Take tube to Wimbledon.  Reading Home and Property section in Evening Standard.  At Wimbledon Park, catapulted out of ironically detached and amused expression adopted when reading about how desirable Hackney is at horrendous sound like hyena barfing up half a wart-hog at watering hole on the Serengeti.  Horrified to see fat bloke in next bit of carriage bent over double throwing up on floor and even more horrified to see other bloke (friend) sitting beside him apparently unaffected.  Death ray stare has no effect.  Barfing continues all the way to Wimbledon, where, as I icily point out when leaving train, there is a toilet.  Fat bloke, clutching Coke bottle, paralytic, pirouettes off train like drunk ballerina and smacks face into side of train.  How can he be that drunk at 8.30 pm?  Report vomit to nice Tube employee at station, who thanks me and says train will ‘probably’ be taken out of service.

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