Another happy evening on the London Underground

The London Underground's cerebrally challenged magnetic lure ensures that your evening tube journey is never complete without the addition of Mr Aggravated Mental sitting within eye and ear shot. That common trait of "Try not to look and it'll all be fine, he won't bother me, just the poor bastard that happens to get eye contact" is one that should only be taken with serious thought. My advice? No hero here - get off the train and get the next one; better still, get a bloody cab. *Read further after the jump*

Not helpful? Not financially viable? If your answer is 'No' to both then first, a delicate balance must be addressed. Stay in the carriage and think it through. Start with your natural instincts. It's remarkably similar to the 'Flight or Fight' theory but worth noting that it never should include the latter unless you too wish to become perceived as said 'Mr Aggravated Mental' - especially if your Flight or Fight decision was made silently and entirely in your own mind. Granted the surprise of it all when you flip inside-out with unprovoked rage will gain the upper hand initially, but to keep up that momentum against your unfortunate, potentially misunderstood Mr Mental might not go as planned. No, just use the flight method. Every. Time.

My sudden interest in such theories and paths of action spawn solely from when I sat on a relatively empty tube just a few days ago. I'd been invited for drinks to Wimbledon, a nice place in the day but invariably becomes a nocturnal cave dedicated to men of a low aspiration and penchant for weekend blood sports. But don't get me wrong about blood sports, I enjoy the occasional game of tennis, just not in the months of winter. Little was I aware that just the tube journey alone would spark a 1000 word blog entry.

I sat opposite a lady in her early 30s who had taken the necessary steps to ensure the frankly, unnecessary 1980s craze of power dressing was kept blazing bright. Large shoulder pads, hair tight back, make-up applied with an art-set and perfume that would turn the head of every important person in the office, work drinks and now, the carriage.

On sitting down opposite her, I inadvertently pushed over her large fashionable bag which she had placed conveniently in the gang way with my feet. My impulse apology and a raise of my hand to imply force to the admission of guilt was frustratingly met with a foul look and a string of obscenities which I couldn't hear due to headphones but were easy enough to decipher using basic lip reading skills. Unless of course she called me a Ducking Rick, then I should’ve apologised for just the thoughts of my [fortunately] stifled response that she had all the hallmarks of a girl who's desperately transparent goal in life is to emulate her businessman father, whom of which cheers to her elder brother and sister's success with out and out enthusiasm while a wet empathy greets her at every step. But I’m not one to judge so I didn't mention it.

The tube grumbled along the winding tunnels (He said as if he was writing an amateur children’s novel). Stop by stop, people got on, people got off (He said as if he was explaining the fundamentals of rail travel). But it wasn't until we were just deep enough underground to ensure that not even the longest escalator could service the station (incidentally Angel has the longest in Western Europe at 318 steps. Put that in your pub quiz and smoke it) that a man of about 6 foot 5 inches boarded the train with some force as the doors tried to shut, slumped down in a seat diagonally opposite-and-left to me, and began looking about. Within seconds, I'm certain I wasn't the only one whose 'Mad Man Alert' radar started beeping with enough force to consider evacuation, but no one moved.

Until he began shouting.

Pulling out my headphones to gain the effect of a soundtrack to the carriage’s drama rather than an isolated disco in my face I watched him violently swipe at the air while muttering in circles about how we were all... well, potentially the reason for his current problems, to write it in a less colourful context. No 'Ducking Rick' in sight, he was from the get-go much more forceful and direct than any passive aggressive businesswoman in shoulder pads, and it wasn't long until we all found this out. With a surprisingly accurate lunge for a man who appeared to have spent the afternoon drinking a cocktail of pure ethanol with a depth charge of methylated spirits, he took the nasty businesswoman's bag from by her feet and proceeded to empty it out with absolutely no apparent intention of investigating its quite fantastic looking treasures. I looked over to see if he would be graced with a now, retrospectively calm insult of "Ducking Rick" but nasty business lady had become rather pail and intent on getting away from a situation which admittedly she hadn't caused, but was suddenly quite out of her depth.

Pushing the boundaries of kindness, with a subtle 'heads down' type of view as not to make him think I should become a participant as a jolly bag tipping target I tried to help the now terrified woman pile her things back into her bag. Fortunately he had made a conscious decision to climb to his feet and began kicking the door between our, and the next carriage. Creative enough; and just what we needed to evacuate the tube.


Part 2 at some stage - Including how on earth I ended up in a lift with the bloody guy.