No. 1 personal commuting beef at moment is inability to experience peaceful journey home due to gobby gits on train subjecting flower-like ears to painful noise pollution. Thus have instigated new regime whereby, if seat on train become subject to proximity of noisy gits, find new seat. This additional form of exercise as sometimes have to move up to 6 times before find peace and quiet, slamming connecting doors behind as shoot further up train in huff.

Tonight at Waterloo Station, take seat on nearly empty Woking train where settle down to scoff Snickers bar and read James Lee Burke novel. Start counting ‘one elephant’ to judge how long before first noisy git turn up. Have got to only 5 elephants when City pillock trundle in with grace and lightness of Nellie the Elephant and plonk self on seat across the gangway where slump against side of train.

Three minutes later, additional City pillock, with head like flat iron, trundle in and join City pillock on seats. Apparently friend. Sigh loudly into book. Important discussion immediately held on necessity for first pillock to leave train at Clapham Junction to use facilities, as apparently brain too fried to use facilities at Waterloo. Off-colour conversation cannot go into here follows in stage whispers.

Conversation noise level increases and turns to more important topics.

‘Shall we go to Flat Iron?’ ask City Pillock No 1, ‘Is that such a crazy idea?

‘No more than buying a wine farm in New Zealand,’ replies Pillock No 2, apparently uninformed as to what a winery or vineyard is. Am unsure whether City Pillock No 1 is referring to Flatiron mountain ranges in Colorado, demonstrating sportif nature, or to Flat Iron steak house in Soho.

‘Have you tried the Wagyu thing?’ ask Pillock No 1, slicing his arm through air as if wielding a Samurai katana, ‘It’s like butter.’

Now all other commuters within 500 metres know that Pillock No 1 HAS MONEY.

‘Where can you get hold of the cows in London?’ asks Pillock No 2.
‘To farm them?’ asks Pillock No 1.
‘To EAT them,’ says Pillock No 2, with a touch of impatience.
‘They live happy lives,’ reflects Pillock No 1, ‘And then they kill them. And sauté them.’

Train pulls up at Clapham Junction. Pillock No 1 gets up. Pillock No 2 gets up. They embrace like brothers. ‘See you,’ says Pillock No 1. ‘Next time we will have beef. Let’s talk on the Internet’.

Pillock No 1 leaves train. Pillock No 2 stares in intoxicated haze into space. Dave Robicheaux smacks up someone in book.

This entry was posted in commuting, humour, Modern life, South West Trains, Travel and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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