life? I mean, I could be on BBC Breakfast News in the morning talking about how I got off the carriage just in time.

In all that time they’ve overlooked one extremely important fact. The brother’s beard isn’t a Muslim one, but a Sikh one. He isn’t the one that the media says we should be scared of. It’s his beard, brown skin and backpack that confused us.

7.  Book worm

The driver could be telling all the passengers that we will be stuck in the underground for the next 64 hours, 34 minutes and 57 seconds and his/her head will not budge from the latest novel they are devouring. People could be standing stark-naked in front of them and their eyes will just not lift from that page or until they’ve reached a convenient spot in the book where it is deemed respectful to avert their gaze from their favourite novelist.

8.  Body-overspill

The arms, the legs, the body fat all spill over the arm rest, under the arm rest and settle neatly under your ribcage. And as luck has it that day you have a similar monstrosity on your other side. You’re trapped in your own TfL version of Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Even to move you’d need a vacuum cleaner to suck you out of the middle of them. As their meat is pressed, and now become one with your body you breathe when they breathe. You cough when they cough and you move your body to their rhythm like they are your puppet master. You have succumbed to them.

9.  Perv

A flash of skin is all you need to send this fella into a tailspin of mental masturbation. You might just be adjusting your bra straps, or scratching your legs and you see the lust of wanting to fuck you senseless right there and then formulate in his eyes. You wouldn’t mind so much if he wasn’t a 50-something bank clerk type with a rain mac covering his slight frame and comb over which should see him put...?

10.                Drunks

Oh-so-loud. Oh-so-funny. Oh-so-not. Red-faced. Carrying a pint of Stella (“It’ll make the girls want me more...promise”). Sovereign rings that already drag their apishly long arms along the floor, grazing the pool of alcohol they’ve already spilt.

11.                Never used public transport before, where do I hold on?

“We’re having a frightfully, jolly-spiffin’ time riding with the serfs eh Charles? Isn’t this bloody decent of us to let them see how refined we are? Now what must one do to make this metal-clanger go faster? Remind me why we are doing this again?”

“I can’t jolly well run for parliament for Peckham constituency if I haven’t ridden on the same blasted transport systems as them can I? How can I hear their pleas and pretend to understand if I’m not on here either?”

“Ooh. Dear me. Could’ve fallen arse over tits then.”

“Hang on to the yellow thing Karen dahhh-ling. And avoid that coloured man. He looks like he wants to dip into your purse.”

“Well, once you’re elected we shan’t be doing such nefarious things again. Smile for the camera dear.”

12.                Overseas visitors

“Is this the right train to get me to Covent Garden?”

“Yes.” (How do you tell them that actually it would’ve been quicker, and possibly more interesting, for them to walk from Leicester Square station to Covent Garden? I suppose you don’t bother because by the time you find your lingua franca, translate across to your mid-franca and back again to English you’ll have sent them all the way around the Circle line pub crawl. Not worth it.)

But may be a polite word about the size of their backpacks, the waterproof jackets they wear with their purses tucked in underneath might help them – particularly if you tell them that it announces to the world: I’M A TOURIST. COME RIP ME RIGHT OFF. OH AND WHILE YOU’RE THERE WHY NOT SHAG ME UP THE JACKSIE...AND YOU CAN DO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW TOO. Not exactly conducive to having a safe trip abroad.

And no don’t worry the train will not leave without you. And pushing yourselves off before the other passengers will really endear the rest of your countrymen...won’t it?

As she sleeps...

She lies asleep on her bed. Her head turned to the right, her hand nestling her head, a strand of hair falling gently over her face. Her breathing is deep, intense. She mutters something as she dreams: is she having a good dream? A bad one? Or none that she’ll remember in the morning.

It’s dark in the room; cloudless outside. But the light of the moon shades everything here, all her possessions: music, perfumes, books – all the things that make her history.

She stirs. She sits up on her bed, as if she was called... called to him. She stands up, walks over to him standing there. Questions stir in her mind: why is he here tonight invading her sanctuary? What does he want? Is this a dream? the drums start to beat, encasing the two lovers in its rhythm; pulling them into each others’ circle. As the rhythm increases it pushes them to move closer to one another, forcing them to be in front of each other.

She puts her hand on his chest; he slips his around her waist. As the flutes start to resonate he begins stroking her hair. She wonders is this it. Is this the moment when he says it all? He strokes her face, pushing the strand of hair behind her ear. He smiles that smile, the one that could warm her heart in an instant, but here it means something different, she’s not sure. It’s tinged with this deep, unsettling sadness.

The two turn in the glow of the moonlight. Their shadows united and not a sliver of light remains between the union of their two bodies. She wants to ask him so much but she dare not speak in case he leaves as soon as he arrived. She listens to his heart beating and it gives her the answers she’s after. He tells her of a thousand things, but she knows he won’t be there to see them through. Tears start to well in her eyes; flowing from the Well of Love. It’s the same place where the deep scar of this love will remain. The tears roll down her face. Nothing will ever be enough anymore. This was the dream that has been crushed. He lifts her face up towards his. He smiles his knowing smile. His eyes glisten too but they can never fathom the pain he’s caused. He’s too caught in the pain of his previous lost love

They move slowly, like they’ve been moving for a thousand years together. She clasps his shirt, pulling it tighter.

They keep turning.

Their bodies swaying to the gentle guitar.

He knows it can’t last.

She knows too.

They turn faster, maybe if they move fast enough it won’t happen.

But

It has to happen. There’s no other end to this.

The heart yearns for what it can’t have.

The glow of the moon has changed to the first rays of daybreak. The shadows are lighter, the burden is lifting. The orange and yellows start to seep through into the room. They hold each other tighter but they know it can’t be. They’re still turning. They’ll always be turning together. He kisses her forehead, her eyes that let a single tear escape. She looks down his legs are disappearing. She knows that now’s the time. She can’t handle the despair. Her soul screams ‘no’, but her mouth doesn’t move. He holds her tighter, clutching her hair, stroking that silky mane that he loved to play with one last time, inhaling the intoxicating vanilla scent that clings to her tresses. She’ll never wear that scent again or enjoy anyone else’s touch – his was pure. He keeps inhaling, holding her tighter, they keep turning; she grabs onto him, digging into his skin, not wanting to let go. The tears drenching his chest.

He fades.

He’s gone.

All she’s left with is the feeling of the last kiss on her forehead. She slinks to the floor. There’s to be no more meetings. She’s not his, and he’s not hers.

----

Listen to love